Sherry Cracker Gets Normal. D. Connell J.
town planner, the Right Hon. Eric Rogerson. It was the town planner’s idea to consolidate industry along the road and start the Blue Line bus service to and from the area. This period in the town’s history is known as the Reconstruction Years. The mayor is wearing a large ceremonial chain in the photo and has his hand resting on the Right Hon. Rogerson’s shoulder. His fingers are small and look like miniature party sausages.
Many of the factories had already closed by the time I was born. As a child I would sit at the window and watch the last of the workers as they headed to the bus stop each morning. They wore rough woollen clothes and walked with their heads down, carrying lunch boxes and thermos flasks. As I grew up, I saw fewer and fewer of them. Some bought popular cars like Honda Civics and did not use the bus service any more but most were eventually laid off as the factories closed down. People like my mother blamed the recession on the European Union, particularly on the French. Others said it was Margaret Thatcher’s fault. These days, people blame bankers and many say the Chinese are the cause of Britain’s problems. They argue that if Chinese labour was not so cheap, industry would not have relocated. I think we should not blame the Chinese. It cannot be pleasant to sew handbags for a few pence a day. Here in Britain you cannot even buy a sandwich for less than a pound.
Most of the former factories along Industry Drive have now been converted into warehouses for imported products, which is something I do not understand. Britain is rich by world standards but does not produce or export much of anything any more except weapons, of which it produces quite a lot. It is a surprising fact that the United Kingdom is one of the world’s top arms exporters. How can Britain buy so many products from other countries when it does not have much to sell except armaments? This goes against the supply and demand principle of capitalism, a popular socioeconomic system based upon the ruthless control of the means of production.
Mr Tanderhill’s house was wedged between two former factories. One had been converted into a carpet showroom while the other appeared to be a storage facility. Many of this warehouse’s windows had been broken and wooden pallets were strewn over the pavement outside its large double doors. On the side of the building someone had used green chalk to write ‘TRUST’ in large capital letters. This was an unusual message to leave on a wall and I paused to consider its meaning. I was still considering when a loud noise sent a shiver up my legs to my sacrum, which is the triangular-shaped bone at the base of the spine. Somewhere inside the warehouse, a chainsaw had been started.
I quickly entered the gate of the bungalow. To get to the front door, I had to walk around a yellow Ford Escort without wheels. The car was sitting on blocks with its windows open. Someone had painted ‘FOR SALE’ on the windscreen from inside so it read back to front. The lawn had not been mown for a long time and was littered with things like old shoes and food wrappers. There were several wine bottles on the front steps.
The doorbell had a small chrome arm. I pulled it but did not hear a ding. I tried knocking but my knuckles produced only a dull sound on the door’s wooden panel. I picked up an empty bottle of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon and used it to pound the door several times. The sound was loud and had an immediate effect. I heard running from inside. The door was yanked open.
A tall man appeared in the doorway. He looked at me, blinking. ‘What?’ he said. His manner was unfriendly.
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Mr Tanderhill?’
He nodded and then seemed to think better of it and shook his head. His eyes were large and bulbous, which made me wonder about the condition of his thyroid gland. I might have become preoccupied with this gland if I had not noticed another unusual facial feature. The area between his top lip and nose was expansive and made me think of Robert Mugabe. I took a step back and realised the man was dressed in a blue towelling bathrobe open in a V at the chest. My mother would have described the hair on his chest as a ‘thatch’. She believed that hair on a man was a sign of virility and was partial to Portuguese men for this very reason. It was her opinion that hairy men have classic good looks. I am not sure that I agree but body hair must be a comfort in winter.
‘I don’t live here,’ he finally said.
‘I’ve come for my treatment.’
‘Treatment?’ His expression changed. He glanced at a large gold watch on his wrist. ‘But you’re an hour early.’
‘Correct.’
‘I’m in the middle of a business meeting.’ He hesitated, noticing me glance at his bathrobe. ‘It’s a conference call. I’m an internationally busy man. You’ll have to wait in the vestibule until I’ve finished my affairs.’
I was led into the entrance hall and told to sit on a guest stool, which was a wooden box with several newspapers on top. Mr Tanderhill went out another door at the far end, leaving me alone in the dark. The hall was narrow and in the gloom I vaguely made out several other boxes and belongings stacked along the opposite wall. From the far end, I heard a door shut and then silence, and then the flush of a toilet. This was followed by footsteps, which moved in an arc to the room behind my back. I heard movement, a click and then a bang. It sounded as if furniture was being rearranged.
Five minutes later, a door opened to my right. Mr Tanderhill appeared with his hands in prayer and said, ‘Namaste’, which is a word derived from Sanskrit and a popular salutation among practitioners of yoga. He was dressed in a wrinkled grey Indian caftan with matching trousers. The grey did nothing to flatter his complexion, which had the puckers and dull veneer of a smoker. I averted my gaze and found myself looking at his feet. These were clad in sandals and on each of his toes was a bristling tuft of hair. Noting my interest in his appearance, he patted his chest.
‘I’m an Indian and a Hindu. This is my garb.’
I am no expert on the people and religions of the Indian subcontinent but Mr Tanderhill did not look like someone from that part of the world. His skin was pink and his eyes were murky blue. What was left of the hair on his head was sandy with grey around his ears. He did not speak with an Indian accent.
He tightened his lips in a determined, businesslike way. ‘Kindly follow me to the therapy room.’
I was waved into what must have originally been the house’s living room. It was furnished with a brown couch, a wooden chair and a battered vinyl massage table. There was nothing on the walls and no curtains. The room smelled of human beings and mentholated cigarettes. All the windows were closed. Outside I could see the Ford Escort and the warehouse wall with the graffiti. The car was not an attractive sight but it did block the view from the street, which was of some comfort to me. The couch rolled back and clicked as I sat down. Something blue was sticking out from under its base. It looked like towelling.
Mr Tanderhill remained standing with his hands behind his back. He bent in my direction and opened his eyes wide, revealing his irises in their murky entirety. I took this to be the look of a professional hypnotherapist and reminded myself that I had come to him with a purpose. My bad habits were interfering with my work. Something had to be done about them.
‘Tell me about yourself.’ He moved his hands forwards and up the sides of his legs as if drawing pistols from holsters. He pointed his index fingers at me. ‘Clear the air. Purge your chakras.’
‘I did already on the phone.’
‘It’s natural to feel embarrassed.’
‘I’m not embarrassed. I’ve come here because of Mr Chin.’
‘I bet you have.’ Mr Tanderhill smiled and closed his eyes, rubbing his hands together several times. He said, ‘Hmm, hmm, hmm,’ and then fell silent. He remained standing with his eyes closed, swaying on the balls of his feet for a full minute.
I coughed and his eyes flicked open.
‘Climb on to the massage table. We’ll get to the bottom of this Chin business.’
‘I don’t want a massage. I’ve come for hypnotherapy.’
‘I know that! I’m a certified professional. Royal Academy.’ He rolled his eyes impatiently and pointed to the table. ‘If you would