by Miles Gibson
‘No,’ whispered Vernie. He was peering at the shadow between her knees.
‘You’ll have to take off her belt,’ whispered Smudger.
Vernie, standing on tiptoe, reached across the bed and pulled at the knotted sash. Sickly’s mother opened her eyes and stared at him. She had not been hypnotized. She had been sleeping. She always slept in the afternoon. She stared in astonishment at her assailant.
‘What are you doing?’ she shouted. She sat up and pulled the dressing-gown around her legs.
‘Just looking,’ squeaked Vernie.
He turned to Sickly for help and collided with Smudger who was already running across the carpet. Sickly had vanished. They pushed through the door and flew headlong down the stairs. Sickly’s mother followed, shouting and swinging at them with her fists. She chased them through the kitchen and into the garden. The dressing-gown flew open and her big breasts bounced. But only Old George, safe beneath the wheelbarrow, turned his head to admire them. Smudger was screaming. Vernie had begun to wail.
Sickly, safe in his sickbed, listened with pleasure to the uproar in the garden below. He wriggled deeper beneath the sheets, closed his eyes and smiled.
Chapter Five
Doctor Douglas stood and stared along the esplanade. Two small figures were running towards him, caught between the shadow of the town and the glare of the sea. He watched as the figures approached, grew arms and legs and frightened faces. Then two pale gnomes ran past, their mouths open, their fists punching at invisible demons. At the end of the esplanade they turned, collided, recovered themselves and sprinted away down Regent Terrace.
A small, blue packet had fallen at the doctor’s feet. He picked it up and held it lightly in the palm of his hand. It was an empty matchbox. The doctor examined it carefully, tapped it with his fingernails, opened it, closed it and then, disappointed, threw it into the sea. He watched it bobbing in the broth of seaweed that slopped against the esplanade wall.
He was a big man, tall as a thunder storm, with a handsome, crumpled face. He had been christened Edward Baron Douglas but was known in Rams Horn as the doctor and, by that name, ignored. Seven years ago he’d taken the surgery in Storks Yard and had his name engraved on the brass plate. In the beginning he was encouraged by the number of people who came to him with their problems and complaints. He wrote prescriptions as elaborate as love letters, offered his patients laxatives, purgatives and sedatives; lubricants, expectorants, embrocations and vaccinations. But as time passed the queue in the waiting room dwindled until, one morning, he found himself with an empty surgery.
He was surprised. He was suspicious. He waited for winter to bring leaking lungs and scarlet throats. But no one sought his advice. He waited for summer to bear a rash of blisters, burns and bites. But no one seemed to need his help. He began to believe that the little town must be spared any sickness worth serious medical attention. There were remote places in the world where people lived without fear of disease. The water disinfected them or some secret in the soil protected them. If he could find the secret of Rams Horn his name would appear in the Lancet. He was nearly fifty and after so many years of cutting corns and dressing boils he was glad of a chance to enhance his reputation.
So the doctor sat alone in Storks Yard and began to conduct an investigation of the soil, the vegetables and the local lobsters. After many weeks’ work he was confident the answer lay in the river. The Sheep fascinated him. He tested the water and made delicate experiments upon stinking turds of mud. He read the pamphlets of Wilton Hunt and even paid his respects to the pyramid. His research was expensive and exhaustive. He found several parasitic worms in the mud and an ugly protozoan that he ‘could not name, although he suspected it carried amoebic dysentery. But why the town should enjoy such rude and vigorous health continued to elude him.
He asked the old men of the town if they had ever drunk water drawn from the Sheep. But they shook their heads and looked perplexed. They didn’t understand the question.
‘You should ask Mrs Halibut,’ suggested one of the elders, a wrinkled sage in a woollen balaclava. During the war he had lost an ear in a threshing machine and wore the balaclava to protect his brains from the draught. ‘If there’s anything strange in the water Mrs Halibut will know about it.’
‘She cured Tanner Atkins’ varicose veins with maggot paste,’ said his companion, a large lizard with ginger whiskers. He speared the whiskers with a clay pipe and chewed smoke thoughtfully.
‘Maggots?’
