Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

By the time Mr Chin returned to the office, I had called two more dentists and set up purchases of several more crowns. Mr Chin looked very different after his early lunch. His cheeks were red and shiny and his eyes were bloodshot. In his hand was a plastic bag from the Mandarin restaurant. It clinked as he placed it on his desk. Licking his lips, he circled the furniture, saying, ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ The only time I had seen him so agitated was during the Chinese New Year celebrations when he won a bottle of plum liquor in a raffle. I had not been working at the office very long and was quite surprised by the sudden liveliness of his manner. He was now showing the same vivacity and looking very pleased with himself.

‘Today now holiday. Chin require rest and relaxation,’ he said, waving his small hand around. He sat down on his Komfort King and pushed his head against its vinyl cushion. ‘Go home. Go shopping. Go find boyfriend. Do what normal girl do.’

‘Normally I work,’ I said. ‘Today is Friday, a normal working day.’

‘Normally, normally, normally. What normally? You not normal girl. Very abnormal in fact.’

‘Abnormal?’ I sat up straight and made a mental note to record the word in the COMMENTS subsection of my OBSERVATIONS ring binder. It is the Chinese custom to criticise and I have learned to take such criticism as encouragement. Mr Chin’s assessment was like a red flag.

‘Certainly abnormal. No friend. No boyfriend. No dog. Not even small dog that is high-quality Pekinese. You very peculiar girl.’

‘Peculiar?’ Another word to file away.

‘Peculiar. Abnormal. No matter what.’ Mr Chin closed his eyes and smiled to himself. Opening them again, he pointed a finger at me. ‘You come to office too early, work too late. Never complain. Never thieve ballpoint pen. Never make private phone call and email. What English girl do such? Certainly not normal English girl.’

‘But as you said, I have no friends to call or email. And you don’t supply pens so I couldn’t steal one even if I were that way inclined.’

‘Crazy and nuts. I supply petty cash box of ten pounds sterling in rolling drawer. Normal person buy pen with petty cash then thieve. That is most regular English solution.’ He looked at me and shook his head. ‘You like house of too many window. Wind blow through house always. Take force and energy. House too empty. You too yin, too damp-cold. Need yang.’

‘My feet do get cold in winter.’ In fact my feet were cold as I spoke and it was not even winter. ‘Is there a cure?’

‘Eat meat of pork and so on. Take more yang force. Warm up feets.’

‘I couldn’t eat pork and so on. Modern animal husbandry is not humane and mass-produced meat is full of chemicals. You never know what you might find inside a sausage.’ I did not bother to tell him that my mother believed sausages were stuffed with sweepings from the floor of the abattoir.

‘Abnormal.’ Mr Chin pursed his lips into a point and shook his head. ‘Sausage is traditional English. Normal English love sausage and so on.’

‘Correct.’ Despite my mother’s beliefs about their contents, she bought pork sausages every week from Mr Da Silva. ‘I am partial to vegetarian sausages.’

‘You need professional expert. American Jewish make highest-quality expert for head. Go find such person.’ He hesitated a moment, as if thinking over something important. ‘I give you present of one hundred pound liquid cash.’

‘One hundred pounds! That’s a very handsome gift!’ I was stunned by the offer. Mr Chin never gave money away, ever. My condition had to be a lot more serious than I imagined.

‘One-time only investment.’ Mr Chin lifted his heavy money belt out from under his shirt. It was made of flesh-coloured leather and perfectly camouflaged against his skin. He removed a wad of banknotes, counting five twenties across the table in a fan. With a thumb and forefinger, he then pinched each note to make sure it was a single. Mr Chin was a great believer in the power of money and liked to say that ‘cash is king’.

‘Here, take as bonus. Now leave premise. Come back Monday for work at normal time. Come back more normal. Normal girl with friend and so on.’ He leaned back in his Komfort King and patted his chest with authority. ‘Order of kind and generous boss.’

I felt a jolt. The chalk message from the gardens flashed through my mind: ‘HAIL TO THE KING OF KINGS. HE IS THE KINDEST BOSS.’

‘One-time offer only.’ Mr Chin zipped up his money belt and tucked it back inside his shirt where it protruded like the stomach of an Australian lager drinker. He looked at me again but with an expression flickering between kindness and irritation. From experience, I knew that irritation was the more dominant of Mr Chin’s moods and sprang into action before it could settle over him.

