D. Connell - Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

I made a mental note of the advertisement and set off again, walking briskly and swinging my arms to chest height to maximise cardiovascular activity. This is called power-walking and is very popular in Australia, a country renowned for sports enthusiasm and Rolf Harris.

My head was down as I entered the rose gardens and I did not see the man in the fuchsia trench coat coming the other way. We collided with considerable momentum, which is the sum of mass times velocity. He let out a high-pitched ‘Oh!’ His tiny dog started barking. It was a sharp, ear-piercing sound.

‘I beg your pardon!’ I said.

‘O-là-là.’ He wheezed and grabbed the gatepost. The dog stopped barking and sniffed his master’s ankle.

‘I hope I didn’t injure you. I was power-walking at high speed and hit you with considerable momentum.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I’m quite accustomed to brutality.’

He released his grip on the gatepost and as I reached out to steady him, I noticed his face was dusted with beige powder. It is not unusual for male actors to wear stage makeup but there was no theatre in the rose gardens, not even a bandstand for outdoor musical performances. I had never seen a man so made up in a public setting. His lips were cherry red and his eyelashes were thick and dark.

‘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.