Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

‘You spoke to me the other day.’ I removed my hand from under his arm as he righted himself. ‘You said time was like a fowl.’

‘So I did.’

I nodded and waited for him to continue.

‘Time is an elusive bird, my dear. I have less of it every day.’ He coughed in a delicate way, using a floral handkerchief to cover his mouth.

‘Do you suffer from lung cancer?’

‘Not yet.’ He rummaged in a trouser pocket and removed a bag of old-fashioned sweets. They were hard-boiled Everton Mints with black and white stripes. He held out the bag and shook one into my hand. ‘I’m an alcoholic.’

‘I’ve not observed you drinking.’ I did not bother to add that I had seen plenty of other people doing so in the gardens. I put a mint in my mouth and tasted peppermint and pocket dust. My nasal passages cleared with a crackle.

‘Good to know I’m not at it behind my back. I’ve been on the wagon for a week. That’s seven days for a normal person but about three years for an alcoholic.’ He put two sweets in his mouth, clicking them against his teeth with his tongue. He noticed me looking. ‘The sugar, my dear. It’s one of the few thrills left to me since the doctor gave me my orders. No alcohol. No stimulation. Fresh air, moderate exercise and plenty of sleep. I’ve been advised not to get myself worked up. Excitement, apparently, can drive the vulnerable back to the bottle.’ He held out his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

I shook his hand, which was soft and warm. ‘My name’s Sherry.’

‘Makes my mouth water.’

‘Sherry Cracker.’

‘You must have suffered every Christmas.’

‘I have never celebrated Christmas but it is on my To Do list.’

‘Worth it for the tinsel if nothing else.’ He smiled. ‘I’m Jocelyn.’

This was an unusual name for a man but as I was rapidly realising, Jocelyn was an unusual person. He was polite and spoke in a gentle, reassuring way. Alcoholism is known to afflict sensitive people and often those with artistic tendencies. Francis Bacon was an alcoholic. So was Tennessee Williams. Jocelyn certainly looked like he had an artistic personality. His clothes were brightly coloured and styled for a much younger man or woman. The fuchsia trench coat was over-stitched in orange and had large mother-of-pearl buttons. His shoes were black suede and his trousers were made of a shiny blue-black material. Knotted around his neck was a turquoise silk scarf. These vibrant clothes combined with the soft grey hair he wore tucked behind his ears created the effect of a Roman Catholic cardinal on holiday. Perhaps it was his ecclesiastical appearance that loosened my tongue. As he strolled back into the gardens with me, I found myself confessing my fear of unemployment and explaining my lack of social skills.

‘My problem is that I feel isolated, as though I were suspended over human society in a Perspex pod.’

‘How novel!’ Jocelyn laughed a small tinkly laugh. The powder on his cheeks was thick and made the skin crinkle like crepe paper. ‘I have difficulty picturing you in a pod, my dear, but I do find those tartan trousers rather dashing.’

I felt heat rise in my cheeks as we sat down on a bench. No one had ever said anything complimentary to me before. ‘You have a very agreeable temperament for someone your age.’

‘Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment.’ He removed a rolled-up copy of the Cockerel from his coat pocket and opened it to page three, which was not difficult because the newspaper only had four pages. ‘Shall we check our stars?’

I nodded and thought of Mr Chin’s suggestion of an astrologer as Jocelyn read his horoscope.

‘Apparently I’m going to meet a stranger.’ His powdered cheeks crinkled again. ‘Someone tall and dark.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘At this point, it would be a godsend. What sign are you?’

‘Sagittarius.’

‘How wonderful. You’re also going to meet a tall and dark stranger.’ He laughed and held the page open for me to read.

The column was called ‘Astral Acorns’ and was written by Andromeda Mountjoy, world-renowned stargazer and lunar minstrel. The horoscope for Sagittarius had a frame around it and a title, ‘Nut of the Day’. It was short, half the length of the other star forecasts: ‘Think tall, dark and strange. You’re in for the ride of your life!’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t either, dear, but it does sound exciting. I do find his tall, dark strangers rather thrilling.’

He adjusted the scarf around his neck and beckoned his dog. As he pushed himself to his feet, I found myself wanting to delay him and extend our discourse. I stood, trying to think of an engaging conversation topic but my mind was blank. I had no repertoire and did not know the first thing about small talk.

‘Do you think we could meet again?’

I was not in the habit of asking such questions because I have learned that people generally do not want to meet me more than once. But Jocelyn had allowed me to finish my sentences and had even addressed me as ‘my dear’. My mother never called me by my name, let alone by a term of affection.

‘Mais bien sûr.’ He slid the paper back into his pocket and picked up his dog, tucking it under his arm like a clutch purse. ‘I’m often here. The fresh air keeps me out of the gin bottle.’

