Robert Tries To Help

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Robert Tries To Help - book excerpt

Chapter 1

An urgent message for he who dares

Our worthy champion of communal cares

Robert and Rosy will fly to the rescue

But best laid plans can flounder, I’ll bet you.

Woodville Multi-Disciplinary Community Mental Health Team. 08/04/2017 3:30 pm.

‘Sod it,’ said Robert. ‘Why’s he waited till last thing Friday? I bet he’s been sitting on it all week.’

‘What a life,’ scoffed Rosealea. ‘Where’s your commitment to the recovery ethos all of a sudden?’

‘Yeah, but, give us a fighting chance, eh?’ He poked at his papers and produced a yellow message, which had been there since Wednesday. ‘Ah, right yes. Dr. Pong-Ping reckons the Old Professor’s taken a left turn - can we expedite a Mental Health Act assessment and commission a comprehensive risk-profile-schedule type thing while we’re at it?’

Rosealea snorted. ‘The Old Prof.? He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’d be more concerned about that weirdo assistant he lives with - wears a tassel and carries a girly bag, but maybe I’ve been a social porker for too long.’

‘I’m fond of the old Fess, as well. He fixed my airplane last year when I had a prang in the forest,’ said Robert.

His colleague had another snort. ‘Are you still getting about in that old thing?’

‘Yeah - built to last “Fireflies” are and the Prof did a few special adjustments for me.’

Rosealea gave him a look but held her tongue.

Robert felt on the back foot; he secretly envied Rosealea, her ‘Red Balloon’, leased from the council at a very attractive rate. It had a tame bird of paradise, trained to detect stress and sing softly to the driver. Fully air-conditioned as standard. He knew she was a lovely Pig, she was a lucky one too.

‘What you gonna do then, Robby?’

He stood up and crumbs from a vegetable pasty fell to the floor, some lodged themselves in the turn-ups of his favourite yellow corduroy trousers. ‘Right, I’m off to collate perceptions with Willie Mouse. When in doubt, consult your line manager.’

She sniffed as he left the room and began to poke clumsily at a phone.

Says Willie Mouse this won’t lie down

You’d best get off to Woodville town

Proactive work will save the day

So smarten up and on your way.

‘I know,’ said Robert’s boss. ‘But we need to be safe rather than sorry; it’s been hard for him. Didn’t you hear about what happened over there last week?’

‘Er, yes - wasn’t there some bother, or something? At his castle wasn’t it?’

Willie gave him a look and explained the bother to his colleague. ‘There was a break-in, aggravated by all accounts, but we know all about them. Right pair of chancers, on ASBOS already - Algy Pig and Bill Badger. Not a brain between them, but they roughed up the old boy, then took off with a secret potion in a bottle with “Secret Potion” stamped on it. It might have been worse, but the Prof.’s companion loosed the little dragon and they legged it. That Algy Pig’s a bad bit of goods - I was out for a pint with Joey Parrot from court liaison last week and he reckons this lad accounts for a third of all juvenile crime on his own. Anyway, I think you should go and see how the Professor is - probably got a touch of that post-trauma collywobbles by the sound of it.’

‘Yes, I think he will have. Who’s the other one … and you said they’d got their paws on something dodgy?’

‘Bill Badger, comes from a rough family, easily led. Like a lot of the stuff the Prof has a hand in, there were unforeseen effects. It had been formulated as a cure for erectile dysfunction in squirrels - all it did was take our two off their feet for seventy-two hours. As a result, Policeman Pelican found them easy to lift.’

After a brief recap of some of the dafter schemes to have come from the Professor’s castle over the years - coal you could grow in a garden, magic trousers, etc. - Willie advised Robert to take Rosealea with him on account of her empathy with people like the Professor; Robert was unsure, and asked if she might not be related to ‘this Algy’.

‘Probably,’ said Willie. ‘There’s a lot of them about.’

‘Well, what if I say no?’

‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s as good as a yes then.’

Rosealea sighed. ‘God, you Bears are all the same; why can’t you be more like Pigs? Listen, watch my snout.’

