Lunch Club

Norbert

Chapter 33

Lunch Club

Once a year Nunky’s Lunch Club holds a summer Bring and Buy sale to raise funds. Friends and relatives are invited to join them for lunch, after which the members provide entertainment. If the weather is fine, the cake stall, the secondhand book stall, the awful and useless Christmas presents stall, the gadgets replaced with newer models stall and the clothes that no longer fit stall are placed outdoors.

Nunky contributes the remainder of his books, including the whole Barry Pigwart-Potter series, which we have eventually finished. I hope I don’t have to explain to anyone that the green stains on some of the pages were caused by vegetable bookmarks, otherwise known as supper. He also donates anything associated with Auntie, like the purse she gave him, but it is mainly clothing, including his entire collection of ties. She made him wear one every day, even in the house. It was something for her to grab onto, to lead him round like a dog when he was slow to respond to an order. It’s like he is wiping away the last vestiges of her memory.

As the majority of the people are elderly and special, they are not expected to perform individually. They formed a choir and practiced before and after Lunch Club for several weeks under the guidance of the volunteers that help cook and serve the food. A few of the members did volunteer to perform solo, including Nunky. The problem was he refused to tell me what he would be doing. ‘It’s a secret, mi babby,’ was all I could get out of him. Since we’ve had Weggie, he’s started to sing around the house (he’s actually pretty good), but I’ve never seen him do anything you’d see on a stage. I was so worried I searched his room, the entire house, looking for clues. Found nothing out of the ordinary, if you can call a bird box and lichen-covered roof tile ordinary items found in a bedroom, so I resorted to my favourite and most successful ploy – cunning.

‘Nunky, I am on late shift tomorrow. Would it be possible for me to come to Lunch Club with you, save me having to cook?’

‘I don’t think so, mi babby. People too idle to make a sandwich are not allowed.’ (Despite his days in the light, I sometimes wonder if this being special malarkey is all a wind-up.) ‘Plus we can’t trust Weggie to be alone in the house yet.’

‘I didn’t like those curtains anyway.’

‘I just don’t think you’re special enough, mi babby.’

‘Only special people are allowed at Lunch Club?’

‘That’s what they say.’

‘Couldn’t I come along as a volunteer, then?’

He thinks about this. ‘Would you make pancakes?’

‘If they will let me, yes. Don’t you ever have pancakes?’

‘I asked, but Vera says only on one day a year and that’s in February which is a long way off. It’s a special day for special people, she says, and we have a race. We have to run and toss off before we can eat our pancakes.’

‘It’s toss up, as in out of the pan.’

‘I know that. I asked Vera if you could race in my place, because I know you’re good at it. Auntie was always saying that you are a prize tosser, and I want to win. But Vera says special people share equally, so everyone gets a pancake, not just the winner.’

‘Wise words from what sounds like a nice lady. I think I will come along and see if I can help.’

Whilst Nunky travels in the minibus, I go by the number 16 and then the 7A. Choir practice seems to have finished or not started, as everyone is sitting at tables playing games or talking. I ask Nunky to introduce me to Vera.

He looks up impatiently from his dominoes. ‘I can’t see her.’

‘Are you knocking?’ his opponent demands.

‘No I am not knocking,’ says Nunky, placing the three-two down on the end nearest.

‘But she is here today?’

‘She’s around somewhere.’

‘Are you knocking?’ his opponent again demands.

‘No I am not knocking.’ Nunky lays the double four.

‘Where should I look?’

Nunky points to the office.

‘Are you knocking?’

‘Yes,’ says Nunky.

‘Well, go on then.’

‘What?’

‘If you’re knocking, you have to knock. Them’s the rules.’

Nunky looks at his empty hands. ‘I’ve nothing to knock with.’

‘Flipping hell, now what do we do?’

‘If Nunky’s played all his dominoes, doesn’t that mean he’s won?’

They look at me like I am an idiot, turn over the dominoes and begin to shuffle.

The volunteers are also shuffling, back and forth from the kitchen to the serving area, carrying trays of steaming boiled potatoes and peas and carrots and a huge pie that smells like steak and kidney. I knock on the office door.

‘Enter.’

I am as shocked to see her as she is me. ‘Foultongue!’

‘Tickle our Lord!’

‘You’re Vera? You run this place?’

‘You got a problem with that, wankpot?’

‘Not at all. I’m just surprised.’

‘That I have a day job, as well?’

‘That you look after special people.’

The hostility drains from her face. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Hasn’t he told you? Nunky is my uncle.’

‘You’re “Mi babby”?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sit down.’

I pull up a chair.

She removes her glasses. ‘I repeat. Why are you here?’

‘I was going to ask if you need any more help, but the truth is I’m worried about what Nunky has volunteered to do next week. He won’t say.’

‘And we have to respect his wishes.’

‘Because he’s special?’

‘No. To annoy the shit out of you.’

I see the smile beginning to form at her lips and can’t help but attempt a smile in return. ‘Fair point, but I don’t want him to make a fool of himself.’

‘Special people do not embarrass easily. For them conquering the fear and getting through to the end of the performance without making a mistake is the triumph. The quality of the performance is relatively unimportant, as they know that little is expected of them. I think Nunky will do all right. Trust him.’

I climb out the chair. ‘Okay.’

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘I’m on late shift. I’ll no doubt see you later.’

‘There’s plenty of time. You say you want to volunteer. You just have. Go help the special people lay the tables.’

‘All right, I will.’

‘FL, KR, ST.’

‘Err … Right.’

When I enter the hall, all the games have been cleared away and the special people are grabbing handfuls of cutlery from the drawers. I snatch up a bundle and approach an unset table, being prepared by a youngish guy with Downs Syndrome.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m Norbert.’

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘I’m Timmy. I’ve never seen you before.’

‘It’s my first time.’

‘Have you been transferred from the secure unit?’

‘No,’ I say, mortified that he thinks I look like someone from a secure unit. ‘What’s FL, KR, ST stand for?’

‘Forks on the left, knives on the right, spoons at the top. Do you want me to show you?’

‘I’ll just watch you do the first one,’ I say, mortified that he thinks I look like someone who needs help laying a table.