The Ghost of a Smile 2

Tags

cirrhosis, clinical neurologist, Kayser-Fleischer rings, penicillamine, Primitive Methodists, purple prose, sleeping ghosts, Steeple Bayford, verderer, Wilson's Disease

…there was no question of diabolical possession.  The unfortunate

girl was clearly suffering from Wilson’s disease.  As a Clinical Neurologist,

I would be a fool if I hadn’t picked up on the symptoms you described.

The muscle twitches, postural abnormalities and spontaneous laughter

are classic signs.  Even the extraordinary colour of her eyes was owing

to the copper deposits in her irises- Kayser-Fleischer rings, to be technical.

You amaze me, Dr Lawes.  No wonder the poor child is so restless.  We

have all misjudged her and, like Legion, she has roamed among the

tombs. We must try to placate her.  Perhaps she would rest in peace if

her character could be vindicated in our Parish Magazine?  We could hold

a graveside service and apply to the Bishop for permission to reconsecrate

the ground.

The vicar’s enthusiasm was beginning to run away with him.

He persisted: Actually there are still some Nortons living in the tied

cottages in Steeple Bayford.  Some of them work in the Wilton factory

nearby.  We could invite them, though they are not C of E.  I used to

think that some of them were rather hostile- Methodists and suchlike.

Maybe they reckoned their ancestor hadn’t been treated too well in

the Established Church? suggested Dr Lawes.  I don’t think their

perceived unorthodoxy has anything to do with manifestations of the

disease per se, though they will all be carriers.  But even should

they marry another carrier, which is very unlikely, the chance of any

child developing the disease would be 200:1.

Oddly enough, now I come to think of it, reflected the vicar, I

spoke to a Mr Norton in the local infirmary, on one of my visitation

rounds, only two weeks ago.  He was suffering from cirrhosis of the

liver.  Alcohol abuse, I’d put it down to.  As I explained, he wasn’t in

too talkative a mood when he saw my dog collar.

Wilson’s disease affects the liver, Lawes pointed out.  It would

be extremely helpful and valuable for research purposes if I could

meet with his consultant.  Perhaps we could collaborate on a paper.

If you are going to be in the vicinity on Thursday, we could go

to the hospital together.  I’ll phone Mr Milton, his consultant.  He’s

a member of our congregation.  A greater awareness of the condition

might help to lay the ghost, as it were.  Give me your contact details

and I’ll see what I can do….

The smile relaxed its sneer and faded to a slight smirk and then the

greenish eyes closed their pale eyelids.

00000O00000

Mr Norton, may I introduce you to Dr Howard Lawes from Alabama?

He has a special interest in Wilson’s Disease.

Mr Milton was more effusive than he had been on a ward round for

many years.

Pleased to meet you, sir.  I will try to give you any information, but I

think it’s too late for me.  My liver seems to have packed in.  I’m tired

of explaining that my family is teetotal and has been for a couple of

generations.  Primitive Methodists, we are.  Never touch the stuff.

It seems that your family has borne moral misapprehension and

disapprobation for long enough, Dr Lawes smiled sympathetically.

We thought the illnesses were God visiting us with judgement unto

the fourth generation, Mr Norton grimaced.  Payback for Mary

Norton’s sin.

Nonsense.  Your liver problems are entirely linked to your disease

and so were those of your forebear.

I never thought a God of Love... interjected the Rev Dodgson, a trifle

hastily, but no one paid him the slightest attention.

Mr Norton shifted on his pillows: Hmmm, I don’t know that she wasn’t

a bad case, anyhow.  The family were disgusted by her behaviour, by

all accounts.

What do you mean?  asked Dr Lawes.

The patient’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper: All those carrying-ons

in the woods with her elder brother, Francis.  Of course, when the

bastard was born, they hushed it up, but everyone knew that Abraham

Norton was not her younger brother, but her son.

So, what do you reckon is the significance of this hearsay, Mr Norton?

enquired the Rev Dodgson.

Simply this.  Mary Norton may not have been possessed by the devil,

but she might as well have been, judging by the family’s reaction and

community prejudice and gossip.  We Nortons are said to have the sins

of our forefathers visited upon us to the nth generation.

Superstitious nonsense!  the Rev Dodgson exhaled.  But I suppose we

can’t lay sleeping ghosts if they don’t wish to remain supine.  I can’t really

sanction incest, anyway.  Maybe it’s better not to resurrect the past

and its scandals.

Yes, it’s a pity that the lady did not adopt ‘the serious study of virginity’,

as recommended in my namesake’s masque.  Otherwise she might have

known ‘the transport of a thousand liveried angels’ and have been

reposing in quietude.

How poetical!  exclaimed the Rev Dodgson, who appreciated these

archaic words and was no stranger to purple prose, himself.