‘Yes, but you have to soak them overnight in milk.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ complained the doctor. ‘That’s witchcraft.’
‘There’s nothing more natural than maggots,’ said the one in the balaclava.
‘She cured old Bedlow’s liver with onions.’
‘That’s right. And when I had the fever she helped me sweat it out with nettle brandy.’
The doctor listened to these testimonials in complete astonishment. He began to suspect that his empty surgery owed more to Mrs Halibut than the magic properties of the Sheep.
He made other enquiries in the town. He remembered that Mrs Stringer kept her legs in bandages and when he asked about her health she confessed that she was under Mrs Halibut’s supervision. He examined her legs and found a mild eczema that was caused by keeping her legs in bandages.
‘I use Mrs Halibut’s ointment night and morning,’ she said, staring proudly at her rash.
‘Does it work?’
‘Yes, I’ve been using it for years,’ she said as she rewrapped her legs. ‘And something for the pain,’ she added and brought him a large bottle of cloudy green liquid that smelt of juniper and cloves.
The more he learned about Mrs Halibut the less he liked it. She had long ago been accepted as the medical authority for Rams Horn, Drizzle and beyond. Her remedies might be harmless but some of the ailments they were supposed to cure could be dangerous. While the sick placed their trust in parsley he would never reach them with penicillin. A bad winter with an epidemic of influenza could kill everyone west of the Sheep.
Finally he resolved to confront Mrs Halibut and explain his fears. It was a warm morning in late April and beyond the town the ditches were crowded with cow-parsley. He walked as far as the Drizzle turning and then followed the old Jamaica Road until it narrowed into a cart track between dense black-thorn hedges full of fighting finches. He was hot and his shoes were peppered with dust by the time he reached the cottage.
He found himself staring at a handsome block of Purbeck stone planted in an undergrowth of shrubs. He kicked open the gate, pushed through the foaming wall of blossom and hammered on the cottage door. A bumble-bee sailed from the flowers and settled for a moment on his sleeve.
When Mrs Halibut appeared the doctor stepped back in surprise. He had been expecting a witch in a canvas apron, a rheumy druid or a mad mooncalf. He found, instead, a lean, middle-aged woman with green eyes and a halo of curly auburn hair.
‘Good morning,’ he said, grinning like a fool. ‘Mrs Stringer let me look at her legs.’
Mrs Halibut gave him a queer look and shrank back into the safety of the cottage.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ he explained. ‘My name is Doctor Douglas.’ And he slapped his pockets as if searching for his qualifications.
She hesitated, frowned at his shoes, and then invited him to follow her into the parlour. She was wearing a dark cotton caftan and, although it covered her from the throat to the ankles, he had an uncomfortable sense of her body moving beneath it, as if he had caught her preparing for bed. When she walked, her little feet kicking at the frayed hem, the caftan clung around her legs, her belly and the tips of her breasts. When she sat down it sank and shivered into the hollows of her body.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she said.
The room was small and filled with chintz. He perched on the edge of the sofa and spread his hands upon his knees. He stared at the knuckles for several moments, struggling to arran
ge his thoughts, while Mrs Halibut sat and watched him from her armchair beneath the window. The curly halo caught the light so that her face began to glow like a medieval Madonna.
‘Don’t say anything,’ she announced suddenly. ‘I think I know what’s wrong.’
The doctor felt relieved. He sighed and smiled and nodded at Mrs Halibut. He should have known she would be sympathetic to his problem.
‘Constipation,’ declared Mrs Halibut. ‘Try raw vegetables. Apples. Honey. And I’ll make you up a rhubarb powder.’
‘No,’ protested the doctor, pulling at his collar. ‘I don’t want a cure.’
Mrs Halibut rolled her green eyes and tried to conceal her amusement. Nobody wanted to remain constipated. He really was a very strange man.
