Sherry Cracker Gets Normal. D. Connell J.
but pacing does not come naturally to me. If I like a place, I want to go there all the time. I would spend many more hours in the office if Mr Chin were not so strict.
Twice a week seems about right for Ted because he always raises his eyebrows and greets me with a familiar, ‘You again’. It is not often that I am recognised and greeted as a regular customer. Ted lets me spend as much time as I like in his café but insists I use a small table and buy at least one drink per hour. ‘House policy,’ he says.
This time, however, Ted did not give me his usual greeting. He looked at the boy beside me.
‘I’ve got my eye on you,’ he said.
‘Aren’t I the lucky one,’ replied Nigel. He winked.
‘Don’t try any funny business.’
The boy snorted. ‘A funny thing happened on the way to a funeral.’
‘That’s not funny!’ Ted pushed his large stomach against the counter and tapped its surface with a stubby finger. ‘The recently bereaved come in here.’
‘Did you hear the one about the bishop and the button mushroom?’
‘Watch your mouth! I’ll not have Roman Catholics offended. Buy something or get out.’
‘Keep your hair on, Teddy boy.’ Nigel pointed to me. ‘She’s buying me one of your fine teas.’
‘What the hell are you doing with this delinquent?’ Ted turned to me, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t think your sort had friends, especially not his sort.’
‘He’s not a friend,’ I said. ‘I’ve hired him to help me.’
‘I doubt he helps anyone but himself.’ Ted’s eyes shifted to Nigel and then back to me. ‘So, what will Her Ladyship be having?’
‘I’ll have one of your famous milk coffees and my employee will have a Coke and fairy cake with his tea.’
‘Fairy cake?’ Ted’s thin lips parted in a smile. It was a tight smile that did not reveal any teeth. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books.’
I used one of Mr Chin’s twenty-pound notes to pay the four pounds forty for the order before leading Nigel over to a table for two near the window. As I sat down, I noticed a message had been scratched into the glass with something hard like a diamond ring or glasscutter. Each letter of ‘Chantelle Corby Luvs it’ was made up of multiple scratches. Nigel sniggered at the graffiti.
‘Bet that pisses off old Ted,’ he said.
‘He doesn’t seem to like you,’ I replied, sliding the tray over to the boy. I removed the notebook from my bag and began noting down the graffiti.
‘He’s a prick.’
‘He’s always very welcoming to me.’
‘You call that a welcome?’ The boy took a bite of the cake and screwed up his nose. ‘This must be fifty years old. Probably crawling with salmonellera.’
‘Ted makes all his cakes and beverages by hand.’
‘I don’t want to know that.’ He frowned but kept eating.
‘He says that his coffee is superior to machine-made espresso and cappuccino.’ I took a sip of my instant coffee. It was tepid and weak, just how I liked it. ‘Ted says the steam jets of modern machines destroy the flavour of the beans and can lead to cancer.’
Nigel stopped chewing and frowned at me. ‘Are you really a wally or is this an act?’
‘Wally?’ I glanced over at Ted who was wiping a tabletop with a grey washcloth. ‘I prefer the coffee here. It’s light and remarkably thirst-quenching. Even more thirst-quenching than a glass of tap water. It doesn’t prevent me from sleeping at night.’
‘I bet it doesn’t.’
Ted’s café is one of the few places in town still furnished with a payphone. It is an old pink ring-dial model with a slot for coins. Around its base is a strip of brown tape with the words ‘FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY’ written in red marker. The phone is often in use and not always by customers. There are not many phone booths left in the town and it is often difficult to find one in working order.
I walked over and brought back the Yellow Pages. The phonebook was dog-eared and its cover had been defaced with doodles and swear words. I opened it at P and ran my eye over the page before sliding it across the table to Nigel, who was unscrewing the lid of the sugar dispenser.
‘I’d like you to choose a psychological expert from this list.’
‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’
‘Decision-making is difficult for me. I have a problem with choices.’
‘That’s not normal.’
‘Correct.’
‘You’ll be wasting your money. All those psychologicalists are pricks.’
I nudged the phonebook closer to the boy. ‘I need to see a therapist as soon as possible. I have no time to lose.’
Nigel finished pouring the contents of the salt container into the sugar dispenser and then screwed the lid back on. He looked up, pleased with himself. ‘You’d better pay me.’
‘Of course I’ll pay you! I’ve been given money to get normal by Monday. This afternoon tea and your salary are my first investments.’
‘Whatever.’ The boy shrugged and ran a finger down the listings, stopping at the name Poulet. He sniggered. ‘Here’s one for you. Pooh-let.’
‘Could you call and make an appointment?’ I did not bother to explain the challenges of telephony without the prompts and responses of the Honey Trap.
‘Give me your mobile.’ He held out his hand.
‘I don’t have one. It’s a personal policy.’
The boy frowned.
‘I don’t want to expose my body to unnecessary radiofrequency radiation. Testicular cancer poses no danger to me but I prefer not to take any risks with my brain.’
The boy shook his head but did as I asked. He was feeding coins into the phone when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Excuse me.’ It was the large man from the table behind me. He was wearing overalls with ‘Paradise Plumbing’ embroidered on the pocket. In front of him was an all-day breakfast and a mug of tea. ‘Love, pass me the sugar,’ he said. I did as I was asked but my attention was on Nigel who was talking into the phone.
The boy came back to the table, smiling. ‘Tomorrow at three o’clock.’ He pointed to the name in the phonebook. ‘Bijou Poulet Psy Dram.’
I was about to thank him when a dog started barking loudly behind me. I twisted in my seat again and found the plumber coughing violently over his mug of tea.
‘Give me the five quid, quick!’ Nigel was standing next to me with his hand out. ‘I’ve got to go.’
I had barely removed the banknote from my purse when it was snatched out of my hand. Before I could say anything, the boy was gone. The next thing I knew Ted was thumping the plumber on the back. Once the coughing fit had subsided, he gave the man a fresh cup of tea and a curled-up ham sandwich on a plate. ‘Compliments of the house,’ he said as he put the plate down in front of him. The plumber looked over at me and shook his head. Ted approached my table.
‘Did that little bastard just nick your money?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied.
My response did not please Ted who exhaled noisily through his nose. The sharp whistling sound made me wonder about the presence of hair inside his nostrils. Abundant nostril hair is not uncommon in men of a certain age. Quality chemists stock nose-grooming tools but I did not think Ted would appreciate this information. I have found