A Stroll in the Park

Norbert

Chapter 32

A Stroll in the Park

There must be a scientific word or phrase for it. You know, when things happen which remind you of past events. In this case the burglary, reminding me of my sins, that I am a bad person and should be caught and punished. I cannot, therefore, allow Weggie to get away with his crime. 

He deposits the charity box in my bedroom. I mean his bedroom. My intention is to take it to the police and explain. But Weggie is known to the police, he’ll be on their computer. He would go down for a long stretch, or even be put down. Nunky would never forgive me. I would never forgive me. But more importantly, when I try to pick it up, Weggie bares his fangs and growls, which is another crime – demanding money with menaces. 

I decide rehabilitation is the answer to Weggie’s problem. Like me, the boy needs a hobby to take his mind off crime.

We take him to the big park on Sunday afternoon, the one near the seafront with the boating lake and the bandstand and the big glass thingy full of plants from hot countries like Lithumania. I like going to the big park as it is usually full of ladies with erect nipples jogging in sports bras. Today, though, it is full of men in fancy dress and quite a few more in drag. Macarbrough Cricket Club is playing at home.

(Let me explain. A few years ago, on a busy summer’s day when the green was full, a group of women were more or less ordered to abandon a game of bowls as a male foursome wished to play. An argument ensued, during which the greenkeeper said: ‘Shouldn’t you ladies be at home having babies?’ The women, aged between 77 and 83, complained to the press. In an effort to mollify the subsequent outcry, the council launched a scheme of reduced price admission or membership for females at various sporting facilities and events, under the dubious banner of “Bring the Wife”. For a time it increased the gate at Macarbrough City, currently languishing in the third tier of English football, but led to chants like “You only sing when you’re knitting” from away supporters. Trouble flared at Macarbrough Cricket Club’s next home match when men married to men were refused half-price admission. The council argued that only wives in the female sense were allowed the discount. At the next home match, having alerted the media, many partners turned up in full drag. The stewards wisely let the “ladies” in half-price. MCC were the first in the country to support cross-dressing and reduced-price admission for male spouses and partners. The tradition grew in popularity, spread nationwide to include fancy dress and has continued ever since.)

Nunky is clearly nervous and on edge. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ I say. ‘They won’t hurt you. Dressing up in women’s clothes is traditional at cricket matches.’

‘I’m used to seeing the cricket commentators wearing dresses on the telly, mi babby. Beefy looks a pillock, but Fumble looks cute. It’s not them I’m worried about.’

‘I’ve always wondered. Why do they call the funny one Fumble?’

‘When he fielded for Lancashire he couldn’t catch for coffee.’

‘I believe the word is toffee.’

‘That’s what I didn’t say.’

‘I know.’

‘So why are you contradicting me?’

‘Because… Hang on a minute. Are you shining at the moment?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, mi babby.’

‘So what are you worried about?’

‘Every time Weggie brings me here, we get into trouble.’

‘Got you,’ I say, triumphantly. ’You’ve just admitted you take Weggie out on your own.’

‘No, mi babby, he leads me to the big park. If I was leading, we’d end up in the same place every time.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘The petrol station, where do you think?’

I let out a groan.

‘By following Weggie, he takes me to loads of new places, like the big park.’

‘He hasn’t taken you to the Hardfist estate, I hope?’

‘That would be in breach of his restraining order.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Who’s the solicitor here, mi babby, you or me?’

His light is definitely shining today. ‘Point taken, Nunky, I’m sorry.’

Just to rub it in, we pass a newsagent which still has the local newspaper billboard outside from Friday: “City centre charity box robbery. Money still missing.”

‘Why would anyone do that?’

I glare at Weggie. ‘I don’t know, it’s criminal.’

‘I wonder if the police have got any leads,’ says Nunky, ironically clipping the culprit on his, as we pause to cross a busy road.

‘If they have, I guarantee they’re barking up the wrong tree.’

As soon as we enter the park, a keeper strides towards us.

‘Oh no,’ says Nunky. ‘It’s that nasty man again.’

‘Are you with this old fool?’ the park keeper demands of me.

‘He’s my uncle,’ I say. ‘And he isn’t a fool, he’s special.’

‘Can you read?’

‘Of course I can read.’

He points. ‘What does that say?’

‘Dogs must be kept on a lead, and he is…’

Nunky has wandered off the tarmac. The park keeper points to the sign Weggie is weeing on. ‘And that one?’

‘Please keep off the grass. We have an identical sign in Far Outpatients.’