He grabbed his satchel but held his tongue. In his experience of empathy, Rose listening and watching were the least reliable paths to understanding. She pulled on her shawl and fastened a bonnet before boarding his ‘rust bucket’.

From a high municipal window, Willie watched his two most experienced workers hunker in Robert’s flimsy plane. He knew they’d get there and back in one piece and that the barmy scientist would benefit from their intervention, but what concerned him more were the green shoots he’d spotted of love’s uncertain harvest. The last office bunk-up had led to fisticuffs on the steps of County Hall, prurient press interest, and extended sick leave for two. Then again, it had been the married council leader, Glynis Whippet, and ‘Pat’ Patterdale, a gifted but wayward CPN, who’d ended up doing penance on the wards. He had to concede that Robert’s romance had more going for it, though he’d have to step up to the plate with Porky Pig. She was a feisty lass and he was a bit wet when all was said and done. He could imagine her shouting at Robert.

‘They were alright when I checked them last week.’

‘It’s not the planes plugs want looking at, it’s yours Herbert.’

He got the engine going and drowned out his passenger as they accelerated down the runway and up into the air. As they circled County Hall, he could see the town, bordered by green hills and dense woodland. Robert felt his mood begin to lift and Rosealea rested a trustful trotter on his commanding arm. Then, a cloud came close.

‘Naff off yeller kecks,’ cried a hostile voice. It was one of the bad Monkeys from the high-rise hills on the Scrubby Estate.

Robert looked to see a wizened head peering over the edge of the cloud to give more cheek as they passed. ’Don’t fancy yours, mate.’

‘Little twat,’ shouted Rosealea.

‘Chubby chaser,’ called the Chimp.

‘We should find something for these poor youths to do. It’s no wonder they end up hoeing a bad row,’ observed Robert.

Rosealea didn’t hear him but seemed to be thinking along similar lines when she bawled, ‘I eat scabby Monkeys to get this size, you little scroat.’

A westerly current carried the cheeky Monkey away from them and Robert rode the winds of fortune towards the Nutbush City limits.

The Old Professor’s castle was located beyond the town, just before the terrain that opened out into the Nutbush Valley and then the urban sprawl of new development. The old castle also served as a rest home for clapped-out dogs of the Parish and, as Robert brought them down in the courtyard, he could see a rheumy-eyed Labrador lifting its leg hesitantly against the stone wall.

‘You better lead on this,’ advised Rosealea. ‘He won’t be best pleased to see me.’

Robert nodded and looked at one of the barred windows. He thought he saw a furtive shape disappear behind it as they landed.

A challenging task for Robert and friend

The Old Professor’s gone round the bend

The limits of their social caring

Are stretched by sights a little scaring.

An arthritic Airedale tottered over to waive a mucky paw at the turret of a dark tower. ‘He’s up there,’ wheezed the Dog.

Robert looked but saw nothing.

The Dog looked to Rosealea but she had taken a sudden interest in the castle walls and had her back to him.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Robert. ‘Your face seems familiar to me.’

‘I am Tony of Plymouth. You were kind to me when I was re-housed and needed help with my benefit forms.’

Robert remembered and chatted kindly as Tony led them slowly to a concealed door, which opened onto a mechanical carpet set on steam-powered casters.

The Dog bid them good luck and worked a lever that sent them clattering along a dingy passage.

Rosealea had got one on her. ’Your face seems familiar to me,’ she sneered. ’You’d do well to tell one of his lot from another, great matted beasts of the bog.’

‘Just think eh - diversity training. We embrace difference and value individual strengths.’

‘You’re having a laugh, you are. You stopped short of embracing Tony of Plymouth and, as for individual strengths, they’re ones ready for the knacker’s yard. He nearly keeled over as he pointed the way.’

He peered at the carpet as they began to slow down. Sometimes, Rosy seemed to go out her way to undermine his efforts. There were times when he wondered if she was right. They came to a halt then a little man in a blue uniform beckoned them forward and spoke to Rosealea.