I watched him stroll out of the gardens and realised I was feeling lighter, as if I had been relieved of a heavy suitcase or bag of groceries. The lightness had something to do with optimism and I wondered how best to maintain this feeling as I sat down to consider the task before me. Mr Chin had set a goal and given me the means to achieve it. I had to remain positive and keep my eye on the ball. This strategy is called positive thinking and is very helpful for running corporations and battling terminal illnesses.

‘Birdy, birdy, birdy. Ho, ho, ho.’

I sat up straight at the sound of the melodious baritone and saw a tall, dark man heading towards the gate. He was dressed in loose, colourful clothing and walked in a free, relaxed manner. On his head was a hat shaped like a Pope’s mitre, which added another foot to his height. He glanced at me before leaving the gardens and made a fluttering gesture with his hands.

I was wondering what this could mean when I noticed new chalk graffiti on the wall behind the CCTV camera: ‘TAKE COURAGE. THERE IS GOOD AS WELL AS EVIL.’ I was making a mental note of this message for my OBSERVATIONS ring binder when I realised that the lens of the CCTV camera had been masked with duct tape.

Strange!

This was the sixth masked camera I had seen in a week.

6

Saturday afternoon began in a damp way with light drizzle that eased off as I power-walked towards the centre of town. I reached the high street and was moving swiftly past Quality Pies and Confectionaries when a campaign poster caught my eye. I stopped and took a new notebook out of my bag.

The windows of Quality Pies and Confectionaries were boarded up and pasted over with layers of advertising and posters but in its heyday, the bakery was renowned for its ‘Pie of the Day’ specials and ‘fine English baked goods’. The shop had been a favourite of my mother’s who liked to buy herself a celebratory Victoria sponge every benefit day. This she ate from her armchair with a tea towel spread over her knee and a glass of port at her elbow.

The campaign poster was printed on matt, off-white paper with a small horizontal note along the lower right edge: ‘Made from 100% recycled paper.’ The photo was of a man in his forties dressed in a safari shirt done up at the neck. In his breast pocket was a pen and pencil. He was wearing wire-framed glasses and his hair was parted on the side in a three-to-seven ratio, which is considered the ideal hair parting among Japanese businessmen. But Warren Crumpet was not Japanese or a businessman. He was an organic farmer and member of the British Soil Association who was promising to clean up council corruption and put the town’s finances back in the black. One of his more progressive ideas was to turn unused council land into market gardens and grow organic vegetables for commercial sale. His ‘Go Organic’ initiative would employ and retrain local residents and generate income for municipal projects. The poster’s message was simple: ‘Warren Crumpet for Mayor – Because Honesty Is the Best Policy.’ The first thing he had vowed to do if elected was to halve the mayor’s salary.

Mr Crumpet’s political platform made complete sense to me but clearly he had at least one detractor. Someone had defaced the poster with a thick black marker, drawing crude women’s breasts over the pockets of his safari shirt. ‘Tofu eater’ had been scribbled around his head like a halo or crown of thorns. The destruction of campaign advertising was a crime but I had yet to find an undamaged poster of Warren Crumpet.

When I reached the address of Bijou Poulet Psy Dram, I had to remind myself to remain positive. Her office was located in a dilapidated building above a fish and chip shop called the Sea Breeze. This was not a very prestigious location for a psychological expert. The white paint was peeling on the front door and litter had collected in the doorway. The handwritten card next to the buzzer read: POULET Psy Dram Therapeutic Chambers. As I held my finger down on the plastic button I noticed that someone had scratched ‘ITCH’ into the paintwork. The intercom crackled and a woman’s voice shouted, ‘Enough already!’

The door clicked and I climbed the stairs to a scuffed carpeted landing. There I found a second door. This had a peephole and a large framed photograph of a popular American actress. The photo had a caption in gold lettering, ‘Jodie Foster, Hollywood Screen Legend, Etcetera.’

The door opened and Bijou Poulet beckoned me inside. Her nails were long and made me think of the empress dowager Cixi who reigned over China for several decades and earned a reputation as a ruthless tyrant and dog lover. One of Cixi’s diplomatic initiatives was to give away toy dogs as gifts and she once bestowed a Pekinese on the daughter of American President Theodore Roosevelt.

Bijou Poulet was a stout woman with wide shoulders, chest and pelvic girdle. Her hair was very blonde except near the scalp where it was dark and streaked with grey. She was dressed as if for a French cabaret in a ruffled blue synthetic gown and silver shoes with very high heels. Around her neck was a glittery necklace with several of its paste gems missing. She did not appear to be American and I could not tell if she was Jewish but she did have a lot of framed documents on her walls. I could not read their contents but they appeared to have the seals and swirling signatures of academic diplomas. The qualifications would have pleased Mr Chin, who believed in getting ‘bang for buck’.

Bijou Poulet announced that a half-hour session would cost thirty pounds. I was asked to pay upfront before being led to a reclining sofa.

‘Remove your shoes and stretch out,’ she said, putting on reading glasses.

‘Can I keep my clothes on?’ I asked.