Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

5

Someone had been busy while I was in the café. As I passed back under the rail bridge, I discovered four damp campaign posters pasted along the brick wall of the underpass. The posters showed a man in his late forties with a robust red moustache the size and shape of a hamster. His shoulders were squared in a military manner and his expression was severe: ‘Roger Bottle – a Hard Man for Hard Times.’ Below the mayoral candidate’s photo in smaller print were the words: ‘When the Going Gets Rough, Rog Gets Tough.’

I jotted down the campaign messages in my notebook and as I left the underpass, I discovered that it was drizzling. By the time I reached the Babylon, the drizzle had turned into rain and I decided to step under the awning to wait it out. What I found there took me completely by surprise.

Tied to the double doors of the cinema was a large official-looking notice printed in bold type. My pulse rate increased as I read its contents. I immediately thought of Mr Chin and wondered whether he knew about this new turn of events.

A second surprise was waiting for me when I tried the door to the stairs. It was unlocked. Mr Chin had forgotten to follow me down to lock it after I had left. This was very unusual behaviour for my employer, whose policy was to ‘Lock ruffian and rascal out. Guarantee security and safety for kind boss and office.’

I entered the dark stairwell and quickly climbed the stairs to the landing where I paused to take the door handle in both hands. The heavy reinforced door had a habit of flying open on its German spring hinge and I did not want to give Mr Chin a fright. He does not appreciate surprises as I learned one day when I vacuumed the office and inadvertently shifted the position of his desk by two inches. The reprimand I received must have exceeded the safety guidelines for decibel levels because my ears were still thrumming when I put them on my pillow that evening.

I poked my head in the doorway and found Mr Chin reclined in his Komfort King, sleeping with his mouth open and making a ‘hukka-hukka-hukka’ sound with each exhalation. On his desk were a glass and a half-empty bottle of plum liquor.

I slipped inside and eased the door closed with a faint click before tiptoeing over to my desk. Taking care not to make any noise, I lowered myself on to my chair. It was probably the familiar comfort of the neoprene padding against my buttocks that made me forget myself because the next thing I knew I was rolling the file drawer open at high speed. The heavy cash box inside slid along the bottom of the drawer, hitting its metal interior with a loud clang.

‘Best quality!’ Mr Chin sat bolt upright in his executive chair, shaking his head in confusion. His eyes fell on me, darted to the clock above the door and then flicked back to me. They were watery and bloodshot, red like his cheeks. He blinked. ‘What?’

‘Good afternoon,’ I said.

‘Why you here?’ He rubbed his face in an irritated way and made a long ‘Ahhh’, which was both a yawn and a sigh. ‘Chin enjoy calm and peace, sleeping and so on. Now pop go weasel, here you again. Irritating and most annoying girl.’

‘I’m here within business hours.’ I pointed to the clock and wondered how best to tell him about the notice on the cinema doors.

‘I give you sudden holiday. I tell you vacate premise. Now what?’

‘I’ve followed your advice about my abnormality and have an appointment with a psychological expert. She has Psy and Dram after her name.’

‘Expert best idea. Chin never joke or say nonsense thing. Chin always right.’ He nodded and let out another yawning sigh. ‘What name?’

‘Bijou Poulet.’

‘Jewish?’

‘I’m not sure. Poulet is a French word. It means chicken.’

‘Chicken!’ He snapped to attention and threw his forearms on to the desk. His expression was fierce. ‘What this chicken business again and every time?’

‘It’s the name of the therapist. You told me to find a professional for my head.’

‘Head.’ He tapped his temple fiercely. ‘Get into head now and permanently. In world, two kind of people: hero and chicken.’

‘I thought it was normal and abnormal.’

‘Interrupt, interrupt. Always interrupt! Quiet now!’ Mr Chin waved his hand in front of his face as if shooing a hornet. ‘Two kind of people: hero and chicken. Hero fight always. Brave and good, many sacrifice for family, so on and so on. Chicken sneaky and cunning. Gambler and so on.’

I nodded but wondered where this was leading. What was it about chickens that inflamed Mr Chin so?

‘Sometime stranger come with stick and gun and knife, beat and stab, thieve precious ornament and so on.’ He narrowed his eyes and shook a finger at me. ‘What chicken do in such case?’

I did not know how to respond, aware that an incorrect answer might put me in the wrong category.

‘Chin tell you. Chicken run always.’ He leaned further across the desk and lowered his voice. ‘Do Chin run always?’