The doctor cleared his throat and tried to explain the reasons for his visit. He said that, as a child, he had been given a herbal cough mixture that was both soothing and delicious. He said that there were many wonderful cures to be found in plants. Science had refined these drugs, of course, but nonetheless there were still many secrets left in the forest. He said that diseases were mysterious in their origins and effects but appropriate treatment could always be developed in the laboratory. And then, when he could no longer conceal his complaint, he said that the good people of Rams Horn appeared to put all their trust in herbalism when they might obtain greater benefit from modern medicine. He would be obliged if she would recommend him to those who were obviously sick or in distress.
The doctor fell silent. He held his breath. He had expected her to be indignant but she sat quietly and retaliated with nothing more than a vague, disgusted stare that made him feel like a farting schoolboy.
‘There are too many chemicals in modern medicines,’ she said at last. ‘They kill more than they cure.’
‘Everything is chemical. The elements of all creation are chemicals,’ the doctor explained.
‘There are no chemicals in my medicines,’ said Mrs Halibut indignantly. ‘Grapes for the liver. Nuts for the heart. Bananas for the kidneys. It’s what we call the healing hand of nature.’
‘But think of the damage you could inflict on someone with a serious condition,’ he pleaded.
‘I don’t give them anything dangerous.’
‘No, but they might need urgent medical attention. They could die without proper treatment.’
‘I give them proper treatment. Doctors used the natural methods for centuries. There’s nothing wrong with it.’ She pouted and her lower lip grew as fat as a rose bud. Her face held the implacable innocence of a child. Her faith in the power of nettles, knit-bone and comfrey was complete. She had trained as a hairdresser but she preferred medicine.
‘The serious conditions,’ he said again.
‘Elderflower infusion for bronchitis. Yoghurt for heart failure. Mistletoe extract for cancers,’ replied Mrs Halibut gently.
‘And how would you feel if someone you treated collapsed and died?’ the doctor shouted. He didn’t care what she gave her patients. She was free to feed them potting compost. But if they were sick they also needed efficient drugs. It wasn’t a game. It was a question of life and death.
Mrs Halibut looked startled. ‘You can’t kill someone with kindness,’ she said.
‘It’s a risk.’
Mrs Halibut put her hands together and slowly knitted the fingers. ‘I would only regret that they hadn’t reached me while they still had a chance of recovery,’ she said and offered him a sad but stubborn smile.
‘But they’re my responsibility,’ hissed the doctor.
‘They’re not your patients,’ she reminded him softly.
The doctor stared at her with his mouth open.
‘You could live to be ninety if you took molasses in a little hot water to wash out your bowels at night,’ chided Mrs Halibut as she watched him struggle to his feet.
The doctor stood and stared at the floor, defeated. There was nothing to be done about it. He saw himself growing old in Storks Yard, sitting alone with the dusty drugs cabinet, a mad and feeble lunatic, his name scratched from the medical register, the victim of yoghurt and witchcraft.
‘Thank you, I knew you’d understand the problem,’ he said, smiling vacantly and moving to the door.
‘I’m trying to help you,’ explained Mrs Halibut. ‘Just imagine – your surgery would be full every day of the week without all my work.’
‘Yes,’ sighed the doctor as he stumbled from the cottage. ‘Imagine it.’
‘You’d feel better without your constipation,’ she added sweetly as she watched him kicking through the shrubbery.
The following day the doctor went back to old Mrs Stringer and confiscated her bottle of herbal pain killer, hinting that it had originally been intended to clear thistles from lawns. Mrs Stringer, an enthusiastic hypochondriac, was thrilled and willingly surrendered her medicine in exchange for twenty sleeping tablets.
‘Take two at night to send your legs to sleep,’ he said as he wrote the prescription. ‘Call into the surgery when you’ve finished them.’
Later, when he analyzed the dull, green liquid, he discovered Mrs Halibut’s secret. The medicine he had stolen was supermarket gin disguised with mashed herbs. His heart sank. Now he understood why her cures were so popular. She mixed cocktails of folklore and spirits.
He stood on the esplanade and watched the empty matchbox swimming in circles. He prayed for a plague. He wanted to show the town the power of his own medicine. He needed a surgery full of sweating, frightened faces; raw throats and swollen glands. How could he demonstrate his superior skills unless the people of Rams Horn were prepared to suffer for the sake of their health? He wasn’t asking for the moon. Mrs Halibut was welcome to treat all the warts and whitlows. A small group of appreciative patients with interesting complaints would be enough to satisfy him. He was lonely.