Mr Milton, the physician broke in:  I am very glad that we have started

Mr Norton on Penicillamine.  We had a very useful session, Dr Lawes

and I promise to keep you in touch with my patient’s progress.

Great. I look forward to meeting up with you at the next ‘Gut’ meeting

in Texas.  I’ll certainly acknowledge you in our paper.

Goodby, Mr Norton.  All three moved on.

000000O000000

Above the graveyard the mouth smiled grimly.  It tried to utter something,

but only the chattering of a magpie filled the surrounding trees.  Some tears

fell as droplets of rain on the flat gravestone of Abraham Norton, aged

seventeen, who was buried with Mary’s parents and his ‘siblings’, including

Francis, his wife and three children.

Thyrsis Langford, Verderer and self-appointed local Lothario, did not even

turn over in his corner plot.

I Heard it through the Grapevine

Tags

Buckfast, Charente, cirrhosis, Co-Op, cognac, grapevine, Jancis Robinson, Jane Austen, Liebfraumilch, Mateus Rose, Pinocchio, Roaring Forties, Suttonford, Wedding at Cana, Wine, Wine tasting

Carissima’s nose had developed.  Not in a Pinocchio sense, but as a metaphorical wine calibre detection proboscis.  No more Jacob’s Creek for Carrie and her family, though it had served Gyles and herself well, as upwardly mobile thirtysomethings.  Now that she was moving inexorably towards the Roaring Forties, she wanted all her neighbours to note that she was a customer of Pop My Cork! which was the Suttonford wine merchant of choice for Yummies who followed Jancis Robinson.  That was not to say that she didn’t sometimes backslide and buy in bulk in the Co-op, hastily transferring the bottles into her all-concealing jute shopper with its slogan:  Suttonford- no plastic here!  Yes, Carrie was very concerned to re-use her husband’s plastic card as much as possible and she congratulated herself on her eco-friendliness.

Every month or so there would be a wine-tasting at Pop My Cork! and rare roast beef rectangles the size of postage stamps would be arranged on metal platters alongside Matzo crackers and, if one was lucky, a local trout which had been cooked in a fish kettle.  Everyone would gather round the sawdust-filled spittoons, looking knowledgeable, even though it hadn’t been so long since they were draining the old Mateus Rose, Buckfast and Asti Spumante, not to mention Liebfraumilch, as if their student days would never end.  It was amazing what a few package holidays to the Med. had inspired.  Now they were frowning and ticking every third variety on the comment sheet provided.

The local red-beaked vicar strode in, still wearing his collar, like an appellation endorsement, rather than a vocational symbol.

Saving the best for last, I trust! he guffawed, helping himself to the largest piece of roast beef he could spot and temporarily stationing himself beside the door where the plonk was placed for the non-aficiandos. I suppose I might be asked to come up higher, he laughed, rapidly working his way along the trestles to the rare spirits and expensive liqueurs and forking a generous portion of trout onto his paper plate. It’s the Wedding at Cana all over again.

Just like the viticulteurs in deepest Charente, Carrie intoned, polishing off a VSOP cognac.  When we visit Gyles’ sister, we take an empty plastic container and have it filled up via a siphon by a relative of the Hennessey family who is practically her next door neighbour.  It’s what the locals do and it only costs eight euros.

Yes, and six for the locals, muttered Gyles.  Sometimes he found his spouse a tad pretentious. How much is this one, Carrie? He swirled the nectar round and swallowed it, instead of expectorating it as he should.

Twenty pounds a bottle- thirty eight if you buy two or more.

Put me down for a dozen, he said, nodding at the sales staff and moved on to the harder stuff. Christmas is coming, so maybe we should stock up on some of the less usual post-prandials.

What about your mother?  Carrie asked.  Look at this: ‘Jane Austen’s Secret Tipple.’

Rather tame for the old bird.  Probably too old-maidish and somewhat acidic. And I’m not talking about the booze!  Anyway, you know she favours ‘Dewlap Gin- for Grandmothers with Attitude.’  But I’m not keen on encouraging her, ever since she called out the paramedics because she couldn’t get the top off a bottle.  She was reprimanded and told that she shouldn’t be calling the services out, unless it was an emergency.  She replied that it had been and, anyway, if she had fallen while struggling to open the bottle, she might have broken her hip, which would have cost the NHS an awful lot more.

She’s evil, said Carrie, running her finger lingeringly round the neck of a fine claret. But at ninety three, she’s probably entitled..

..to what?  Cirrhosis of the liver?

Well, she doesn’t need a spare one now, does she?

Oh, okay.  I’ll take a case of ‘Dewlap’ too, Gyles said, indicating that it should be added to his growing cache.  Who knows?  It might finish her off.

I’ll drink to that!  Carrie slurred her words a little.