‘No.’ This was true. Mr Chin never ran anywhere. His way of getting from A to B was either to drive his 1979 lime-green Ford Fiesta or walk. As a walker, he was alert yet relaxed. His head and torso appeared to remain motionless while his legs forged ahead.

‘Correct and true. Chin completely not chicken.’

He exhaled in a satisfied way and reclined his executive chair. It seemed like a good moment.

‘Have you seen the notice downstairs?’

‘Chin tired now.’ His eyelids closed. He waved a hand as if to dismiss me. ‘Take one hundred per cent free holiday. See expert and so on. Come back Monday for work at normal hour.’

‘But the cinema might be pulled down.’ By announcing this information, I made it more real and by making it more real, I made myself more anxious.

‘Who say pull down?’ Mr Chin jerked upright again. He looked at me in an accusing way as if it were my idea to demolish the Babylon.

‘Roger Bottle wants to tear it down and build a public surveillance centre in its place.’

‘Wrong and rubbish!’ His voice was shrill. He brought his fist down on to his desk. The empty glass jumped up and bounced sideways, hitting the bottle with a clink. ‘Chin have lease from council that is foolproof. Why you tell wrong and false information?’

‘Roger Bottle is running for mayor and will control the council if he wins.’

‘Who say Bottle win such election? Why you talk so?’ Mr Chin’s expression changed from accusing to dangerous, like traffic lights flashing from amber to red. If I had been a motorist, I would have heeded the sign and braked hard to avoid hitting a pedestrian or colliding with another vehicle. But I was engaged in a discussion and the rules of social intercourse are not as straightforward as the UK Highway Code. My next comment was a logical extension of the subject but it was probably the worst thing I could have said.

‘Roger Bottle already has a lot of support. The Cockerel says he’s winning hearts and minds with his security and employment promises.’ At this point I should have stopped but I was too focused on Roger Bottle to heed the warning signs on Mr Chin’s face. ‘He wants to create local jobs for local people and is calling for compulsory English tests for immigrants.’

Mr Chin squawked. ‘Chin one hundred per cent British citizen. Passport foolproof British. English speaking excellent and perfect.’ He slapped his chest in a proud way. ‘You think Chin have wrong English?’

I thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s wrong English but you often conjugate verbs incorrectly.’

My comment was like a shot fired from a starter pistol. Mr Chin bolted out of his chair and sprinted around to my side of the office. Before I could move, he had grabbed the back of my chair and yanked it away from the desk, spinning me around so that my nose was almost touching his.

‘Incorrectly! What incorrectly?’ He gave my chair an angry shove and pushed himself upright, assuming his full five feet three inches and crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Why Chin employ such peculiar girl as you? Many people want excellent job. Chin too kind and generous.’

It was true what he said but it was discouraging to hear it stated so clearly. Local unemployment was high. I did not have people skills or qualifications and would be hard-pressed to find another position. I needed my job with Mr Chin. My future depended on it.

‘But I can change. I’m determined to crack the normality nut by Monday.’

Mr Chin threw up his hands and groaned.

‘I’m seeing the psychological expert tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Go see expert for head. Go see fortune-teller or astrology person. Whatever necessary. Just vacate premise immediately. Leave Chin now. You forbidden here today and weekend.’ He stopped and narrowed his eyes. ‘Come back Monday at normal hour or—’

‘—or what?’

‘—or Chin find new worker for replacement!’ He made a whisking motion with his hands. ‘Go now!’

I jumped to my feet and hurried over to the doorway, my heart thumping against my ribs. I turned. ‘What will you do if they demolish the cinema? What will happen to the office?’

‘Vacate premise immediately!’

Mr Chin advanced on me and grabbed the door handle. The door sprang open and hit the wall with a clang. I stepped out on to the landing.

‘But I’ve been following the election campaign. Roger Bottle might get elected.’ I started descending the stairs. ‘Do you have a contingency plan?’

‘Question, question, question drive me crazy and nuts!’

My head was whirling when I reached the awning. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light. My nostrils flared. The air was heavy with the dry, sickly smell of a mentholated cigarette. I looked around for the smoker but the space under the awning was empty apart from some litter and Nigel’s cardboard square. I glanced across the road to the bus stop. My scalp tingled.

A man dressed as a cowboy was leaning against the bus shelter. It was Shanks and he was looking at me in a friendly way. He doffed his hat and whistled.

Without waiting to see what he would do next, I stepped on to the pavement and hurried away. I wanted nothing to do with the cowboy or Mr Tanderhill. The bungalow experience had cost me my purse and left me with a deep fear of hypnotherapy.

