The Poor Mouth_ A Bad Story About the Hard Life - Flann O'Brien [36]
–Oh well now, I don’t know, he said. Are there salts in it?
–No, I don’t think so.
–Is there anything in the line of bromide or saltpetre?
–No. I believe the stuff in the fluid is mostly vitamins. I would say it is mainly a blood tonic.
–Ah-Ah? The blood is all, of course. It’s like the mainspring on a watch. If a man lets his blood run down, he’ll find himself with all classes of boils and rashes. And scabs.
–And rheumatism, I added.
–And who is this chemist when he is at home?
–He’s … he’s a chap I know named Donnelly. He works in Hayes, Conyngham and Robinson. He is a qualified man, of course.
–Oh very well. I’ll take a chance. Amn’t I nearly crippled? What have I to lose?
–Nothing at all.
There and then he took his first tablespoonful and after a week of the treatment said he felt much better. I was glad of this and emphasized the necessity of persevering in the treatment. From time to time I wrote to the brother for a fresh bottle.
After six weeks I began to notice something strange in the patient’s attempts at movement. His walk became most laborious and slow and the floor creaked under him. One night in bed I heard with a start a distant rending crash coming from his bedroom off the kitchen. I hurried down to find him breathless and tangled in the wreckage of his bed. It seems that the wire mattress, rusted and rotted by Mrs Crotty’s nocturnal diuresis (or bed-wetting) had collapsed under Mr Collopy’s weight.
–Well, the dear knows, he said shrilly, isn’t this the nice state of affairs? Help me out of this.
I did so, and it was very difficult.
–What happened? I asked.
–Faith and can’t you see? The whole shooting-gallery collapsed under me.
–The fire is still going in the kitchen. Put on your overcoat and rest there. I’ll take this away and get another bed.
–Very well. That catastrophe has me rightly shaken. I think a dram or two from the crock is called for.
Not in a very good temper, I took down the whole bed and put the pieces against the wall in the passage outside. Then I dismantled the brother’s bed and re-erected it in Mr Collopy’s room.
–Your bed awaits, sir, I told him.
–Faith now and that was quick work, he said. I will go in directly I finish this nightcap. You may go back to your own bed.
On the following day, Sunday, I went in next door and borrowed their weighing scales. When I managed to get Mr Collopy to stand on the little platform, the needle showed his weight to be 29 stone! I was flabbergasted. I checked the machine by weighing myself and found it was quite accurate. The amazing thing was that Mr Collopy was still the same size and shape as of old. I could attribute his extraordinary weight only to the brother’s Gravid Water, so I wrote to him urgently explaining what had happened. And the letter I got back was surprising enough in itself. Here it is:
‘It is not only in Warrington Place that amazing things are happening; they are happening here as well. A week ago the mother of Milton Byron Barnes, my partner, died. In her will, which came to light yesterday, she left him her house and about £20,000 in cash and she left £5,000 TO ME! What do you think of that? It looks like the blessing of God on my Academy.
‘I was indeed sorry about what you tell me of Mr Collopy. The cause of it is too obvious—excessive dosage. On the label of the bottle the term “t-spoonful” meant “tea-spoonful”, not “tablespoonful”. The Gravid Water, properly administered was calculated to bring about a gradual and controlled increase in weight and thus to cause a redevelopment of the rheumatoid joints by reason of the superior weight and the increased work they would have to do.
‘Unfortunately the alarming overweight you report is an irreversible result of the Gravid Water; there is no antidote. In this situation we must put our trust in God. In humble thanks for my own legacy and to help poor Mr Collopy, I have made up my mind to bring him and Father Fahrt on a pilgrimage to