by AB Morgan
‘You worry too much. I’ll have a shuffle about, there’s always room for one more, or an extension on the garage …’
Once I had finished telling Max about the events at the auction, he tickled me into submission, and groaning in defeat I finally confessed to the price paid for the Regency ship’s doctor’s medicine cabinet. He nearly fell out of bed with the shock.
‘For what? A box of books, a wooden cabinet for a dwarf, and a few old bottles? Christ, Mon, they must have seen you coming!’
Showing him the catalogue helped my cause somewhat and Max begrudgingly conceded that at least I had not paid above the maximum guide price. Even so, he huffed and puffed for several days before he realised that he now had greater leeway to spend recklessly on his next bike purchase.
Exhausted by the tickling bout, I picked up the book I had been reading, but my restless mind kept diverting my thoughts elsewhere. Most recently, my interest had turned to the leather-bound journals, which had formed part of the auction lot alongside the medicine cabinet. So far, I had only turned a few pages of one or two journals, which contained complicated chemical equations and a few scribbled notes in the margin. This was disappointing, but I remained optimistic that there would be more appealing detail on other pages of these slim books. All I needed was a quiet moment to myself to delve into them and discover the life of the ship’s doctor. How exciting. There were bound to have been several amputations, soothing of wounds after a sound flogging with a cat-o’-nine-tails and … actually I wasn’t sure what went on in ships of the Regency era. I must look that up, I thought to myself.
Truthfully, I had become completely carried away at the antiques auction. I’d never been before, although there was a well-known one in town, which often advertised pending auctions in the local paper, and it caught my eye for once. An auction of antiques and collectables was due to take place when I was to be off work for the week; the viewings were on the Friday.
I was determined not purchase a naff vase, or an item of frivolous jewellery which I would never wear. My search was for an item apt for a nurse prescriber. Especially after the hard work and endless study, and because most of the time on the course I had felt completely out of my depth.
My reward for passing the final exam, the assignments, and assessments, needed to be reflective of the hard graft, and the stress. Finally, it should repay the tears of frustration I had shed, when grappling with the bewildering concepts in the pharmacology module.
When I took myself to Yarlsmere Auctions on the Friday I spent time leafing through the catalogue, exploring the many investment possibilities. I found the items on my shortlist and weighed up the pros and cons of each against my gut feeling and emotional response to each. This was not purely a financial investment; it was also a well-earned selfish reward. By the end of the viewing, I was certain about which lot to bid on, and how much my maximum would be. Not a word to Max.
On the day of the auction my forethought and sensible preparation became redundant. I was seriously considering putting in a bid or two for a beautiful, pharmacist’s glass amphora in a shade of raspberry. It was huge, and a fantastic shape with an upside-down teardrop stopper. I remembered seeing these as a child and being fascinated that such artistic objects were to be found at the chemist’s.
As an auction virgin, I was a bit confused as to what I was required to do but a helpful priest turned out to be my guide for the day. He looked familiar until I realised he resembled the famous TV priest, Father Ted. As the similarity dawned on me, the priest seemed to know what I was thinking.
‘I’m Father Raymond, by the way.’
His timing was impeccable, as I was about to blurt out what he had already second-guessed, but he didn’t have the requisite Irish accent. This was fortunate for me because, not only do I have a habit of speaking before thinking at times, but I also love an accent, to the degree that I find myself imitating them, as the sincerest form of flattery. It’s an affliction which has been with me for many a year, and one for which I blame my father. He does the exact same thing.
Father Raymond was roughly my height, around about the six-foot mark, with a shock of thick salt and pepper grey hair, and a slim build. There was nothing remarkable about his features, other than his stately dark eyebrows. He was a gentleman in his fifties, who happened to be a priest and at an auction, and apparently interested in unusual theological items.
‘What sort of items would that be?’ I enquired, genuinely intrigued.
This was not easy to explain, I was told. ‘They may be books, or icons, but not usually larger items.’ Father Raymond was confined to living in rather humble circumstances as a visiting priest to the area.
‘I’m seeking a small gift for my host, Father Joseph, who is kindly accommodating me. I’m lodging with him as a temporary guest if you like.’ I gathered from Father Raymond that although he was not a minister at the church, he was visiting the diocese from elsewhere, and was heavily involved in setting up street projects around the country. Locally, he helped to run guided self-help support groups. ‘It’s part of an interdenominational project, called “Pathways”. We provide active strategies to address the needs of the vulnerable with mental health problems.’
Most honourable and commendable, I thought. This meant we had common ground on which to extend our acquaintance, and we chatted amicably for the whole morning.
‘I feel rather ashamed that our services haven’t been more actively involved in the work you’re doing,’ I finally admitted. I had heard on local radio that the churches in town had joined together to offer more than a bric-a-brac sale, but in all honesty, I hadn’t been interested enough to pursue the information.
Father Raymond didn’t appear to be offended in any way, and extended an open invitation; ‘Drop in anytime’. He accepted that not everyone went to church these days.
‘I’m one of those very people,’ I confessed.
Father Raymond light-heartedly suggested that I should become his next mission in life. He smiled broadly, and said in a gently mocking tone, ‘Never fear, salvation is at hand. You’re never too old to be converted, Monica.’