‘That mangy mutt is a danger to children…’

‘He’s actually a danger to the entire human race, but…’

‘No he isn’t,’ says Nunky, rejoining us. ‘Weggie, show the nasty man how friendly you can be.’

Weggie rears up and places his front paws on the park keeper’s shoulders. The man whimpers and expels a large amount of anal wind. Weggie removes his peaked cap, drops to the ground and tears it to shreds. The park keeper runs away.

‘I take it this has happened before?’

‘So many rules and regulations. You mustn’t do this, you mustn’t do that. I bag his poo, I’m damned if I’m bottling his wee.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t like Weggie tiddling on the flowers?’

‘He tiddles on our flowers and they seem to do all right.’

‘Our flowers are weeds.’

We reach the boating lake. ‘Nunky, we are not leaving until Weggie learns to retrieve a stick from the water.’

‘What is the point of that?’

I open my mouth and close it, stumped by the logic. Luckily, there is a woman fifty yards away throwing sticks into the water for her enthusiastic Springer spaniel to retrieve. ‘It’s fun. See?’

‘Would you do it, mi babby?’

‘I’m not a dog. And anyway, I can’t swim.’

‘You can’t swim?’

‘Keep your voice down. I am medically unfit. Immerse me in water and like a battery I’m pretty sure I would cease to function.’

‘What if Weggie can’t swim?’

‘It’s instinctive for dogs to swim. They’re not intelligent enough to know it’s dangerous. Look, I’ll show you.’ I pick up a stick and throw it in the water. ‘Fetch, boy.’ Weggie takes not a blind bit of notice. ‘I think he’s been cooped up for so long he’s forgotten what fun is.’

‘It’s horse-shoes for course-yous,’ says Nunky. ‘Weggie’s idea of fun is destroying hats and staring at people until they pee their pants.’

We draw level with the woman and her dog. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘but would you mind throwing the stick in again so our dog can watch and try and get the hang of it?’

The woman looks at Weggie. ‘He doesn’t know how to fetch a stick, or how to swim?’

‘He’s just come out of prison,’ says Nunky.

‘What for?’

‘Cannibalism.’

The woman backs away.

‘Take no notice of my uncle, he’s joking.’

Nunky stands astride Weggie and points his head in the right direction whilst the spaniel is put through his paces. We then have to pause to let a rowing boat pass. I throw in a stick and command Weggie to fetch. He doesn’t budge. The woman sends her dog in again with Weggie looking on. Then we have to wait a few more minutes for a couple of canoes to paddle by, before trying again, with the same result. I am surprised there are so many vessels out on the lake, as the boatshed burnt down two weeks ago. It said in the paper the fire was accidental, but I’m not so sure, because you know what they say. You can’t have your kayak and heat it.

‘Perhaps you should retrieve one,’ the woman says to me.

‘He can’t swim,’ says Nunky. ‘His batteries don’t work in water.’

‘I’ve got allergies,’ I explain to the spaniel, which is giving me a look of contempt.

To cover the embarrassment, I pick up another stick and hurl it into the lake without looking. ‘Fetch, Weggie.’

‘Oi, you miserable little skank, watch what the hell you’re doing.’

The stick has flown over a rowing boat about fifteen yards out, manned by a young courting couple. ‘Sorry,’ I shout.

The spaniel plunges into the lake, followed by Weggie. The splashes from his forepaws resemble machine gun bullets hammering into the water. His swimming style is ungainly to say the least. Having lost sight of the stick, the spaniel stops and returns to shore, but Weggie ploughs on towards the boat. Nunky shouts: ‘Round the back. Round the back,’ and twirls round in circles, reminding me of Louie. (See, the past event thing just happened again.)

Alerted by the shouting, the young man stops rowing and points an oar menacingly and protectively at the advancing torpedo.

‘Oh tickle,’ I shout, as dog and boat collide.

There are screams from the violently rocking boat and gasps from the shore. The spaniel lies down and covers its eyes with its floppy wet ears. Nunky throws himself into my arms, wailing, and completely blocks my view. By the time I have extricated myself, Weggie is standing at the water’s edge with an oar in his mouth. I have never seen such a smug look on anyone’s face, human or canine.

Nunky sinks to his knees and starts to cry. ‘Look, mi babby, for the first time ever Weggie is wagging his tail. That means he’s happy. Which means Nunky is happy.’

I don’t need to collapse to my knees to hug Nunky, so I just bend down a little and pat him on the back. Two happy souls out of three isn’t bad, I suppose.

‘Come on, Whiskey Jack,’ says the woman. ‘Let’s get out of here before anyone mistakes us for a family. These grannyticklers are nutters.’