I slipped on my cardigan and, leaning down, opened my file drawer, taking care to roll it slowly. The hypnotherapist had not cured me of my bad habits but I had discovered that with concentration, I could control my impulse to yank the drawer open. I had also been training myself to chew my cuticles instead of my nails. This habit gave me almost the same pleasure as nail biting but allowed my fingernails to grow. In the week since my visit to Industry Drive, my nails had developed a ridge and I was now able to pick up coins and even scratch my forearms where the wool of my cardigan rubbed. It was a new sensation and thoroughly enjoyable.

Mr Chin nodded as I removed the fan of twenty-pound notes from his desk and folded them into my new vinyl purse. Neither of us spoke but I had no illusions about the gravity of the moment. He had set me a formidable task and had given me the means to achieve it by Monday. It was a challenge and I knew from reading about Sir Edmund Percival Hillary that challenges were an integral part of character building. I wanted to be a better person and win Mr Chin’s approval. Indeed, my future depended on it.

It was Sir Edmund who once said, ‘It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves,’ which is quite a profound statement when you think about it. He certainly knew what he was talking about. He was the first person to reach the summit of Mount Everest, the highest mountain in the world. Mountain climbing is a rigorous activity and carries considerable risk. I would not like to die on a mountainside or lose a nose or fingers to frostbite. Fortunately, Sir Edmund never lost any facial features or extremities. After his adventures, he returned to beekeeping, which is a job that requires considerable manual dexterity.

4

The idea of normality was flashing in my mind’s eye like the rotating beacon of a lighthouse as I made my way down the office stairs. The stairwell was pitch dark but I knew the width and squeak of every stair by heart. I used to run up and down the stairs until Mr Chin forbade it: ‘This run, run, run get on my nerve. Walk up stair at normal human speed or forget interesting and exciting job.’

The stairwell lights do not work because their electrical supply is connected to the faulty circuitry of the cinema. It would cost hundreds of thousands of pounds to rewire the Babylon and make the building fireproof, which had been the original plan when the council purchased it from its bankrupt owner in 1990. The Babylon was going to be refurbished and turned into a centre of local culture and history with photo panels and audiovisual displays. This plan was one of the first things to go when Jerry Clench became mayor. Mr Clench was not interested in the cinema’s architecture or its historical value. It was an eyesore and a fleapit, he said. He not only refused to allocate funds for its renovation but also said there was no budget to have it pulled down.

Mr Chin is more than happy with the dark stairwell because it discourages people from visiting the office. He had the reinforced metal doors installed after a boy scout carrying a plastic donation bucket made it to the landing with the aid of his pocket torch. The boy’s arrival had sent Mr Chin into a frenzy. He began screeching and waving a length of green bamboo around his head. After the boy had fled, I asked Mr Chin why he was so upset.

‘Foolish and stupid!’ he shouted, shoving the bamboo back into his personal storeroom. ‘You understand nothing.’

‘About boy scouts?’

‘About criminal people.’

‘Criminal? Boy scouts assist the elderly.’ I had read only good things about scouts and their love of the outdoors. ‘They know their roots and berries.’

‘Root and berry! Ha!’ Mr Chin wagged his finger at me. ‘Never trust such person. Maybe such person is spy and thief.’

‘He was wearing an official uniform.’

‘Uniform mean nothing. Worst crook in Hong Kong that is so-call police and military wear uniform.’ Mr Chin pounded the top of his desk with a fist. ‘Here office for private and personal business. Trespasser and other strictly forbidden.’

‘But—’

‘Enough of but! This but, but, but get on my nerve!’

He chopped the air with his hand to end the conversation. His face had flushed angry red and stayed that way for several minutes. Later that evening, I made a note in the CHIN subsection of my OBSERVATIONS ring binder: ‘Scouts upset Mr Chin. Suspicious of uniforms. To be followed up.’

The door clicked shut behind me and I paused for my eyes to adjust to the dim light under the awning. Out of habit, I turned to examine the old movie stills in the display case but as I did this, my foot touched something solid and organic. I looked down and saw a boy, curled up asleep on a square of cardboard. It is not unusual to find people sleeping in doorways in the centre of town. Unemployment is high and the list for council housing is long. But I had never seen anyone so young sleeping so unprotected.