Brushing aside the subject of faith, he divulged his own weakness. ‘You know, I get a secret thrill from visiting antiques auctions,’ he said. ‘I often go along purely for the excitement of watching the bidding without the need to enter the fray myself. Less of a risk that way. I don’t have much money to invest.’
Thou shalt not splash the cash willy-nilly, I said to myself, with an internal chuckle threatening to escape my lips. I was conscious of minding my language, not being of a particular religious persuasion; verging on the agnostic if anything. However, in the same way as I would unintentionally mimic an accent, that morning I managed to punctuate many a sentence with ‘Jesus’, or ‘Christ’ or ‘God’, like a form of mild Tourette’s. The tension was mounting as time went on, and I was mightily relieved when the auction began so I could stop putting both my feet in my mouth with such excruciating regularity.
Father Raymond had a point. The auction was thrilling. I found myself captivated by the mastery with which the auctioneer managed proceedings and manoeuvred the bidders into taking another risk. One more bid higher than they had originally intended.
My amphora was lot number 325, but before this there were several lots with a pharmacological theme, which had caught my eye but were outside the budget I had set. One was a “Regency Period Apothecary, a small medicine cabinet possibly belonging to a ship’s doctor, mahogany c1820. It stands 14 inches high, and is in a lovely condition with the finest craftsmanship visible throughout”. Vials, bottles, and small boxes in drawers could be seen encased in beautiful mahogany, and with the cabinet came a number of books or journals, which seemed to be leather-bound. These were detailed in the catalogue as “containing factual information and calculations relating to the original use of the cabinet”. As it was way above my budget, I could only admire it and envy the person who was soon to own this piec
e of history and gorgeousness.
‘Ah, a thing of beauty is a joy forever,’ remarked Father Raymond with a wink as the cabinet was introduced as the next lot.
I am not insinuating it was Father Raymond’s fault that I was the woman who made the final bid, but I have often wondered if I would have raised my hand to bid at all, if that clichéd sentiment had not made its way from my ear to my brain via my heart strings. Father Raymond, realising that I was caught in the excitement of the bidding, tried in vain to remind me about my budget limit.
‘All done now at £2,190, and sold!’ said the auctioneer, as his gavel smartly met the top of the handsome wooden desk at which he stood.
‘Oh, God, how am I going to explain this one to Max?’ I whispered aloud, noting that I had blasphemed once more. It really is a good job I’m not Catholic, as I would undoubtedly spend half my life in the confessional if I were, and an endless queue would form outside the confessional box while I divulged blasphemy, envy, and impure thoughts by the dozen.
Strangely enough, I did not experience significant feelings of regret at my impulsive purchase. Far from it, I was delighted that for once I had made what I believed to be a sound investment in a lovely antique. That it was of historical interest was an added bonus.
I first saw the word ‘Paracelsus’ and the initials ‘G.C.’, when I’d given the cabinet a thorough examination at the viewing on the day before, and dismissed it as an option, being too pricy. The name and initials were engraved on small brass plaques and looked like a more recent addition. Secretly I hoped, with childlike excitement, that the journals would reveal its full history.
Father Raymond was again my guide through the process of claiming my prize and paying for it, and he waited to help load the cabinet into the boot of my car. Before I meandered off to fetch my vehicle, I made a promise to call into St David’s Church Hall in the near future, to see for myself the work of the Pathways Project.
‘I’ll bring along some of the leaflets we use; it’s the least I can do by way of a thank you for all your help today. I would’ve been lost without your advice.’
‘I think you actually ignored my advice, Monica.’ Father Raymond nodded down towards the cabinet that he was holding in both arms. I chuckled as I juggled my handbag, car keys, and journals while heading for the car.
Responsibly, on returning home from the auction, I decided to clean and polish the medicine cabinet before it was to be housed in the dining room. The labels on the bottles and jars within the cabinet were faded, but most remained fairly legible. Soon I concluded that I would need a Latin dictionary, and hoped the Internet would reveal the answers because I hadn’t the faintest idea what some of the contents were. The labels read: Gentaine, Philo Pomanium, Ipecac, Astafetida and many more equally mysterious names.
‘Surely it wouldn’t have mercury inside, would it?’ I queried to myself as I picked up a small vial labelled Mercurial.
One or two of the jars had a chemical symbol rather than a full name, and this stumped me completely. My memory from school of the periodic table had been dragged back into use during my prescribing course, but most of the relevant information about elements and compounds had long since faded into oblivion. As well as the name ‘Paracelsus’ and the initials ‘G.C.’ on the outside of the cabinet, there was another carefully inscribed narrow brass plaque on the inside, which was revealed each time the doors were opened. It read Sola dosis facit venenum. My curiosity needed to be answered at once and I could not wait to find out what this particular Latin phrase meant.
I fired up the temperamental computer, and eventually was rewarded with my answer. Those words translated as “Only the dose makes the poison” accredited to one Paracelsus, said to be the founder of toxicology.
Two mysteries solved in one fell swoop.
