The Good News is I Don't Have Asthma

Norbert

21

The Good News is I Don’t Have Asthma

The second I walk into my room, Nunky sees the distress on my face.

‘What on earth has happened, mi babby? You look awful.’

‘Nunky, is initiation the same as rape?’

‘If it’s bright yellow and grows in fields, then yes.’

‘I was initiated last night, not in a field but tied to a bench.’

‘Who by?’

‘Three women.’

‘You lucky blighter.’

‘It was awful.’

‘What happened?’

I tell him about the disrobement, being tied up and the cold feel of whipped cream being smeared on my privates. ‘Everything after that is a blur.’

‘Have you got their phone number?’

‘I can’t report it. I might lose my job.’

‘You can count on it, mi babby.’

I stare at him in panic. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You phoning to order a pizza made me realize I was hungry, so I went to the kitchen to make some pancakes. A couple of nurses caught me, so I did as you suggested and told them I was your uncle, and that I was on a brief visit and that I was giving you some extra money for being kind to me. They said it was disgusting and have started a petition to have you thrown out for soliciting. I told them they’d got it all wrong and I was the solicitor. Norfolk & Good. Watch your language, they said.’

I collapse onto the bed and weep into my hands.

Nunky pats me on the back. ‘There. There. You go and make some cocoa to calm you down and I’ll ring my old doctor’s to see if they can give you an emergency appointment. The surgery is in the same building as social services. I know that because I was forever walking into the wrong one. I soon learned you can’t obtain antibiotics with a tax credit and benefit money with a prescription.’

Luckily, they’ve had a cancellation and can fit me in at 10.20.

We sit together in the packed waiting area. The man beside me says: ‘You look properly ill.’

‘He is,’ says Nunky. ‘He got molested at work last night, but on the bright side, he’s probably lost his job, so it won’t happen again.’

‘In that case, you should be sitting over there.’ He points to a less crowded seating area. ‘This is the sick note queue for wastrels.’

From our new seats, I notice a poster on the wall that startles me into the realization I don’t suffer from asthma and have never used an inhaler. How could I have let such an obvious malady pass me by?

Though I may not have asthma (yet), I am proud to announce that I officially now suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, like proper soldiers scarred by war. That is a real man’s ailment, unlike the jockstrap itch that cricketers get. I am even prescribed Valium, which is given to people who are properly sick in the head. Even Nunky isn’t on Valium.

As the pharmacy is downstairs, I fill the prescription straight away, and by the time of our appointment with social services, the drug has kicked in and I am calm enough to function.

The social worker is a stout middle-aged woman wearing a white blouse buttoned up to the neck. A pair of reading glasses dangles on her bosom. She pauses during the opening introductions and pleasantries, glares at me and says: ‘Are you staring at my bosom?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I am staring at your glasses and thinking about a cricketer called Louie.’

‘I am afraid there is no cure for that. You’ll have to accept and live with your warped sexuality.’ She puts on her glasses, opens a thin folder and reads her notes. ‘You’ve recently moved from Brundy? Your uncle has left home of his own free will and wishes to live with you? Is that correct?’

‘It is, and I’m not gay. Louie also has dangly things, like whistles and compasses.’

She removes her glasses. ‘Whatever rocks your boat, but tell him your feelings. I can’t help you.’ She slips them back on again and returns to her notes. ‘After you made the appointment yesterday we checked our records and found no mention of either of you. We are therefore not in a position to help.’ She closes the folder with a resounding thump of finality and rests her glasses on her bosom.

‘Auntie didn’t register Nunky with social services. She controlled him in her own brutal way.’

Nunky nods in agreement.

‘And what about you?’

‘She actually treated me worse, but it’s my uncle who needs care, not me.’

‘Let me get this right. Are you alleging that a much respected Senior Nursing Sister in charge of an antenatal clinic subjected both of you to physical and mental abuse?’

I nod in confirmation. ‘Boxing gloves for the former and her tongue for the latter.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’

‘Auntie said we’d be punished if we did,’ says Nunky.

She re-opens the folder, puts on her glasses and reads some more, before sliding her glasses to the end of her long nose and putting on a stern and very disapproving face.

‘I spoke to the lady in question on the telephone less than an hour ago to get more background information. The poor woman is worried sick by the disappearance of her extremely fragile husband and terrified of what might happen to him in the care of … and I quote … a debauched kleptomaniac valetudinarian.’

