The Haunted House that Became Our Home

Norbert

Chapter 25

The Haunted House that Became Our Home

I telephone Nunky every day at noon to make sure he is still alive. The one thing we have to cling on to is that every attempt by Auntie to block the release of our assets has failed. Our new accounts should be up and running in a matter of days.

By scouring the newspapers and the Internet and visiting numerous properties, I find a vacant fully furnished house to let that matches most of our requirements. It is half a mile inland, close to a supermarket and just over a mile from the hospital. It’s also close to the library and on a bus route with a stop right outside the front window, so Nunky will be doubly happy. The rent seems high in comparison to other properties in the area, but I am in no position to argue. I sign the agreement and move in the following day.

The landlord is waiting to greet me. I have to say he is a shifty-looking character, tall and well built, wearing a double-breasted suit, two-tone shoes and a fedora. He’s got a pencil-thin moustache and is chewing a toothpick.

‘I’m new to this malarkey,’ I explain, as he shows me round the house. ‘How exactly does it work?’

‘I do absolutely everything for you. I pay the gas, electricity, water, council tax, even the window cleaner. And because we are the on the flight path for Dublin Airport, I include the fee for the diversion of aircraft. I also pay the security firm that patrols outside the house during the hours of darkness. This guy is so good I guarantee you won’t ever see him.’

‘I was going to question the rent, it seems extortionate, but I didn’t realise it included personal safety and freedom from noise pollution. I think that’s a cracking deal.’

‘You won’t be disappointed, just so long as you pay on time. I even collect the money personally.’

‘I’m very sorry, but I can’t pay you today. Until now, I haven’t had access to a cheque book or much cash. But it should all be sorted in a day or two, I promise.’

‘I fully understand, Mr Rockhampton-Smythe. The same thing happened with the previous tenant. He missed two payments, which left me with no choice but to summon the exorcist.’

‘The house is haunted?’

‘A poltergeist smashed up all his personal belongings and broke both his legs. It was a grave warning from beyond the grave that if he missed another payment he might end up … well … in a grave.’

‘That would never do. Nunky’s got a priceless collection of Simpsons’ eggcups, sent to him by Homer himself. I think you’d better send the exorcist round as soon as possible, just in case.’

A huge great removal van arrives the following morning. One of the removal men lifts the back shutter to reveal Nunky sitting on a lone packing crate. The rest of the vehicle is empty. Tears well from my eyes. Nunky jumps down and gives me a hug.

‘Don’t cry, mi babby, it’s better this way. I wouldn’t want to pollute our new home with reminders of our past life. This is a fresh start, remember.’

The landlord calls again that same evening. This time he is carrying a cricket bat. I don’t think he plays the game though, because he doesn’t have streaks in his hair.

‘It is so kind of you to come armed,’ I tell him, ‘but as yet I haven’t experienced any paranormal activity.’

‘Has your cheque book come?’

‘Yes, I can pay you immediately.’

‘In that case, I’m sure you won’t be possessed or repossessed.’

*

The two weeks back at home in Brundy has clearly taken a heavy toll on Nunky. He discovered there was no library and most of his books were gone. She made him prepare all his own meals and locked him in his bedroom the moment Gideon got home. Auntie kept them apart the whole time he was there.

The first week in our new house, he was, despite his initial optimism, equally subdued and hardly spoke. Several times he walked out without a word. On the assumption he was also doing this whilst I was at work, I took the precaution of paying to have his name and contact phone number sown into all his jackets and coats. I phoned social services to report the move was finalized, voiced my concerns over his state of mind and made an appointment for a home visit from a social worker.

What with the move, the traumatic on-call, my financial problems and worrying about Nunky, it all became too much. Despite upping my dose of Valium I am ashamed to say that I properly snapped and got angry.

I’d cooked a fresh chicken with all the trimmings. (Having turned up to work one morning covered in hives and explaining about my food allergies, Isabel [perhaps out of contrition] loaned me a cookbook by an evidently famous chef called Cordon Ramsay-Bleu. As a consequence, I’m now getting quite good at this cooking malarkey, though I find his terminology difficult to understand. “Wet your fingers thoroughly first or the cunt is a lot harder to stuff, then baste the fucker with hot fat half way through roasting.” To anyone not familiar with the anatomy of poultry, this is incomprehensible gibberish.) Nunky just sat there looking at it. No matter how much I cajoled, he wouldn’t eat, so I lost my temper and shouted at him. He burst into tears and ran to his bedroom.

Afterwards, I reflected on the way Auntie treated him and realized I am no better. I know all too well how it feels to be on the receiving end. I placed the chicken in the fridge and made him pancakes instead. (Pancakes are Nunky’s favourite food, so much so Auntie kept the flour in a locked cupboard to both annoy him and prevent him from making them for every meal. I learned how to make them by watching another evidently famous cooker on the telly box called Nigeria Lawson-Pout [who is anything but an old boiler]. She demonstrated how to test the consistency of the batter by sticking two fingers covered in the stuff into her mouth. As she slowly pulled them out, some of the batter dribbled out of her mouth and down her chin. I had to press pause at this point and go for a multi-functional bath.) He smelled them frying and came shyly into the kitchen and sat at the table. No words were spoken. Just a smile that said I understand and you are forgiven. A smile that made me cry.

‘Mi babby have pancake too,’ he said, squeezing lemon juice on his.

I spread maple syrup on mine, as lemon juice is one of thirty-seven foodstuffs so far identified that gives me indigestion.

The social worker (sadly, the same one) visited the house a couple of days later and grudgingly formulated a totally inadequate support plan. I raised a number of issues, like there was no mention of follow-ups.

‘Tickle our Lord!’ she bellowed. ‘The useless scrounger’s getting his money, isn’t he? What more do you want?’

She did at least bring along a pile of leaflets highlighting organizations and groups within the city that might be of interest. Brundy had very little in the way of social clubs for special people like Nunky, not that Auntie would let him join any. He was an embarrassment to be kept hidden away, not paraded round town. The city, though, has numerous societies he can join.

Nunky wasted no time in making his selections. Monday was a no-brainer; Book Club in the library round the corner. On Tuesdays there is a Lunch Club at the social centre. On Wednesdays a Rambling Club in the countryside. Thursdays a keep fit class, also at the social centre, and on Fridays a Dogging Club in a supermarket car park. Only kidding, it is actually an Art Class. The paintings he brings home brighten up the house. It’s like living in a nursery school.

We put a chart on the fridge to remind us both of the itinerary. A Door-to-Door minivan picks him up every day but Monday, when he walks to the library, so the only thing he has to remember is the right accessories. Not turning up to keep fit in walking boots and cagoule, for instance.

Every morning when I am on the early shift I set an alarm clock to go off fifteen minutes before the van is due to arrive, so Nunky knows it is time to get ready and look out of the window. He would probably be looking out of the window at the bus stop anyway, as waving to bus passengers is a favourite hobby. (Waving at a moving bus is pointless, but you would be amazed at the number of “normal people” that wave back when the bus is stationary, particularly from the upper deck. Try it sometime.)

Once the routine had become established and everything was running smoothly, I asked Nunky if he’d made any new friends. He reeled off the names of several.

‘What do your friends call you?’

‘Nunky.’

‘Did you tell them your name is Tobias?’

‘Toby died a long time ago,’ he said.

That also made me cry.