‘Hello,’ I said.

The boy’s eyes flicked open. He scrambled to a crouch.

‘You’re not a cop,’ he said, looking me up and down.

‘No.’

‘Social services?’

I shook my head. ‘I work in the office upstairs.’

The boy assumed his full height, which was at least a head shorter than me. He was thin and pre-pubescent with fierce blue eyes and a tight lipless mouth. I could not see the top of his head for a dirty red baseball cap but the stubble around his ears was blond. He looked about ten years old. On his cheek was a furry birthmark. It was brown and perfectly round like a two-pence piece.

‘Got a spare fiver?’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

‘Why do you want five pounds?’

‘Why do you think?’ The boy scowled at me from under the cap.

I had just read an article in the Cockerel about boys sniffing industrial chemicals. The newspaper referred to them as ‘feral’ and said they terrorised the town in gangs and vandalised public property. I had never encountered a gang of savage children but I was very familiar with vandalism. ‘To buy paint thinner?’

‘Do I look that stupid?’

‘It’s hard to tell.’

‘Well, you definitely look stupid.’ The boy pointed to my trousers. ‘What the hell do you call those?’

‘Tartan trousers.’ I did not bother commenting on the boy’s grimy, oversized white T-shirt and baggy jeans. Fashion is a matter of personal taste and people can be sensitive to criticism. ‘Do you need money to buy clothes?’

‘I’m hungry, you idiot.’

My purse contained Mr Chin’s one hundred pounds in addition to the one pound eighty I keep on hand for purchasing spiral notebooks. ‘I don’t have five pounds in change but if you come with me I’ll buy you a sandwich and a beverage.’

‘Why should I trust you?’ The boy squinted at me. ‘You could be one of those molesterers. I’m a minor.’

‘I’ll take you to a public place.’ I hesitated. An idea was forming in my mind. ‘And rather than give you five pounds, I’ll employ you and pay you to do something for me.’

‘I’m not nicking anything.’

‘I’m not a lawbreaker and would never encourage a minor to become one either.’ I offered the boy my hand. ‘My name’s Sherry.’

The boy eyed my hand suspiciously. He kept his arms at his sides. ‘That’s not a real name.’

‘It wasn’t my choice.’ I let my arm drop. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Nigel, but that’s not my real name either. And I don’t want a sandwich.’

‘What would you like?’

‘A cup of tea and a cake.’ He thought a moment. ‘And a Coke.’

As we set off down Harry Secombe Parade, the boy hung back, trailing me along the pavement.

‘You don’t want to walk beside me?’

‘Not when you walk like that.’

I stopped swinging my arms to chest height and slowed down but the boy continued to follow several steps behind. I glanced back to check on him as I passed under the old rail bridge. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were in the pockets of his baggy jeans but he was light on his feet and made no sound as he walked. At the high street he paused, scanning it before continuing.

Several people were milling around in front of the council buildings but they took no notice of us as we passed. Ten years previously the town hall square had been furnished with iron benches and rubbish bins stamped with the town’s coat of arms but these had been ripped up under Mr Clench’s drive to give the council a new face. Cobblestones had been imported from Italy and laid in a circular pattern. A marble fountain of a semi-naked woman in a clamshell was installed as a decorative centrepiece. The nozzle of this landmark has not spouted for several years but its clamshell is always filled with rainwater.

As I neared the betting shop, a man stepped out of a doorway and blocked my way. He was my height and looked about thirty-five. His head was small and his dark hair was oily and uncombed. He was wearing a black T-shirt printed with a skull and bones design and blue nylon sports trousers with a mismatched green nylon jacket. His face had an unhealthy pallor and he did not look like someone who practised sport. Smouldering between his fingers was a hand-rolled cigarette.

‘Spare change, love?’ he asked, crumpling his face in a tragic way and holding out his free hand. ‘Down on my luck.’

I turned to see what Nigel was doing only to discover that the boy had disappeared.

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked the man, removing one pound from my purse.

He eyed me as he snatched the coin. ‘Nope.’

‘Why do you need money?’

‘The derby.’ He turned to go.

‘You’re going to bet on horses?’

‘As soon as I get five quid together.’