‘What did he say?’

‘Not telling you - not enough diversity.’

Sweet Jesus, thought Robert. If only she knew how hard he’d tried to understand women. The serious talks with Ted Sloth … he’d even bought a book by Suzie Aardvark, which had delved deep into the pit of despair that was, as Sandmartin Amis had dubbed it, ‘the man woman stuff’.

After struggling gamely with Suzie every night for a month, he came to believe that if you knew the answers you wouldn’t have to ask the questions, and, it would be a boring old world if we were all the same.

Rosealea gave him one of her kinder smiles. ‘He told me the boss has been off it for weeks but, last week, doings sent him over the edge. He’s caught strange sounds and bad smells from the lab. And, last week, the trusted assistant with the tassel nipped out and told him to phone Funny Pong. When the Prof found out, he went ballistic and beat the little bloke with gusto. All very uncharacteristic apparently.’

‘With gusto?’

‘So he says. Anyway, I feel a risk assessment coming on. Do you think we should give Policeman Pelican a heads up … old Sticky Beak’s done a few of these in his time?’

‘What about your little friend? Do you think he might help - you know act as an advocate and help us be less restrictive?’

‘You mean, get us in to see how bonkers he is?’

‘Yes, but let’s not bother Policeman Pelican just yet.’

Rosealea turned to the little fellow - Trevor - who had been standing at a distance, patiently smoking an enormous joint. He appeared reluctant, until she whispered something in his ear; then he became keen to help in any way he could.

Robert marveled at how persuasive she could be. Boss Grogan, the salty old day centre manager, had been shouting in Reception the other week over rumoured cuts to services. By the time Rosy had made him tea and sat with him, he’d forgotten what all the fuss was about. Sometimes, you didn’t need to understand them, just be glad they were there.

A surprise for Robert and Rosealea

When Beppo the monkey makes the tea

The Prof’s place smells of furtive brewing

With many a sign of unwise doing.

Trevor disappeared through a concealed door and the visitors moved over to hear what was going on behind a larger one, beneath a green light. They picked up sounds of conflict and passion; furniture moved across the floor and high expressed emotion heated the air. The green light sparkled, and Trevor peered uncertainly from behind the door.

‘He’ll see you now,’ said the shaken dogs-body and limped back in.

The laboratory was dark and macabre. They glimpsed a small shape scuttle about, then a tired and reedy voice welcomed them. ‘It’s only Beppo. I’ll get him to fix us a drink - would you like tea or coffee, or perhaps some of my new tonic wine?’

‘Tea,’ they responded without hesitation.

‘Very good,’ sighed the Prof and nodded to the watchful chimp.

Robert felt sorry for the old boy, hiding away in his gaseous domain with only the monkey for company. He could cheerfully shoot Algy Pig and salt him for bacon. No more soft options for that one if he had anything to do with it.

Rosealea showed her best form by talking nicely to the Professor, seeming to win a frail confidence from him and, gradually, the sorry tale was told.

The two intruders had raised a terrible fright by giving Beppo super strength lager, then tying up his owner with hardy twine, which had been lifted from Robert’s father’s shed and making him watch the cruel prank. It was only when the plucky dragon had seen them off, and Beppo had sobered up, that he’d been freed, scared out of his wits. He’d refused to leave his lab. And had become increasingly detached from what passed for normality. It finally occurred to his companions that he was more than ordinarily barmy when he’d proposed a live-in arrangement where he could distil brew, or otherwise meet his requirements of daily living without setting foot outside the laboratory.

Treatment and, hopefully, cure were to be provided by Beppo and Trevor, who would learn the entire canon of English literature so they could perform selected classics each evening to comfort their troubled employer. When they’d kicked up over ‘The Dream of the Rood’, he lost his temper and went after them with a rolled-up copy of his formula for instant toast and marmalade.

It was all very sad and Rosealea produced a clean hanky from her bonnet as Beppo came in with the tea, taking care to stay beyond his master’s reach.