When I finally dared to look back, Shanks was gone and a bus was pulling away. Printed across the back of the vehicle was a large advertisement featuring a woman dressed like the Queen of England. On her head was a jewelled crown but around her neck was a string of deep-fried hash browns. A speech bubble was coming out of her mouth: ‘All that glitters is gold. Nack’s Hash Browns, the majestic snack.’

I made a mental note of the advertisement and set off again, walking briskly and swinging my arms to chest height to maximise cardiovascular activity. This is called power-walking and is very popular in Australia, a country renowned for sports enthusiasm and Rolf Harris.

My head was down as I entered the rose gardens and I did not see the man in the fuchsia trench coat coming the other way. We collided with considerable momentum, which is the sum of mass times velocity. He let out a high-pitched ‘Oh!’ His tiny dog started barking. It was a sharp, ear-piercing sound.

‘I beg your pardon!’ I said.

‘O-là-là.’ He wheezed and grabbed the gatepost. The dog stopped barking and sniffed his master’s ankle.

‘I hope I didn’t injure you. I was power-walking at high speed and hit you with considerable momentum.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I’m quite accustomed to brutality.’

He released his grip on the gatepost and as I reached out to steady him, I noticed his face was dusted with beige powder. It is not unusual for male actors to wear stage makeup but there was no theatre in the rose gardens, not even a bandstand for outdoor musical performances. I had never seen a man so made up in a public setting. His lips were cherry red and his eyelashes were thick and dark.

‘You spoke to me the other day.’ I removed my hand from under his arm as he righted himself. ‘You said time was like a fowl.’

‘So I did.’

I nodded and waited for him to continue.

‘Time is an elusive bird, my dear. I have less of it every day.’ He coughed in a delicate way, using a floral handkerchief to cover his mouth.

‘Do you suffer from lung cancer?’

‘Not yet.’ He rummaged in a trouser pocket and removed a bag of old-fashioned sweets. They were hard-boiled Everton Mints with black and white stripes. He held out the bag and shook one into my hand. ‘I’m an alcoholic.’

‘I’ve not observed you drinking.’ I did not bother to add that I had seen plenty of other people doing so in the gardens. I put a mint in my mouth and tasted peppermint and pocket dust. My nasal passages cleared with a crackle.

‘Good to know I’m not at it behind my back. I’ve been on the wagon for a week. That’s seven days for a normal person but about three years for an alcoholic.’ He put two sweets in his mouth, clicking them against his teeth with his tongue. He noticed me looking. ‘The sugar, my dear. It’s one of the few thrills left to me since the doctor gave me my orders. No alcohol. No stimulation. Fresh air, moderate exercise and plenty of sleep. I’ve been advised not to get myself worked up. Excitement, apparently, can drive the vulnerable back to the bottle.’ He held out his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

I shook his hand, which was soft and warm. ‘My name’s Sherry.’

‘Makes my mouth water.’

‘Sherry Cracker.’

‘You must have suffered every Christmas.’

‘I have never celebrated Christmas but it is on my To Do list.’

‘Worth it for the tinsel if nothing else.’ He smiled. ‘I’m Jocelyn.’

This was an unusual name for a man but as I was rapidly realising, Jocelyn was an unusual person. He was polite and spoke in a gentle, reassuring way. Alcoholism is known to afflict sensitive people and often those with artistic tendencies. Francis Bacon was an alcoholic. So was Tennessee Williams. Jocelyn certainly looked like he had an artistic personality. His clothes were brightly coloured and styled for a much younger man or woman. The fuchsia trench coat was over-stitched in orange and had large mother-of-pearl buttons. His shoes were black suede and his trousers were made of a shiny blue-black material. Knotted around his neck was a turquoise silk scarf. These vibrant clothes combined with the soft grey hair he wore tucked behind his ears created the effect of a Roman Catholic cardinal on holiday. Perhaps it was his ecclesiastical appearance that loosened my tongue. As he strolled back into the gardens with me, I found myself confessing my fear of unemployment and explaining my lack of social skills.

‘My problem is that I feel isolated, as though I were suspended over human society in a Perspex pod.’

‘How novel!’ Jocelyn laughed a small tinkly laugh. The powder on his cheeks was thick and made the skin crinkle like crepe paper. ‘I have difficulty picturing you in a pod, my dear, but I do find those tartan trousers rather dashing.’

I felt heat rise in my cheeks as we sat down on a bench. No one had ever said anything complimentary to me before. ‘You have a very agreeable temperament for someone your age.’