I watched him slouch off and wondered where he would get the rest of the money. It was not uncommon to observe people asking for cash or cigarettes from townspeople but I did not often see them rewarded.

Nigel was waiting for me on the corner in front of the betting shop. I had not seen him pass me and had no idea how he had got there. He pointed to an electronic signboard hanging in the window of the pawn shop next door. Running across the board in red diode lettering were the words: ‘We buy used gold! Divorcees trade in those wedding bands then double your cash on the nags.’

‘That does not seem very ethical,’ I said.

Nigel laughed. ‘The punterers will be cutting the ring fingers off their grannies.’

There was truth to what the boy said. Gambling is a compulsive activity and can prompt an addicted person to engage in desperate behaviour. Mr Chin had told me he would never employ a gambler. ‘Policy of office strict,’ he explained during my job interview. ‘Gambler forbidden and not permitted. Chin never trust such fool. Gambler worst kind of weak and stupid person. Never care for family. Only care for money and more money.’

I motioned for Nigel to follow and led him down the side street towards Ted’s Famously Fine Coffee and Teas. The café is a small place with colourful plastic tablecloths and solid wooden chairs. It serves an all-day breakfast of fried bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs on a pool of baked beans. The price of breakfast includes a large mug of tea or coffee. There is a sign above the counter that reads: ‘Our teas and coffees are made the old-fashioned way – by Ted’s very own fine hand’.

For a month now I have been going to Ted’s every Monday and Thursday after work to observe people and collate my notes. I would like to go every day but I do not want to overstay my welcome. This has happened to me before in other places and I have learned to pace myself. Most people are able to pace themselves without thinking but pacing does not come naturally to me. If I like a place, I want to go there all the time. I would spend many more hours in the office if Mr Chin were not so strict.

Twice a week seems about right for Ted because he always raises his eyebrows and greets me with a familiar, ‘You again’. It is not often that I am recognised and greeted as a regular customer. Ted lets me spend as much time as I like in his café but insists I use a small table and buy at least one drink per hour. ‘House policy,’ he says.

This time, however, Ted did not give me his usual greeting. He looked at the boy beside me.

‘I’ve got my eye on you,’ he said.

‘Aren’t I the lucky one,’ replied Nigel. He winked.

‘Don’t try any funny business.’

The boy snorted. ‘A funny thing happened on the way to a funeral.’

‘That’s not funny!’ Ted pushed his large stomach against the counter and tapped its surface with a stubby finger. ‘The recently bereaved come in here.’

‘Did you hear the one about the bishop and the button mushroom?’

‘Watch your mouth! I’ll not have Roman Catholics offended. Buy something or get out.’

‘Keep your hair on, Teddy boy.’ Nigel pointed to me. ‘She’s buying me one of your fine teas.’

‘What the hell are you doing with this delinquent?’ Ted turned to me, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t think your sort had friends, especially not his sort.’

‘He’s not a friend,’ I said. ‘I’ve hired him to help me.’

‘I doubt he helps anyone but himself.’ Ted’s eyes shifted to Nigel and then back to me. ‘So, what will Her Ladyship be having?’

‘I’ll have one of your famous milk coffees and my employee will have a Coke and fairy cake with his tea.’

‘Fairy cake?’ Ted’s thin lips parted in a smile. It was a tight smile that did not reveal any teeth. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books.’

I used one of Mr Chin’s twenty-pound notes to pay the four pounds forty for the order before leading Nigel over to a table for two near the window. As I sat down, I noticed a message had been scratched into the glass with something hard like a diamond ring or glasscutter. Each letter of ‘Chantelle Corby Luvs it’ was made up of multiple scratches. Nigel sniggered at the graffiti.

‘Bet that pisses off old Ted,’ he said.

‘He doesn’t seem to like you,’ I replied, sliding the tray over to the boy. I removed the notebook from my bag and began noting down the graffiti.

‘He’s a prick.’

‘He’s always very welcoming to me.’

‘You call that a welcome?’ The boy took a bite of the cake and screwed up his nose. ‘This must be fifty years old. Probably crawling with salmonellera.’

‘Ted makes all his cakes and beverages by hand.’

‘I don’t want to know that.’ He frowned but kept eating.

‘He says that his coffee is superior to machine-made espresso and cappuccino.’ I took a sip of my instant coffee. It was tepid and weak, just how I liked it. ‘Ted says the steam jets of modern machines destroy the flavour of the beans and can lead to cancer.’

