SCOTLAND ZEN and the art of SOCIAL WORK

by J.A. Skinner

  Chapter 14

  Monday 19th may

  People with Huntington's disease usually live for 15 to 20 years after the first symptoms develop.

  Mickey has called in after work to spend some time with me and the children. My brother is dangerously handsome, black curls, grey green eyes, tall, slim and has sometimes a sad smile, sometimes little boy cheeky smile, both which make you love him. I say dangerous, because lots of young women are in danger of falling for him, which in the end would be a wee bit pointless.

  Although younger than me, he was my hero and protector at school, and would still be now, if I needed it. He is somewhat estranged from most of the family except me and my kids. He can be secretive and defensive about his life, but he knows that I love him just the way he is.

  We make tea in the kitchen together while the children are in a hypnotic state in front of the television. I can tell by his slightly manic behaviour and nervy chatter that he has something he wants to tell me badly, but I don’t dare ask before he is ready. We just play out the domestic ritual of getting mugs, selecting biscuits, boiling water; a mundane kitchen dance, a routine that never fails to create a bit of calm.

  Suddenly he says,

  ‘I have a date tonight, actually it’s the second date, this could be important.’

  To keep up with my brother’s love life you need a Mensa memory and a very open mind. I have to ask my usual question,

  ‘So, is this male or female,’ with Mickey it’s never certain, and it’s what makes him unique in our family.

  ‘It’s a very nice man, a doctor,’ he sips his tea and smiles his little boy smile.

  ‘Where did you meet him? Tell me everything,’

  He crams two biscuits into his mouth, still slightly manic, and says,

  ‘I was taking one of my old biddies from the rehab ward to Monklands hospital for some tests last week. You know what its like, I had to hang about for ages for her to be seen, then another hour for the ambulance to take us back to Cleland.’

  Mickey is a physiotherapist at Cleland Hospital. He specialises in rehabilitating stroke victims, and is very good at what he does. His patients, mostly elderly women all adore him, and he works hard with them.

  He sits at the kitchen table grinning and telling me that he met this doctor in the canteen who flirted with him and Mrs McCafferty and by the time the transport arrived he and the doctor had arranged to meet for a drink that night. I’m convinced there is a gender radar trick that Mickey has and he can easily switch to different channels when he wants to.

  Mickey said he was very nervous going on the first date, and had two drinks at home, before he could leave for the pub. That sounds more stylish than me brushing my teeth twice and the compulsive clothes changing.

  The date seemed to go quite well, but the doctor had to leave early as he said he had family things to attend to. Relatives were arriving in a few days time for a holiday and he had to make arrangements for a family get together next week with his cousins.

  Now that the second date was looming, Mickey was nervy all over again. He’s also been having an on-again, off-again fling with an old school mate of mine, Marian. Marian is devoted to Mickey, but is well aware she has a lot of competition. Mickey has realised for a long time that it would be a good move to make up his mind about his preferences once and for all or he will really hurt someone. Marian is definitely ‘on’ at the moment but I suspect that if things go well tonight she will be ‘off’, or they could remain friends. There is always the ‘Friends of Dorothy’ syndrome.

  ‘What’s this guy’s name then, what’s he like?’ I ask

  ‘Ali, and he is tall, very dark, Pakistani or maybe Indian, I think, and very handsome,’ he replies.

  Shit! My heart skips a beat, it couldn’t be that Ali. It’s a common name. Please God, don’t let this be the brand new fiancé of Rena with an engagement party next Friday!

  I can’t look at Mickey for a moment. I have to hide my worried face, so I turn my back to him and start fussing with the dishes in the sink.

  ‘Go and wind up the kids for a while, before they go to bed, I don’t like how quiet they are in there,’ I turn with a smile and give him a quick kiss on the cheek, ‘good luck with your guy tonight, how could he not be crazy about you?’

  ‘What have you kids been doing?’ Mickey shouts.

  They all start talking at once trying to impress him with their tales of school, who fell out with who, John’s invitation to a real party, and the new baby being made for Aunty Kate and Uncle Philip, which I had told them a little about tonight.

  ‘Why do you wear a sparkly ear-ring Uncle Mickey?’ says Rosie.

