Ice Cream and Japanese Don't Mix

Norbert

Chapter 35

Ice Cream and Japanese Don’t Mix

After Nunky’s performance at Lunch Club, I have no more trouble from the cleaners. On my next on-call they treat me with kindness and respect. Foultongue even offers to take my lab coats home and shorten them for me. There is no end to her talents. Potty Dotty stops asking me to pull her finger and says ‘Dance’ instead.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know how to.’

‘Then we’ll teach you,’ says Mandy.

 I expect to be shown how to jig about, but no. They simply attach my feet to Dottie’s with plastic ties. She holds me tight and waltzes me round the room as easily as dancing with a ghost. My head has nowhere to go except between her loolybells. It is suffocating but pleasant, and after a while, relaxing.

Ruben has formally announced he will “get my bum-tickled weary arse out of this pox-ridden midden” at Christmas. A new senior will be appointed in time for the New Year.

It is now September and I fear that Nunky is either letting Weggie out on his own or he has become an accomplice. Every plastic guide dog bearing a charity box has been withdrawn from the city. They must be losing a fortune. I steal the original box from Weggie’s bedroom and return it anonymously to their office, saying I found it in a skip. If Weggie has stolen others, I have no idea where he is hiding them. There is no freshly disturbed soil in the garden.

As if I don’t have enough to worry about, GT is upping the pressure at work, denigrating me at every opportunity. I have to be continually on my guard. Improving my image and popularity is all I can do. I am assiduous in my duty as milk monitor and occasionally throw in a packet of biscuits at my own expense. I go out of my way to be polite and helpful. I only stare at loolybells surreptitiously. I never get a word of thanks.

*

As I have explained, Brundy-cum-Inmamouth is inland, so living beside the sea is still a novelty. I often go for walks along the cliffs or potter round the quays. Nunky likes to watch the fishing boats unload their catches and he loves the fishy smell of the docks. For me, it’s way too close to the stink of foreskin cheese, which you’ll remember is one of my phobias.

On this fine sunny morning, the three of us are heading for the seafront.

‘Don’t forget to call in the post office for a TV licence,’ says Nunky. ‘Otherwise a defector van will come round and take us all to prison.’

‘I’ll go to the one in Winkle Street. I don’t like this one because the lady is deaf and gets all mixed up.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a big babby, mi babby.’

I find one of those huge cardboard drinking cups in a bin, pull it out and cut out the base with my penknife. Nunky and Weggie wait outside whilst I go in.

The little old lady smiles and says: ‘Good morning. How can I help?’

I raise the improvised megaphone to my mouth and shout: ‘I want a TV licence, please.’

‘Is it a bitch?’

‘I don’t think you heard me right. I said TELEVISION licence.’

‘I heard you perfectly well. I’m sure they can hear you in Brundy, shouting through that contraption. I was practicing my street slang.’

‘Oh, I see what you mean ... Yes, I suppose it is, what with all those channels and repeats and incomprehensible cookery programmes. It’s terrible.’

‘What kind of terrier?’

‘No, listen.’ I raise my voice even more. ‘Does the licence cover Sky?’

‘Skye, Border, West Highland, all of them.’

‘I don’t want a dog licence. I’ve already got a dog licence.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘I want a TV licence.’

‘Right. Why didn’t you say? Make and model?’

‘It’s a Toshiba.’

‘A Toyota what?’

I run out screaming.

Twenty minutes later we are sitting in a line on the sea wall eating ice creams. I am in the centre with a cornet in each hand, Weggie licking the one in my right hand.

‘Lookee thisee way, pease.’

A gaggle of Japanese tourists are bunched in the middle of the promenade, pointing cameras at us.

‘Velly funnee, dogee eatee icekeam.’

By now, Weggie is thrusting his tongue inside to scoop out the remainder.

‘Eat the cornet, dummy,’ I hiss at him. ‘It’s only biscuit.’

Weggie starts to get frustrated. My right hand is going up and down with the force of his attentions like I am … you know … doing what I’m good at.

‘Maybe it tastes of sprouts,’ Nunky suggests.

I pull my hand away. The big pink tongue follows. Cameras whir.

‘Weggie, look,’ I say. ‘Watch.’

I bite the bottom off the cornet and chew. ‘Yum, yum.’

Weggie licks the melting ice cream oozing through the hole, goes back to pushing more through from the top and then back to the bottom. The wafer is now so covered in dog spit it disintegrates in my hand, smearing the rest of the white stuff over my palm. I try to pull my hand away as the relentless pink sponge follows. I overbalance and fall backwards over the seawall, to a standing Japanese ovation. Luckily for my brittle bones, the beach is loose sand and not pebbles.

I retake my seat and try to recover my dignity by closely studying the shops along the seafront. I point at a gift shop called Nickel Trinkets. ‘Didn’t that used to be the Origami shop?’

‘Yes, mi babby, but it folded.’ Nunky then immediately comes out with another of his surprise announcements. ‘Weggie’s got his first termament this weekend.’

‘What’s a termament?’

‘The course is fifty-one feet long. Don’t ask me why. And there are four whatsits to jump over before the dog crashes head first into a box. A tennis ball pops out. The dog runs back to the start with the ball and the next dog does the same thing. It’s called flyball.’

‘So it’s a competition between dogs?’

‘In teams of four. We practice at the Leisure Centre. Weggie’s team is called the Huckleberry Hounds.’

‘Are they any good?’

‘I have no idea. It’s all a bit too hectic for me, but they don’t half get worked up about it. The people, I mean, not the dogs. They just run up and down like they’ve got a firework up their bottom.’

‘How did you teach Weggie to fetch a ball?’

(I have noticed that Weggie’s collection of tennis balls and footballs are now showing signs of wear and tear, but he doesn’t seem interested in playing ball with me in the back garden.)

‘I didn’t. The trainer did.’

‘So how did this come about?’

‘I saw a poster outside which said it was fun and you said Weggie needs to have fun, so I took him inside and explained to Tinky Gnostrell-Hare and she said we’ll give Weggie a trial and it took a long time with him watching the others and the first time he ran down the course he smashed into the box and demolished it…’

By now he is out of breath and getting distressed. Weggie presses himself against him and noses his arm. He seems able to detect when Nunky is about to go off on one and that Nunky stroking him has a calming effect. I’ve noticed him doing the same thing at home, like when I got stressed about the cyanide. I realise there and then exactly what Healer Dai meant. Though vicious and badly-abused, Weggie does have love in his heart and the unselfish power to heal. I place my hand over my face to hide the tears in case of any lingering Japanese paparazzi, but forget it is still covered in ice cream, sand grains, mushy wafer and dog spit.

Nunky regains his breath, smiles at the mess on my face and continues to rub his hand along Weggie’s spine. ‘Weggie, kiss mi babby,’ he orders.

Whilst Weggie “cleans my plate” and I futilely try to fend him off, Nunky continues. ‘It took more than a week of practice before he was able to run with the team and not smash the box to smithereens.’

‘He gets on okay with the other dogs?’

‘Tinky Gnostrell-Hare says Weggie is a fierce competitor and is the team’s dominant male.’

‘Am I allowed to come to this tournament?’

‘Weggie says he doesn’t mind, but you have to promise me you won’t laugh.’

‘Okay, I promise. Why shouldn’t I laugh?’

He lowers his voice. ‘Tinky’s got blue hair.’