The old man noticed. ‘See him cower and flinch from me. What have I done? My wits are addled, and the Devil rides out to trick me; oh woe on this house of misrule.’

‘Just listen to him,’ muttered the monkey as he climbed onto Robert’s shoulder.

They moved to a distant part of the room as Rosealea counseled the old Professor. She told him that it was good to talk.

A wondrous elixir to cure every need

But the Old Professor hooked on speed?

A sorry outcome as Beppo tells it

Robert must act to calm things down a bit.

Guided by Beppo, Robert found a fine mess of test tubes, powders, and a wide-ranging stock of herbal material. Beppo switched on his little torch so that Robert could make out a large steel shed sprouting funnels, levers, and other appendages. He wondered what alchemy the Professor had been messing with.

Beppo told him of a recipe read in haste and the chance production of an amphetamine-based jam when a calmative elixir had been expected. He’d eaten it anyway, but it had turned out to be very moreish and the boss had been hooked after just one round of sandwiches. The resourceful monkey had hidden the rest of the stock and tampered with the masher, so the supply had been blocked.

But the damage had been done to the Prof’s equilibrium and there had been no living with him as harsh words and violence came and went, to be replaced by lassitude and the waterworks. He had to be taken away.

Robert was moved by the story but wanted to know where the rest of the Class A preserve was hidden. Beppo smiled for the first time that day and set him a riddle: where would the last place be that he’d expect to find it?

Robert couldn’t be bothered and, after a halfhearted stab at Granny Guinea Pig’s goody barrel, asked to be told. He was horrified to hear that it had been stashed in his father’s allotment shed. This was another bad monkey but they needed his help.

‘I think he’ll be alright, but we do need to get him off to a safe place. What do you say? You’re practically his nearest relative.’

Beppo put him right on that one but had a good idea. Hadn’t the Sage of Um just opened a special facility for meditation and such like? Robert should have known about that but was pleased by Beppo’s sharpness.

The place has been built with matching lottery funding and had a top-of-the-range unit for challenging cases, where the furniture was bolted down. Robert agreed to commission a cherub who could get a message to the Sage told Beppo to get back in with his boss and prepare to help shift him over there.

The sharp Monkey was having none of it and told Robert he was going to live with the Chinese Emperor as soon as the Prof. was taken away - he had a bigger castle, and Tiger Lily in residence. It was a no-brainer. Robert wondered what might happen to Beausephalus, the little Dragon, and the rest of them.

Beppo reckoned they had already jumped ship or taken refuge in the older, seldom visited parts of the building. While he was about it, he anticipated Robert’s next question by telling him where he could submit his carer’s assessment. Fair enough thought the social worker, he knew they were pants too.

Rosealea got the nod from Beppo and managed to help the Professor pack a few things for ‘his rest’ and write up some instructions for Trevor, or whoever else might come out of the woodwork in his absence. It was mostly daft research business, which Rosealea skipped in favour of the practical stuff; she was confident they’d know what was what on the lab side.

The Professor then lapsed into a mode of shuffling cooperation, and it was plain sailing. The three chums were soon standing by ‘Firefly’, ready for the off. The patient was to travel in a large basket strapped to Robert’s fuselage, with Rosealea for company. The ever-efficient Trevor had come up with the arrangement in double-quick time. The take-off was a bit bumpy, but Robert got them up.

Trevor waved them off with a wan grin and as he climbed up and away from the castle, Robert glimpsed a number of wary faces peering back. Awestruck and frayed, they projected an immense collective gratitude. He also noticed how low he was on fuel but decided not to bother anyone with it. There was no helping about that; it was all he could do to remember the way to The Sage’s place.

Fortunately, the gilded Cherub, who’d taken the message appeared by the plane to guide Robert, tooting on his pocket trumpet the while. The pilot felt that he was no Miles Dormouse and was keen to keep him from spotting Rosealea. These common Woodville folks could be a mixed blessing, but since the County Council had required them to get a licence before they could offer services, he’d noticed a change for the better. There had been a time when Cherub shooting had been a popular sport in rougher parts of Nutbush City. Talk in the pubs held that Rosealea’sdelinquent uncle had a hand in organising ‘Pixie Shoots’, but nothing was ever proved.

