The Fisherman's Friend

Norbert

Chapter 27

The Fisherman's Friend

I immediately alert switchboard. They call Security. The guard on duty hears the baby crying and finds Dotty asking a vending machine for egg and chips twice with lashings of tomato sauce.

Back at work after my off day and everyone wants a piece of me.

‘Heard you had a bit of excitement the other night?’ says Ruben.

‘You could say that.’

‘Good job Healer Dai was on hand, otherwise Dora Mae would have been fanny-tickled.’

‘She already had been,’ says GT, ‘which is a honky-tonkin’ mystery to everyone.’

‘And how is the father?’ I ask him. ‘You must be thrilled.’

People laugh. GT scowls.

‘Good one, Norbie.’ Rube punches my shoulder. ‘Almost as good as the LISS auto joke.’

‘What’s that?’ says Dora Mae Doll.

Rube tells her about my interview.

Velcro is in the lab, collecting bits and bobs for clinic. She tells them the lymphoma joke.

One of the student minionshits looks up from a haematology textbook and asks GT what a basophil is.

‘Little minionshit girl, it’s the least common white cell found in the blood.’

‘No it isn’t,’ I contradict. ‘It’s a pervert with a deep voice.’

Everyone laughs.

‘You’re quite the comedian,’ says Dora Mae Doll.

I am not about to admit I only use humour (along with masturbation and medicine) to mask the misery of my constant depression. On a roll, I say to the student: ‘Hit me with another one.’

She flicks over the page. ‘Myeloid.’

‘How you address a judge in the High Court.’

More titters.

She does it again. ‘Platelet.’

‘A receptacle for tiny cakes.’

It is working. I think I feel almost cheerful.

GT muscles in. ‘Hey, chicklet, let me do the next one.’

The student flicks through the pages. ‘Splenomegaly.’

‘How am I supposed to make a joke about that, you silly little dronelet?’

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘It isn’t a joke, it’s a compliment.’

It takes a second, but most make the connection.

‘Milk it while you can, you frog-faced runt,’ GT hisses into my face. ‘It won’t make any difference. The job’s still mine.’

I tip back into despondency.

The young student, who is quite pretty and has promising loolybells, lays an unopened pack of cards in front of GT. ‘Is this a good time to teach me?’

‘Teach you what?’ says Isabel, suspiciously.

The student flashes an innocent smile. ‘GT said that if I play my cards right, he’ll help me get a job here when I qualify and he becomes the Senior Technician.’

‘I think he means to poker,’ says Rube.

*

The following day, and everything is back to normal. I am the butt of every joke, constantly harassed by GT, given the run-around by Isabel and ignored by everyone else. The honeymoon is soon over at home, too. Nunky is again spending lengthy periods in the shadows. He starts to mess up and disrupt classes. Sometimes he just walks out without a word and heads for the filling station. I am inundated with phone calls and warnings. He’s in the last chance saloon.

Talking of which, I know from conversations in the lab that Healer Dai lives across the road from The Fisherman’s Friend public house, which is nowhere near the docks but backs on to the Hardfist estate, and that he is captain of their darts team. As I am adept at devising cunning plans, I hatch one and invite Nunky out for a drink on a night when I know the team are playing at home. We do, of course, have to practice for a week beforehand (not darts, you idiot).

We catch the 46 to the Hardfist, the only bus in the fleet carrying the warning: “Fighting is only permitted on the upper deck”. Not surprisingly, the downstairs is standing room only, packed mainly with hard-faced women, bawling kids and us.   

We get off at the pub and enter the Saloon Bar. The room is bursting at the seams with players and a vociferous band of supporters, wearing team colours like at a football match, probably so they can see whom to hit through the haze of cigarette smoke. I am already beginning to think this is a bad idea.

We stand at the bar and wait to be served. Nunky makes a circle with his left arm, fingers touching his waist, like he is carrying a roll of carpet. It is five minutes before a harassed barman approaches. He is clearly rushed off his feet and tetchy.

‘What can I get you, mate?’

Nunky licks his lips nervously and points to the hole. ‘A man walks into a bar with a roll of tarmac under his arm.’ He pauses. ‘I know there’s nothing there, I’m not mad, but you have to imagine there is.’

I stand on my tiptoes and hiss in his ear: ‘Don’t waffle. Get on with it.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ says the barman. ‘If it’s invisible, how do I know it’s a roll of tarmac?’

‘Ermm … because I’m an Irish navvy, so I am,’ says Nunky, in a more than passable Belfast accent. ‘Can’t you tell?’

‘Sorry. Go on.’

‘And the man, that’s me, the Irish navvy, says to the barman, that’s you, I’ll have a noggin of bitter, please … and one for the road.’

Nunky nods vigorously and grins and points frantically at his tarmac. ‘Get it? Do you get it?’

‘Hang on a minute,’ says the barman, with a puzzled expression. ‘If you’re a real Irish navvy, why didn’t you order a Guinness?’

I lean my forehead on the bar and groan.

Nunky frowns. ‘It’s an icebreaker, a way of conquering my nerves. I’m not Irish and I don’t have a roll of imaginary tarmac, but I do want a noggin of Old Todger and another noggin of Old Todger for my metaphorical road, who is, in actual fact, my nephew.’

The barman holds a glass under the spigot and tugs on a hand pump. ‘Why didn’t you just say? You can see I’m busy.’

‘Sorry. I’ve got special needs.’

The barman jabs a finger at him. ‘I know your game, pal. You’re trying to distract me, but there’s no underage drinking in this pub. The kiddie can have a cola or a juice. He ain’t having a noggin.’