And then, despite himself, he thought again of Mrs Clancy sitting in the surgery chair while he held her head between his hands and watched as she teased him with her tongue. She had consulted him briefly one morning for an antiseptic gargle. It was nothing serious. He might have written the prescription without giving her an examination. But it was raining outside, the waiting room was empty and Mrs Clancy was a handsome woman.
‘I think we should have a look at you,’ he said casually, kneeling down beside her chair. She was wearing a white silk shirt and a string of little amber beads. He unpicked the button on her collar and placed his hand against the warmth of her throat. The beads clattered. Perfume came whispering from her breasts.
‘Is it sore?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she whispered and closed her eyes.
He stood up and walked behind the chair, holding her head in his hands, tilting her face and letting the heavy, polished hair spill through his cradle of fingers.
‘Show me your tongue,’ he said.
Her lips parted to reveal her teeth and she let him peep at the slender tip of her glistening tongue.
‘Open your mouth,’ he whispered.
She opened her mouth and flicked out the stiff and trembling blade. Dear God, he bent towards her face and almost fainted with the force of his desire. He wanted to fall upon her mouth, clasp her tongue between his teeth and devour it. He wanted to throw her against the floor, snap all her buttons and roll her buttocks in his hands. It was madness. He scribbled the prescription with trembling fingers. It was bad enough that Rams Horn ignored him. He wasn’t going to help his reputation by threatening to attack the few women who still came to him for advice. He pushed the prescription into her hand and hurried her through the door.
But he couldn’t forget Mrs Clancy. Since that first encounter she had tormented his days and filled his nights with sorrow. He had dreams in which she fell down stairs and was carried senseless into Storks Yard upon a litter of straw, her hair loose and her breasts torn free from their harness. In the dreams he would force the kiss of life upon her mouth until she struggled, moaned, and he woke up gasping for breath
with his face buried into the pillow.
He turned and stared across at Regent Terrace, squinting up at the windows where Mrs Clancy moved, unseen, behind the half-drawn curtains. The sea roared against the esplanade. The matchbox sank through the black and tangled seaweed.
Chapter Six
Mrs Clancy lay in bed and refused to speak to a single soul, living or dead. With her head supported by a mountain of herb pillows she languished, with her eyes lightly closed and her arms crossed over her broad bosom, trying to make sense of the devils she had seen in the glass. She had reached the conclusion that her late husband was responsible for the dancing Beelzebub but why he had chosen to announce himself by throwing her into a fright remained a mystery. For years Captain Turnpike Clancy had eluded the finest clairvoyants in London, her own scrying crystal had revealed no trace of him, and now he was mysteriously close at hand, reaching out to her with some diabolic warning that she could not understand. She had done nothing to upset or disappoint him. There seemed no sense in such an ugly manifestation when he could have chosen to speak to her through the tea leaves or Tarot cards.
She had met the Captain at a summer dance and she’d been overwhelmed by his experience and charm. She was a village girl, sheltered and painfully innocent. He could speak French and German and dance the tango. He gambled at cards and drank pink gins. His smile was quick and his legs were strong. Eager to capture a virgin he had married her the following spring and taken her to India for the honeymoon.
‘Nothing shall ever separate us,’ vowed Mrs Clancy the bride.
‘We’ll be together forever,’ smiled the beautiful young officer and kissed her neck.
She closed her eyes and repeated the words. Together forever. And she knew then that they would love each other to death, into the grave and beyond.
She remembered how they had stood together on a hotel verandah sipping cocktails at dusk and listening to the peacocks scream. He’d smoked a cigar and gazed silently out across the desert, his face dark and suddenly forbidding and remote. When he turned to her again and drew the shawl around her shoulders, she glimpsed a violence in his eyes that disturbed her, making her tremble and blush. The walls of their room were hung with tapestries and rugs. Incense smouldered in a brass dish. The bed was veiled. His body was cool. All night she lay in his arms, while the blades of the fan whispered softly in the spiced darkness.