The engine stalled and Robert looked at the fuel gauge, but it was just more turbulence from the basket. He spotted Rosey’s shawl flapping behind them and was glad when the Cherub indicated the spot ahead with his compact and shiny horn before he climbed up and away from them.

The Old Professor’s safe at last

But Rosealea cries damn and blast

Robert’s let her down again

And she’s about to cause him pain.

He pulled out all the stops to get them down gently, using all his flying skills and a pair of trusty garden shears he kept handy in the cockpit. He dropped them in the Sage’s garden and circled for a safe place to land properly. He had half a mind to open the throttle and head for the clouds, but he was nearly on empty by this time. He came down in a field across the road where a friendly cow offered to keep an eye on ‘Firefly’. He wanted to talk to linger because he’d seen Rosealea by the front door of the Sage’s place but the cow turned away from him as Rosealea called, ‘Get ‘ere now, you’re heading for a slap.’

She looked a right sight in her borrowed gear: scarlet frou-frou, jumble-sale cardie, and purple leg warmers. ‘I’m sorry babe. Did he play up then?’

‘Did he ever … still he’s not in his right mind, is he. I told The Sage you’d call round on your day off.’

‘Fair enough. Fancy a cup of tea? My mum bakes on a Friday.’

‘Oh, Robert, you know how to talk to a lady; there’ll be a cake in it then?’

Robert was forgiven. He wondered if she’d be up for a pint later at the Todgers Inn. They walked off happily to Robert’s parents’ house, avoiding the green where Gaffer Jarge hung about frightening children and abusing cherubs. He was just a smelly old man in tights, but he had his rights.

They looked back at him, leering by a tree. ‘When I was a kid,’ said Rose. ‘Our Percy threatened to sell me to old cock-face, said Gaffer were saving up and nearly had the right money, but Percy kept raising the price as I grew.’

‘That’s emotional abuse. Where is your caring cousin now?’

‘In prison for nicking; he’ll be getting all kinds of abuse now, the old git.’

Robert began to rehearse a peroration on the limits of custody but decided his heart wasn’t in it. Anyone who could treat his Rosy Posey like that had forfeited the right to mix with decent folk. Let him come back to the place he’d disgraced and live with dirty Gaffer, like a pair of pariahs.

When they got to Rookery Nook, Robert was surprised to see the bedroom curtains pulled, then alarmed by a flushed and skittish Mother Bear, who had clearly run downstairs to greet the visitors at the back door.

‘Oh I wasn’t expecting to see you today. Hello, Rose. How’s your Father - I mean Mother. Oh, Robert! I wish you’d said you were coming. It’s not the best time to call really … you should have said.’

Robert was wrong-footed and asked if she was alright.

She amazed him by blushing and chortling in Rosealea’s direction. ‘Oh, yes … it seems I’m a bit of alright.’

Robert gestured to his friend that they should leave but she ignored him and asked Mrs. B what she meant.

‘It’s your father, Robby, I don’t know what’s got into him. Went down to the gardens this afternoon to see to his spuds and came back insisting on an early night - well late afternoon more like. He’d seen to his tatties and now it was my turn. He’s going to do another hands turn-down there before dark then he’ll dig me over again.’

Robert didn’t know where to put himself and settled on the back garden, where Rosealea had gone to stifle her hysterics.

‘It’s not that I’m complaining,’ explauned his mother as she followed them. ‘Why is Rosy dressed up in that strange costume?’

‘Oh I’ll tell you another time - something to do with The Sage of Um and the Old Professor.’

‘Oh, Rosy dear, if those two are in the same room together, stay well clear.’

Robert heard movement from upstairs and shepherded his colourful companion down the side passage. ‘Time we were off, twinkle toes.’

‘Where to? You promised cake.’

‘To my old man’s shed. Let’s see what we can find down there.’