A Star is Born

Norbert

Chapter 34

A Star is Born

On the day of the Bring and Buy sale I still have no idea what form of entertainment Nunky is planning. If he’s been rehearsing at home, it’s whilst I am at work.

Tuesday is warm and sunny, so the stalls are set up in the car park in front of the building. I don’t think the event has been advertised, but numerous passers by wander in off the busy main road to browse and buy. To raise extra cash, friends and relatives are charged for lunch, which is roast chicken and vegetables, and plum duff. I help lay the tables.

‘Plates go in the middle,’ says Timmy.

‘Sorry.’

‘And the other way up.’

I am a bag of nerves.

All of the volunteers are wearing paper party hats like the ones you get in Christmas crackers. We must look like idiots.

‘These aren’t going to be of much use if it rains, are they?’ I joke to Timmy.

He pats my arm. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take you inside if it does.’

I am mortified.

Whilst half the group clear away the pots, the other half rearranges the chairs into rows. The choir inexplicably sings “Suzy is a Headbanger” by The Ramones. The solo acts follow.

First a woman reads a poem by Pam Ayres-Tennyson. She might even be Pam Ayres-Tennyson. Then a man stands between a projector and a white screen and performs animal silhouettes with his hands.

‘A butterfly,’ he says, crossing his hands and intertwining his thumbs. ‘A rabbit,’ he says, concocting something with two large ears. ‘A moth,’ he says, going back to the first one. ‘A hare,’ he says, repeating the second one. ‘A butterfly in flight,’ he says, flapping its wings. ‘A one-eared rabbit,’ he says, hiding one of his fingers. ‘A moth in flight.’

Another man recites three humorous limericks, but is hustled quickly off the stage when the first line of the fourth ends in Horatio. A woman plucks a three-stringed banjo and yodels something by the Other Direction. Next it is Nunky. I have a sudden urge to flee as he walks on stage holding the cardboard box I had taken home when I left the cottage hospital. For one dreadful moment I can see him holding the tin of potassium cyanide in one hand, a spoon in the other and dying on stage like a Jewish comedian in a Nazi comedy club. I rack my brains to think what I’d done with it. I must have thrown it out, surely? My heart is jumping out of my chest.

He coughs several times to clear his throat, stares round the audience until he spots me and smiles. ‘Mi babby.’

I will myself to become invisible as everyone turns round.

‘I bin bought some fruit,’ says Nunky. ‘I bought an apple.’

He takes one from the box.

‘And I bought a pear.’

He replaces the apple with a pear.

‘I eat fruit with my right hand.’ He raises the pear to his lips. ‘But I’m not sure which one I want.’

He lowers the box to the floor, picks out the apple and the pear and stares down into the box. ‘I’ve also got a plum.’

He reaches into the box to retrieve a purple plum. He is now awkwardly holding three pieces of fruit in both hands.

‘Decisions. Decisions.’ He slowly revolves the fruit, throws the apple a foot into the air with his right hand and catches it. ‘Decisions. Decisions.’ He rotates the fruit faster and throws the pear up with his right hand and catches it. ‘Decisions. Decisions.’ Then faster still and throws the plum way off course at an angle.

The whole audience gasp, but Nunky steps to his left and catches the plum in his left hand.

Before the collective “Phew” has settled, the apple follows, followed by the pear and then the plum.

Nunky is juggling fruit.

Everyone bursts into wild spontaneous applause. I leap to my feet and shout: ‘Bravo.’

Nunky continues to juggle until the furore dies down.

‘I still haven’t made a decision.’

He doesn’t need to prompt any further.

‘The apple,’ someone yells.

‘The pear.’

‘The plum.’

Everyone is screaming at the tops of their voices.

There is, of course, only ever going to be one outcome.

After a few more seconds, he tosses the plum high into the air and stops juggling. He tilts his head back, watches it fall and clamps it firmly between his teeth. The apple and the pear would have just bounced off and ruined the performance, but the soft juicy plum bursts open and covers his face with juice. The audience stand up and go berserk, and all of them turn to me and smile and nod. I am too proud to care about the tears pouring down my cheeks and the sobs racking my throat.

Timmy gives me a hug. ‘Your carer is very talented.’

Believe it or not, it is possible to be mortified and happy at the same time.

*

‘Where did you find the cardboard box?’ I say, as soon as we get home.

‘In the cupboard under the stairs.’

‘Was there anything inside?’

‘A rusty old tin.’

‘Tickle our Lord! What did you do with it?’

‘I took it to the yacht club.’

‘Tickle our Lord! Why?’

‘Because it had a skull and crossbones on the label. It had to belong to a pirate, mi babby. Where else should I have taken it?’

‘What did they say at the yacht club?’

‘That there was a pirate in dock last week, but he’d now sailed off to rob and plunder the seas around the Isle of Wight and his boat sunk and now he is in Davy Jones-Jones locker which must be somewhere in Wales and I said Healer Dai will know where it is and they said it would be best if I gave the tin to Healer Dai because he would know what to do with it…’

Weggie rushes over and licks Nunky’s face to stop him talking and going blue and passing out.

I am too distressed to realise that Nunky has got carried away and is about to swoon. ‘Good boy,’ I say, and pat Weggie’s head.

I turn my attention back to Nunky. ‘So you took the tin to the pub and gave it to Healer Dai?’

‘No, mi babby.’

‘Tickle our Lord! What did you do with it?’

‘I read the label.’

‘Tickle our Lord! Then what did you do?’

‘I sent it to Auntie for her birthday.’