This is what I mean. This is what happens every time I go in a pub. Well, both times I’ve been in a pub. I hold up my ID card. ‘I’m twenty five.’

‘Yeah, right, and I’m Chinese.’

‘I work at the hospital.’

‘On the children’s ward?’

‘He’s kosher. Works with me, so he does,’ says Healer Dai, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘Give the lad a noggin, Archibald, and I’ll have another mother in law.’

‘What’s a mother in law?’ I ask.

‘Stout and bitter. What you doing here?’

‘Nunky likes his pub sports. I thought it would make a nice change for him.’ I lower my voice. ‘He’s got special needs.’

‘So have I, but Katherine Jenkins-Jenkins doesn’t reply to any of my letters. So I has to make do with dear old Clotty, but not a word, mind.’

He taps the side of his nose.

Nunky has already downed half his noggin. He grabs Healer Dai’s hand. ‘I’m special. Call me Nunky cos I can’t remember my name. Can you?’

‘Yes, it’s Daffyd Llewellyn-Llewellyn.’

‘You’re Welsh, then? Like me.’

‘You don’t sound Welsh.’

‘I’m not. I’ve never even been there. Why do you ask?’

‘Ermm … I’m sitting over there. You’re welcome to join me.’

‘If you’re sitting over there, who are you?’

Either Nunky is having one of his really bad days or the excitement is getting to him. I am tempted to give up and call it a day.

My idea was for Healer Dai to see what Nunky is like and what I have to put up with. I love him to bits, but I am at the end of my tether, constantly worrying about what he’s getting up to when I am at work. I’ve made sure he can’t get out at night, but I’m equally worried what might happen outside in the city during the day. Even though Healer Dai is off his trolley, he’s the nearest thing to an expert I know. I intended to ask for his advice on the best way to cope.

We approach a table near the dartboard and wait for the thrower to sink a double top before sitting down.

The next leg has barely begun when Nunky shouts: ‘Stop, that’s wrong.’

The players, markers and onlookers turn and stare.

‘Seventy three from four hundred and eleven is three hundred and thirty eight, not three hundred and twenty eight. You’ve deducted ten too many.’

The marker in question checks his scoring.

‘He’s right,’ says the thrower who scored 73.

The marker crosses it out and changes the score.

‘And that last leg, when you won on double twenty, you actually wanted double eighteen. He got that wrong as well.’

They check the previous sheet and find that Nunky is right.

‘Why didn’t you say something?’ says the opponent who lost.

‘Because you’re all big and fat with shaved heads and tattoos.’

‘But unlike us, you understand basic mathematics?’

‘I’m special.’

‘That game’s forfeit. I demand a rematch.’

‘Nob off,’ says the winner. ‘I went for the score on the sheet and that’s what I hit. I won fair and square. Any objections and we’ll finish this outside.’

‘I wouldn’t if I was you,’ I say, helpfully. ‘It’s turned a bit nippy.’

‘Them’s the rules,’ someone in the audience says. ‘It’s the dumbass marker’s fault. Smash his grannytickling head in with the dartboard.’

‘It’s the only one we’ve got, you idiot,’ says the sore loser. ‘We’ll set the dogs on him.’

‘If it’s pain you’re after,’ says the other marker. ‘You want Reggie.’

‘You’re right there,’ chorus several at once.

‘It’s a shame he got put away,’ says the victor. ‘If you really wanted someone hurt, Reggie was your man.’

Everyone murmurs in agreement.

The scorer being threatened storms up to Nunky and thrusts a marker pen in his face. He is sweating. ‘Here you go, Einstein-Copernicus. If you’re so nobbing clever, you keep the grannytickling scores.’

‘Oh what fun, I’d love to. Thank you so much.’

Before the disgraced scorer can grab his coat and bolt for the door, Nunky grabs him in a bear hug and squeezes him half to death.

Healer Dai gets another round in, and whilst Nunky scores I take the opportunity to broach my fears.

‘You simply need someone to keep an eye on him during the day,’ Healer Dai advises. ‘That’s the poultice for your puss-filled boil.’

‘I can’t afford a home help.’

‘He isn’t an invalid, so he doesn’t qualify under the NHS.’

‘But he clearly isn’t well. And it’s getting worse.’ I shake my head. ‘I arranged for Meals on Wheels to deliver a hot lunch when I am on days, but it didn’t go well.’

‘What happened?’

‘Woman knocked on the door and said she was delivering Meals on Wheels. Don’t be silly, said Nunky. I have my din-din on a Simpsons plate on a Simpsons tray whilst watching The Simpsons. I’m berdollexed if I’m chasing it down the street, and slammed the door in her face. Evidently you don’t get a second chance. Nobody messes with Meals on Wheels.’

‘Hmmm,’ says Healer Dai.

‘Do you know what’s wrong with him? Have you seen patients like Nunky before?’

‘I know exactly what is wrong with your uncle. He’s mad as a ship’s cat.’

‘Gee thanks, that’s just what I wanted to hear.’

‘Always happy to help.’

‘And that’s it? He needs putting away in an asylum for the insane? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Of course not. He needs a dog.’

‘A dog? You mean like a guide dog for the blind, but for special people?’

‘No, any sort of dog.’

‘You think a dog is the answer?’

‘A dog isn’t going to judge your uncle. A dog’s instinct is to love, protect and help. They will soon form a bond and come to rely on one another. Each will take strength from the other’s weaknesses. A smart dog is the pick-me-up for your uncle’s malaise, trust me.’

The match finishes and Nunky retakes his seat.

‘Nunky. Do you like dogs?’

He looks at me and smiles. ‘I married your Auntie, didn’t I?