Nunky

Norbert

Chapter 8

Nunky

When Nunky comes into my bedroom and sits in the chair, clutching Barry Pigwart-Potter and the Philanderers Store by J.K. Rolling-Pinn, he is close to tears.

‘Mi babby, mi babby, I’m so sorry. Nunky didn’t mean to tread on your glasses.’

I’m not sure what my uncle has, other than it is insidious and degenerative. It’s like he’s living in patchy fog, sometimes visible, lucid and insightful, but most of the time obscure and muddled. He was a solicitor with a firm called Norfolk & Good in Macarbrough when I first came to live here at age ten, but he hasn’t been able to work for nine years. Seeing him every day one barely notices the decline. Auntie blames me.

What makes it more upsetting is that Nunky still has the stature and bearing of a man of importance: a handsome kindly face and neat greying hair. Dress him in a suit and you’d be none the wiser. It’s such a shame.

‘What? Oh … yes … my glasses. Don’t worry, Nunky, you’re not to blame. If only I had a nightstand to put them on.’

‘Nunky will buy his babby some new ones tomorrow, I promise.’

‘Nunky, it’s not that simple. They’re prescription lenses, for my eyes only.’

Nunky rises an inch or two out of his seat in excitement. ‘James Dubblow-Bond. I’ll read it to you next. I keep a copy in the sink.’

‘I love those books. Have you got any more?’

‘Yes, mi babby, the one about harvesting shrimp, but I can’t remember what it’s called.’

‘Licence to Krill?’

‘That’s the one.’

I lie back against my pillow and sigh. ‘Auntie said I will have to make do with my old pair, but my eyesight is deteriorating faster than unfridged milk. If you do have some spare money, Nunky, I can make an appointment with the optician.’

‘You’d risk going behind her back?’

‘Behind her back is the best place to be. It’s about time I stood up for myself.’

‘Big words, mi babby. Big words.’

Nunky is right. I look round my room. Instead of posters of vintage farm tractors, my walls are covered in framed crocheted notices, hand sown by Auntie. Biblical quotes I could live with, but mine say: “Lights out at 10.30” “Do not open the window” “Heat and light costs money” “Consumption of food is prohibited” “Have you cleaned your teeth?” and “Masturbation is evil”.

Nunky pulls a leather purse from his pocket and empties its contents on to the bed. I separate the bank notes from the old bus tickets and post-its written by Auntie to remind him to do important things like check he is wearing trousers when he leaves the house. I cover my left eye with the notes. ‘This is only enough for one eye, Nunky. Babby needs more.’

‘I’ll get the money from the old witch somehow.’

(Let me explain. Though I have a well-paid job, a bank and savings account, Auntie does not allow me access to any of my money. The same applies to Nunky. She controls our purse strings. I am given weekly pocket money, as I have been since I was a child, enough to cover my daily expenses and minor purchases like the headtorch. Anything expensive, like new shoes, clothes or spectacles, Auntie accompanies me to the shops, chooses for me and pays. She reminds me constantly of the great debt I owe her, the sacrifices she has made to look after me and what a disappointment I have been. “God decided I couldn’t have children of my own, so the Devil gave me you,” is how she puts it.) 

Nunky opens the book, removes the bookmark (a lettuce leaf) and reads aloud.

His problem has so far not affected his ability to read, though how much sinks in I don’t know. Out loud he reads articulately and with passion, quickly becoming engrossed in the story. Whenever the tension or excitement mounts he speeds up, forgets to breathe, turns red and swoons. During one interval of recuperation, I interrupt.

‘I’m sorry, Nunky, but I have to tell you about tomorrow.’

‘Nunky knows. Money for other eye.’

‘No, I mean at work. I’m so excited. I’m doing a post-coital.’

‘Give it to me, mi babby. I can post it for you.’

‘It’s a test.’

‘I’m ready. Fire away.’

‘Not a quiz, a lab procedure.’

‘Sounds serious.’

Nunky prepares to close the book, hesitates and then looks down at the floor either side of his chair. ‘Have you seen mi bookmark, mi babby?’

‘You just ate it.’

‘I ate mi bookmark?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘How very odd.’ He folds over the top corner of the page and holds the book in his lap. ‘I’m all eyes.’

‘You’re all ears.’

‘Am I?’

‘Never mind.’ I pause to make sure I have his full attention (normally anything from 5 to 50%). ‘Nunky, I have to be at work an hour early in the morning to help Doctor Kneale-Down with a post-coital examination.’

‘Can he not pass it without your help?’

‘No,’ I say with a sigh. ‘He can’t.’

‘And mi babby needs an early breakfast?’

‘Well, yes, but I was also hoping for some fatherly advice.’

‘Mi babby. Mi babby.’

Nunky is close to tears again.

‘You see, Nunky, I’ve never seen one before.’

‘Don’t be silly, mi babby, you’ve seen hundreds of breakfasts. You have one every morning.’

‘I’m talking about what I’m hoping to see tomorrow, during the procedure.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean, mi babby. Have I ever seen one?’

‘You must have seen Auntie’s, surely?’

‘Yes, I think I have. From what I remember it’s green and with a frilly border.’

I sigh. ‘Maybe you’ve got some pictures you could show me? You know, under the bed.’

‘Most of them are on the piano. No need to crawl under the furniture.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of family portraits. More, you know, of an intimate nature.’

Nunky stands up abruptly. ‘If this conversation is going where I think it’s going, we’ll need cocoa.’

He’s back two minutes later with two glasses of milk.

I take a sip. ‘Mine’s a bit weak.’

He tastes his. ‘That’s lovely and chocolaty, mi babby, and not too warm. Just the way Nunky likes it.’ He takes another drink. ‘So tell me, what does this test involve?’

‘The woman is ovulating at the moment, but having difficulty getting pregnant.’

‘Is there any wonder, mi babby?’ says Nunky, swinging wildly from side to side and spilling his cocoa.

‘No, Nunky, she’s ovulating, not oscillating. It’s her time of the month.’

‘Like when Auntie hits us?’

‘That’s right. She has to have sex and then be at the hospital within an hour for the test.’

Nunky gasps. ‘Oh bother, do I have to?’

‘No, Nunky, not Auntie, the patient.’

‘Thank God for that. I’m not a morning person.’ He leans back and wipes the sleeve of his cardigan across his brow. ‘What happens then?’

‘The doctor extracts some of her mucus and I examine the tadpoles under a microscope.’

Nunky looks at me aghast. ‘He diddles her up the nose? No wonder she can’t get pregnant.’

‘You find mucus in most cavities of the human body, not just the nose.’

‘Are you sure? When you trump you don’t get phlegm in your pants, do you?’

‘This is cervical mucus, what the sperms have to swim through to reach the egg.’

‘Sounds like a TV game show, if you ask me.’

‘You’re right, Nunky. Only one can win the star prize.’

‘Well, that’s settled then.’ He stands. ‘I’m glad I could have been of help. Now finish your cocoa and go to sleep. You have an early start in the morning. Nunky will cook you black pudding and a runny egg. Good night, mi babby, sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite.’

(It took several years to convince me this was a meaningless saying. When Auntie came into my room to tuck me in during the first two years when I was at my most vulnerable, still crying myself to sleep and wetting the bed and having nightmares about the accident, she said exactly the same thing, but with deadly menace, insisting my mattress was infested with a plague of tiny dormant insects just waiting to be woken by urine so they could eat me alive. As I have always suffered from boils, warts, psoriasis and impetigo, I had no reason to believe she was lying.)

Nunky takes my glass, kisses my forehead and leaves.