Nigel stopped chewing and frowned at me. ‘Are you really a wally or is this an act?’

‘Wally?’ I glanced over at Ted who was wiping a tabletop with a grey washcloth. ‘I prefer the coffee here. It’s light and remarkably thirst-quenching. Even more thirst-quenching than a glass of tap water. It doesn’t prevent me from sleeping at night.’

‘I bet it doesn’t.’

Ted’s café is one of the few places in town still furnished with a payphone. It is an old pink ring-dial model with a slot for coins. Around its base is a strip of brown tape with the words ‘FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY’ written in red marker. The phone is often in use and not always by customers. There are not many phone booths left in the town and it is often difficult to find one in working order.

I walked over and brought back the Yellow Pages. The phonebook was dog-eared and its cover had been defaced with doodles and swear words. I opened it at P and ran my eye over the page before sliding it across the table to Nigel, who was unscrewing the lid of the sugar dispenser.

‘I’d like you to choose a psychological expert from this list.’

‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’

‘Decision-making is difficult for me. I have a problem with choices.’

‘That’s not normal.’

‘Correct.’

‘You’ll be wasting your money. All those psychologicalists are pricks.’

I nudged the phonebook closer to the boy. ‘I need to see a therapist as soon as possible. I have no time to lose.’

Nigel finished pouring the contents of the salt container into the sugar dispenser and then screwed the lid back on. He looked up, pleased with himself. ‘You’d better pay me.’

‘Of course I’ll pay you! I’ve been given money to get normal by Monday. This afternoon tea and your salary are my first investments.’

‘Whatever.’ The boy shrugged and ran a finger down the listings, stopping at the name Poulet. He sniggered. ‘Here’s one for you. Pooh-let.’

‘Could you call and make an appointment?’ I did not bother to explain the challenges of telephony without the prompts and responses of the Honey Trap.

‘Give me your mobile.’ He held out his hand.

‘I don’t have one. It’s a personal policy.’

The boy frowned.

‘I don’t want to expose my body to unnecessary radiofrequency radiation. Testicular cancer poses no danger to me but I prefer not to take any risks with my brain.’

The boy shook his head but did as I asked. He was feeding coins into the phone when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Excuse me.’ It was the large man from the table behind me. He was wearing overalls with ‘Paradise Plumbing’ embroidered on the pocket. In front of him was an all-day breakfast and a mug of tea. ‘Love, pass me the sugar,’ he said. I did as I was asked but my attention was on Nigel who was talking into the phone.

The boy came back to the table, smiling. ‘Tomorrow at three o’clock.’ He pointed to the name in the phonebook. ‘Bijou Poulet Psy Dram.’

I was about to thank him when a dog started barking loudly behind me. I twisted in my seat again and found the plumber coughing violently over his mug of tea.

‘Give me the five quid, quick!’ Nigel was standing next to me with his hand out. ‘I’ve got to go.’

I had barely removed the banknote from my purse when it was snatched out of my hand. Before I could say anything, the boy was gone. The next thing I knew Ted was thumping the plumber on the back. Once the coughing fit had subsided, he gave the man a fresh cup of tea and a curled-up ham sandwich on a plate. ‘Compliments of the house,’ he said as he put the plate down in front of him. The plumber looked over at me and shook his head. Ted approached my table.

‘Did that little bastard just nick your money?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I replied.

My response did not please Ted who exhaled noisily through his nose. The sharp whistling sound made me wonder about the presence of hair inside his nostrils. Abundant nostril hair is not uncommon in men of a certain age. Quality chemists stock nose-grooming tools but I did not think Ted would appreciate this information. I have found that people are not very receptive to grooming or healthcare advice. Ted’s nostrils made an even shriller sound as he exhaled again. His mouth was a tight line and he was looking at me in a disappointed way as if I had just dropped a bottle of sticky red cordial over his linoleum floor. I decided to change the subject.

‘I notice someone has scratched your window.’

‘Bloody vandalism!’

‘The original Vandals were a Germanic tribe that sacked Rome in 455.’

‘You think I don’t know what a vandal is?’ Ted pointed to a security camera peeking out from a small hole in the wall above the payphone. ‘Cost me a fortune to get that installed.’