  ‘Because every time I see it sparkling in the mirror I think about you, my wee twinkle star,’ he says and picks her up to hug her.

  She goes bright pink and giggly, and I wonder how many times he has used that line, in all its variations, in his numerous romances? I do love him, but I also worry about him.

  John says he has a very serious worry; we all turn to look at him.

  ‘What’d you think about this then, two girls are having trials this week for the school football team.’

  He looks miserable, his whole world has gone to pot. He is also having trials this week and certainly doesn’t need the competition from girls who might get some positive discrimination.

  ‘That’s crap John, I know just how you feel, women are getting into everything now,’ says Mickey the wise.

  ‘Don’t you be sexist in this house,’ I shout, and we all start throwing cushions at each other, girls against boys, with me encouraging my girls to stand up for their rights, even before they understand what they are.

  Now that the kids are thoroughly wound up, Mickey helps me get them washed and ready for bed. He promises them a story and they settle quickly. John slips under the covers at the bottom of Rosie’s bed so that they can all be together, and I have a clear memory of Mickey doing exactly the same thing with Kate and me when Dad was going to tell us a story. He would cuddle under the blankets of my bed and usually he had to be carried to his own room later, fast asleep. He is really good at this story telling and will eventually make a good father, or husband, or partner or something.

  He starts, ‘There was a very strict nun, and she prayed all day for other people. She was fine with the praying but very crabbit with people. She had two states, irritated and irritating, and maybe sometimes one other, irritable.’

  The kids are fixated on Mickey as he begins the tale. No mamby-pamby fairy tales of princesses and frogs from him.

  ‘Her name is Sister Edward, you know, nuns often take men’s names, I don’t know why. He gives me sly wink. She is walking in the forest one day and she hears a strange noise. She goes and kicks about some dry leaves, in a very irritated manner and uncovers a dog, very wee and very skinny. She says in her irritating voice,

  ‘Shut up! What are you whinging at?’

  Fortunately the dog could talk and said,

  ‘I am tired, cold, hungry, lonely and frightened, how’s that for starters.’

  ‘Fair enough, point taken,’ says Sister Edward, and she picked him up and tucked him into the front of her habit.

  She took him home to the convent and, of course, all the nicer nuns made a fuss of him, and fed him, and knitted him wee jumpers that any self-respecting dog wouldn’t be seen dead in. But he knew how to play the game and loved all the fussing and attention and performed lots of wee tricks. He knew when he was on to a good thing.

  The mother superior heard about the dog and said,

  ‘We can’t keep him here, he’s distracting us from our prayers, and he’s making some of the younger nuns act very silly. They’re running about, playing with balls and knitting things that can’t be sent to the missions, so he’ll have to go.

  All the nuns, even irritable sister Edward started a revolution. She was sent to speak to the Pope about it. She was packed off with the dog to Rome, and they have a nice journey, cha
tting about the sights. They got an appointment to see the Pope, and when the appointment started the dog starts talking right away to the pope in Italian. Sister Edward is a bit put out, in fact she is very irritated, and tells him to shut up in her most irritating manner. The Pope doesn’t understand English, so he misses that bit. The Pope and the dog chat a bit more then he sends them away with a quick blessing.’

  Rosie is now asleep, and I make winding up signs to Mickey as it is well past lights out.

  He gets the point and speeds up a bit.

  ‘The dog explained on the way home that he had told the Pope that Sister Edward should now be made a saint as she had rescued him, and had him blessed, and after that he had now developed this ability to speak any language. The Pope had said fine, fair enough, Edward can be made a saint when she dies, you can stay at the convent and it will become really famous and get lots of visitors and lots of money, for the missions of course, and old Sister Edward will never be irritating again.’

  ‘Night night kids, see you next week, your old irritable mother says its time to sleep.’

  When Mickey was leaving I asked,

  ‘Was there any moral in all that talking dog stuff?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he says with a grin, ‘something about having a lot of money stops you being irritable, or no sex makes your irritated, or having to wear hand knitted jumpers make you a liar, or…….’

  ‘Get out now, you dope, enjoy your date, and by the way, the Pope is Polish, not Italian,’ I hear him laugh all the way to his car. I cross my fingers and pray that his Ali is a complete stranger, not Ali the betrothed.