At Least One Cloud has a Silver Lining

Norbert

16

At Least One Cloud has a Silver Lining

I take a week of annual leave in-between jobs to make sure Nunky fully understands the situation. We go on the bus to Macarbrough three times, and each time I show him the hospital where I will work. Only on the final visit does he fully comprehend the enormity of what is about to happen. We sit in a shelter on the seafront afterwards and weep. Understanding, like love, hurts.

Later in the afternoon we walk past the offices of Norfolk & Good.

‘This is where you used to work, Nunky.’

‘It can’t be,’ he says. ‘There isn’t a Starbucks across the road from the office.’

‘I am afraid there is a Starbucks across the road from just about everywhere nowadays. Would you like a drink? Perhaps a nice cup of hot cocoa will cheer us both up?’

‘All right, mi babby.’

We enter and join the queue.

Nunky tells me to find a seat. ‘I am perfectly capable of ordering two cups of cocoa. You need to save your money to avoid becoming a porpoise.’

I find a spare table and take in the surroundings, the delicious smells and the noise, which sounds like the hiss of vintage steam tractors. But then I hear: ‘What do you mean you don’t sell cocoa?’

I look up and hear Nunky say: ‘No I do not want a skinny Latvian. Auntie wouldn’t allow one in the house. She says foreigners don’t wash often enough.’

I leap to my feet, but Nunky is in full flow.

‘Mock her? I’ve already lost Homer to mockery. I’m damned if I’m going down that road again.’

I reach the counter. ’It’s all right,’ I say to the bewildered young woman with red and purple hair, metal rings in her ears, one through her lip and another at her eyebrow. ‘We’ll just have two glasses of milk, please. And I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘I’m used to serving weirdoes.’

‘I mean about you being tortured. I speak from experience.’

We retake our seats. Nunky turns to a man in a business suit sitting at the next table and raises his glass. ‘I don’t know where they get these people. Of course they serve cocoa.’

We drink in silence, wrapped in thoughts of what life without one another will be like and if we will cope. At least, I hope that is what Nunky is thinking.

After a while another man in a business suit approaches our table.

‘Toby,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

Nunky looks up and frowns.

‘It’s me, Sydney Carr-Parker, Senior Accountant at Norfolk & Good. How are you, old chap? It’s so good to see you again.’

I stand up and shake his hand. ‘I’m Toby’s nephew, Norbert. Please join us.’

He sits down. ‘Your uncle used to talk about you all the time. You’re everything I imagined.’

‘That’s because Nunky isn’t well, and I’m afraid he’s got a lot worse over the years.’

‘Yes, I can see that. It’s such a shame. He was a lovely man.’

‘He still is,’ I say, brusquely.

‘I didn’t mean any disrespect. I mean he was well respected and popular, especially with the ladies. What brings you here, nostalgia?’

‘We came on the 32 bus.’

I explain about the job and Nunky talks about Auntie and our financial plight. Mr Carr-Parker frowns and tut-tuts, pulls a notebook from his jacket pocket and begins asking questions and making notes.

‘Do you know your bank details and account numbers?’ he asks me.

‘Yes, but we don’t have access to any of them. Auntie is the sole signatory.’

He hands me his business card. ‘Make an appointment to see me in the office once you start work. I’m sure I’ll be able to help you both.’

‘How much will it cost?’

‘Don’t worry. Look at it as a favour for a friend and former colleague.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ Tears well from my eyes and I choke on the words. ‘I have never experienced kindness like this. I truly haven’t.’

He squeezes my shoulder. ‘I believe you, young man. I’m sorry to say I believe you.’