I jump to my feet. ‘If I knew what any of those words meant, I would deny them all.’

‘You have demonstrated two of them already,’ she says, moving a framed photograph out of my reach and folding her arms over her bosom. ‘Your aunt says you’re an untrustworthy, lying, thieving, perverted hypochondriac.’

‘Mi babby is not himself today,’ says Nunky, pulling me back into my seat. ‘He got involved in some depraved sexual shenanigans at work yesterday with three women.’

She smirks. ‘I rest my case.’

‘He’s now taking Valium, but even if he wasn’t he’d have something in his emergency first kit to stupefy his brain into making life tolerable.’

She picks up a pen and begins to write. ‘That’s three out of three. Case most definitely rested.’

‘He’s doing really well. He hasn’t been anywhere near a railway line for weeks.’

The social worker is scribbling so feverishly, steam is rising from her notepad.

I reach towards her in desperation. She leans back in her chair in terror and looks round the room in the hope of detecting a panic button.

‘I’m fine,’ I grovel. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. You can stop resting your case. We’re here about my uncle. With me at work, he’ll need help’

I continue to make non-threatening gestures of peace until I see her relax.

‘Do you have a house?’ she asks.

‘It isn’t technically mine. I share it with about four hundred nurses.’

‘So you don’t actually have somewhere to house and care for your uncle?’

‘Nunky only got expelled yesterday and turned up with the news that our assets have been unfrozen. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere soon.’

She turns to Nunky and her tone softens slightly. ‘I am afraid you have no choice, Mr Rockhampton-Smythe. It would take at least three days to arrange to have you taken into care. Going home to Brundy or sleeping under the pier are your only options.’

‘Would the council provide me with a cardboard box?’

‘The second option was a joke,’ she replies. ‘I’ll phone your wife and tell her you’re on your way home.’

It’s Nunky’s turn to jump to his feet in agitation. ‘I’m not going back. Despite all his imperfections, I want to stay with mi babby.’ He sits back down. ‘Even if you provide me with a hard hat, I’m not going back. The survival of my eggcups is at stake.’

‘Are you saying she wants him back?’ I ask.

‘She’s distraught.’

‘What about her new boyfriend?’

She shakes her head. ‘It sounds to me that you are living in a fantasy world, created through dependence on a cocktail of strong drugs, which your Aunt did warn me about. And, like her, I would be interested to know where you get them all?’ I look down and don’t answer. ‘Now let’s move on to all this pent-up sexual frustration.’

‘But…’

She holds up a hand to silence me. ‘I know your sex crimes have, up till now, been relatively petty, but indulging in foursomes in the workplace is a huge and dangerous leap forward. You, Norbert, are like a volcano, just waiting to erupt and send your red-hot lava spurting out in all directions.’ She leans forward and points right at me for emphasis. ‘Believe me, I’ve it seen happen.’

I tremble and nearly vomit. ‘There’s CCTV in the Nurse’s Home bathroom?’

She leans even closer. ‘You must see what a sick, pathetic, excuse for a human being you are? I mean … vintage farm tractors … come on!’ She retreats, intertwines her fingers and rests them on the desk. ‘I deal with people like you every day, though nowhere near as bad, and I know a liar when I hear one and a reprobate when I see one…’

I break down in tears. She’s the professional. She must know what she’s talking about. She must be right.

Nunky puts his arm round me and tries to comfort me. ‘Face it, mi babby; it was never going to happen. People like us are not destined for happiness. I’ll take the lock off my bedroom door, put it on the inside and just waste away.’

I cry harder and hug him back. ‘I love you, Nunky, and I promise to do the same. I’ll lock myself in the bathroom and exhaust myself to death.’

The social worker bangs her fists on the desk. ‘Give it a rest, for crying out loud.’ We stop snivelling and stare. ‘Thirty years I’ve had to sit here listening to pathetic, whinging, faint-hearted pussies like you two whine on about how unfair life is. Grow a backbone.’

We both apologise and wipe our eyes and blow our noses.

‘That’s better.’ She picks up the phone and dials.

Even though Nunky’s got a bus pass and has been on the 32 dozens of times unaccompanied, the nice lady pays for a taxi out of petty cash. Social workers, I suppose, are given special training at being kind to people.