Paracelsus was not the name of a boat, as I had assumed, it was a Swiss German gentleman, born in 1493, who went by the impossible but marvellous name of Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim.
Fabulous! Right up my street. It was so far up my street in fact, that I felt the adrenalin hit as it arrived like a tidal wave, making my hands sticky and my heart race.
Poisoning was my weakness, not antiques auctions, and it was a subject that I had become preoccupied with for many years. It was not so much the types of poisons used, although that was of interest to me, it was more the psychology of the act and of the poisoner, that had me enthralled. I had read books about famous poisoners, about fictional poisoners, and been absorbed by TV dramas and news items whenever they arose. I wanted to understand what made them tick. What was the catalyst to their actions?
More recently, as I became a prescribing nurse, I gained a much better knowledge of the drugs I was accountable for administrating to others. Indeed, I learnt a great deal more than I was expecting to, and my fixation with poisoning, which had been relegated to the league of hobbies and interests, was reignited and elevated to the status of obsession.
Paracelsus was absolutely correct in his assertions. It is about the dose. A small amount of paracetamol is a cure for a headache but a large dose is fatal, and so it is with everything; after all, drinking too much water can kill you.
5
On Tuesday morning Max and I were rudely awakened by our next-door neighbours’ large cock. A Buff Orpington, he was a monster of a rooster who, long before dawn, continued his attempts to crow properly. It seems he could ‘cock-a,’ but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t ‘doodle-do’. His endless efforts seemed to make him more effective as an alarm clock than a standard cockerel, while at the same time being thoroughly irritating, thus ensuring he placed himself in imminent danger of being strangled and placed in the cooking pot.
Anticipating that my second day back at work was not going to be any easier than my first, I had hoped for a restful night’s sleep, which was denied me by Cocka. He was most definitely at the top of my ‘should be put down’ list. I run two lists, the second being ‘needs a good slap’.
Sure enough, waiting for me first thing was evidence that a couple of senior managers were already ensconced with Eddie in his office, poring over the case notes for Jan Collins. These were as up to date as humanly possible, and I wasn’t particularly worried about the contents or whether my risk assessments and care plans were as comprehensive as required, or not. I couldn’t change them.
I checked in with our administrator, Kelly, who was always the first team member at work in the mornings. She liked to run an efficient ship and, if truth were told, she hated to miss anything that she considered exciting. Working on the basis that knowledge is power, she would ensure that she had the latest information on everyone’s private lives, as well as the professional day-to-day issues of the team. It was ammunition for gossip and tittle-tattle, in my opinion.
‘Does Eddie need me for anything do you know, or can I catch up with a couple of visits today?’ I asked, keen to get back on track with the routine community nursing tasks and visits, which were already booked into my work diary. Also, I was determined to give the senior managers the slip before they collared me. ‘I have clinic to run with Steph this morning and I can’t cancel that, there’s no one else to run it, what with Tania at the tribunal hearing, Bill off sick, and Wendy on leave for two weeks.’
‘I’ll phone him, Monica. I think you both have to go to the police station today but I don’t know if a specific time has been arranged. Give me a second.’ She had a brief chat with the boss, and confirmed that I was free to devise my own work schedule until the afternoon. This was a relief. I could already feel the pressure of the backlog from the day before, and needed to jiggle appointments around to meet my commitments.
Steph and I prepared for clinic.
We had use of a room at a local health centre several times a week for various clinics. On a Tuesday, it was for the long-term patients who knew the system well and who waited patiently in the reception area to be seen, one at a time, for their monthly or fortnightly
injections and a brief review of their overall physical health.
‘I actually find this completely soul-destroying, if I’m honest with you, Steph. You can spot the old patients a mile off in reception, dulled and zombified, shaking and unkempt. It’s a disgrace in this day and age when there are better medications out there. I hope the powers that be let me use the qualification I’ve worked so hard for. I’d review the bloody lot and start again. Give people their quality of life back. Who’s first on the list?’
‘Ian Oliver.’
‘Oh, he’s lovely. You’ve not met him before, have you? He tells such an amazing story.’
Ian shuffled in, managing a broad grin when he saw me, and was delighted to see a new face. ‘Who’s this young lady, then?’ he asked, offering to shake Steph’s hand. He took advantage and kissed her on the back of her proffered hand; chuckling, he apologised, ‘Sorry, I so rarely get the chance to touch and kiss a young lady. It won’t happen again.’ He plonked himself down on the chair. Knowing the routine so well, he confirmed what dose of injection he was expecting to receive, and that the previous month he’d had his injection in his right buttock, taking the time to explain to Steph why this was important. ‘They alternate, you see, young lady. Right one month, left the next. I have a bum like a rhinoceros so it makes no difference to me. I’ve been having these injections for twenty years, you know.’
Steph made polite conversation while I prepared the injection for Ian. ‘Why have you been on them for so long? Don’t you want to try some of the newer medications? They have less side effects.’ She had clearly noticed how tremulous Ian was and that his facial features seemed like a mask for most of the time, making him slur.
‘I wouldn’t dare change it now. I had a dreadful time. Schizophrenia can be like a living nightmare. I’d rather be fat and shuffle about.’