‘Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment.’ He removed a rolled-up copy of the Cockerel from his coat pocket and opened it to page three, which was not difficult because the newspaper only had four pages. ‘Shall we check our stars?’

I nodded and thought of Mr Chin’s suggestion of an astrologer as Jocelyn read his horoscope.

‘Apparently I’m going to meet a stranger.’ His powdered cheeks crinkled again. ‘Someone tall and dark.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘At this point, it would be a godsend. What sign are you?’

‘Sagittarius.’

‘How wonderful. You’re also going to meet a tall and dark stranger.’ He laughed and held the page open for me to read.

The column was called ‘Astral Acorns’ and was written by Andromeda Mountjoy, world-renowned stargazer and lunar minstrel. The horoscope for Sagittarius had a frame around it and a title, ‘Nut of the Day’. It was short, half the length of the other star forecasts: ‘Think tall, dark and strange. You’re in for the ride of your life!’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t either, dear, but it does sound exciting. I do find his tall, dark strangers rather thrilling.’

He adjusted the scarf around his neck and beckoned his dog. As he pushed himself to his feet, I found myself wanting to delay him and extend our discourse. I stood, trying to think of an engaging conversation topic but my mind was blank. I had no repertoire and did not know the first thing about small talk.

‘Do you think we could meet again?’

I was not in the habit of asking such questions because I have learned that people generally do not want to meet me more than once. But Jocelyn had allowed me to finish my sentences and had even addressed me as ‘my dear’. My mother never called me by my name, let alone by a term of affection.

‘Mais bien sûr.’ He slid the paper back into his pocket and picked up his dog, tucking it under his arm like a clutch purse. ‘I’m often here. The fresh air keeps me out of the gin bottle.’

I watched him stroll out of the gardens and realised I was feeling lighter, as if I had been relieved of a heavy suitcase or bag of groceries. The lightness had something to do with optimism and I wondered how best to maintain this feeling as I sat down to consider the task before me. Mr Chin had set a goal and given me the means to achieve it. I had to remain positive and keep my eye on the ball. This strategy is called positive thinking and is very helpful for running corporations and battling terminal illnesses.

‘Birdy, birdy, birdy. Ho, ho, ho.’

I sat up straight at the sound of the melodious baritone and saw a tall, dark man heading towards the gate. He was dressed in loose, colourful clothing and walked in a free, relaxed manner. On his head was a hat shaped like a Pope’s mitre, which added another foot to his height. He glanced at me before leaving the gardens and made a fluttering gesture with his hands.

I was wondering what this could mean when I noticed new chalk graffiti on the wall behind the CCTV camera: ‘TAKE COURAGE. THERE IS GOOD AS WELL AS EVIL.’ I was making a mental note of this message for my OBSERVATIONS ring binder when I realised that the lens of the CCTV camera had been masked with duct tape.

Strange!

This was the sixth masked camera I had seen in a week.

6

Saturday afternoon began in a damp way with light drizzle that eased off as I power-walked towards the centre of town. I reached the high street and was moving swiftly past Quality Pies and Confectionaries when a campaign poster caught my eye. I stopped and took a new notebook out of my bag.

The windows of Quality Pies and Confectionaries were boarded up and pasted over with layers of advertising and posters but in its heyday, the bakery was renowned for its ‘Pie of the Day’ specials and ‘fine English baked goods’. The shop had been a favourite of my mother’s who liked to buy herself a celebratory Victoria sponge every benefit day. This she ate from her armchair with a tea towel spread over her knee and a glass of port at her elbow.

The campaign poster was printed on matt, off-white paper with a small horizontal note along the lower right edge: ‘Made from 100% recycled paper.’ The photo was of a man in his forties dressed in a safari shirt done up at the neck. In his breast pocket was a pen and pencil. He was wearing wire-framed glasses and his hair was parted on the side in a three-to-seven ratio, which is considered the ideal hair parting among Japanese businessmen. But Warren Crumpet was not Japanese or a businessman. He was an organic farmer and member of the British Soil Association who was promising to clean up council corruption and put the town’s finances back in the black. One of his more progressive ideas was to turn unused council land into market gardens and grow organic vegetables for commercial sale. His ‘Go Organic’ initiative would employ and retrain local residents and generate income for municipal projects. The poster’s message was simple: ‘Warren Crumpet for Mayor – Because Honesty Is the Best Policy.’ The first thing he had vowed to do if elected was to halve the mayor’s salary.