She starts whispering, and her words are barely audible:
‘Your little singer comes from Granada, in Andalusia, which is far away from here. It’s been a long time since I heard her singing in town . . . Perhaps she’s gone back to the country where she was born, to live with her grandparents . . .’
‘Unless she’s just at school,’ adds Anna, her voice like a 33 r.p.m. record being played at 45 r.p.m.
‘Thank you!’
‘Ssssh . . .
My blood’s fizzing, I can’t believe my luck. A surge of pure joy. My dream puffs up like a pastry in the oven. I think it’s ready to make the journey into reality now. Tomorrow, I’ll harness my energy at the top of the hill, unfurl my mainsail, and head for the school!
Except that first, I’ll have to convince Madeleine.
‘Go to school? But you’ll get bored! You’ll be forced to read books you don’t like, when here you can choose whatever takes your fancy. You’ll have to sit for hours on end and you won’t be allowed to talk, or make a noise. You’ll be made to wait until break-time just to daydream. I know what you’re like – how much you’ll hate it.’
‘Perhaps, but I’m curious to find out what people learn at school.’
‘You want to study?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I want to study. And I can’t do it all on my own here.’
We’re trying to outmanoeuvre each another with our lies. I’m caught between wanting to laugh and flying into a rage.
‘To start with, you’d be better off revising what’s written on your slate. It seems to me you’re forgetting it rather too quickly. I worry about what might happen to you down there.’
‘Everybody goes to school. When you’re at work, I feel all alone on top of this mountain, and I’d like to meet some children my own age. It’s time for me to find out about the world, don’t you see?’
‘Finding out about the world at school . . .’ (A long sigh.) ‘All right. If you want to go to school, I won’t stand in your way,’ Madeleine eventually concedes, sounding as if a small part of her has died.
I try my best to contain my joy. It might not be very tactful to dance around with my arms in the air.
The day I’ve been waiting for has come at last. I’m wearing a black suit that makes me look very grown-up, in spite of my eleven years. Madeleine has instructed me never to take off my jacket, not even in class; that way nobody will find out about my cuckoo clock.
Before setting off, I’m careful to slip a few pairs of glasses that I’ve collected from her workshop into my satchel. They take up more room than the exercise books. I’ve moved Cunnilingus into my left shirt pocket, just above my clockwork heart. He pokes his head out from time to time, looking thoroughly satisfied.
‘Be careful he doesn’t bite anybody!’ joke Anna and Luna, as we start down the hill.
Limping some way behind us comes Arthur, creaking silently.
The school is located in the well-heeled area of Calton Hill, just opposite St Giles’ Cathedral. Over by the entrance, it’s a country of fur coats and women cackling loudly as big hens. The way Anna and Luna laugh makes them scowl. They observe Arthur’s limping gait and the bump that makes my left lung swell suspiciously. Their husbands, suited and booted, look like walking coat hangers; they pretend to be shocked by our twisted tribe, but that doesn’t stop them from eyeballing the two girls’ cleavages.
After a quick goodbye to my makeshift family, I walk through the huge gates – you’d think I’d been enrolled in an institution for giants. The schoolyard looks impossible to cross, even if its football goalposts add a slightly welcoming touch.
I take my first tentative steps, scrutinising the different faces. The pupils look like miniature versions of their parents. My clock can be heard rather too clearly through their whispering. They’re looking at me as if I’ve got an infectious disease. All of a sudden, a brown-haired girl stands in front of me, stares, and starts saying ‘tick-tock, tick-tock’ and laughing. The whole yard joins in. It feels just the same as when families come to Dr Madeleine’s to choose their children – but worse. Even though I examine every girl’s face, there is no sign of the little singer. What if Luna made a mistake?
We go into the classroom. Madeleine was right, I’m bored rigid. Bloody school without the little singer . . . and now I’m enrolled for the whole year. How am I going to tell Madeleine I don’t want to ‘study’ now?
During break I begin my survey by asking if anybody knows the little ‘Andalusia’ singer, the one who’s always bumping into things.
Nobody answers.
‘Doesn’t she go to school here?’
No answer.
I wonder if anything serious has happened to her. Did she bump into something hard and hurt herself badly?
Just then, an odd-looking boy rises up from the ranks. He’s older than the others, and the top of his head is almost higher than the railings. The moment they see him, the rest of the students cower. His jet-black eyes make my blood run cold. He’s skinny as a dead tree, elegant as a scarecrow dressed by a fine tailor, and his spiky hair juts out like birds’ wings.
