I. Mr Norrell has Indigestion (Childermass & Norrell, gen)
Mr Norrell knew that Childermass didn't really understand his...weakness. Which was fine, because he didn't really understand it himself.
He would go for days eating much what everyone else did, and (as long as he managed to avoid salmon, duck, aubergine, strawberries, oysters, asparagus, walnuts, tomatoes, or certain sorts of cheese) he would do very well.
Mr Norrell loved sweets, as well, but they did not always return that affection by giving him a settled stomach.
Today was not a good day. He woke up too early, and his head was full of noise. Not real noise, apparently: if it had really sounded the way it did in his head, people would rush out into the streets to remonstrate with the cause of the noise. It was a sound of distant voices and dull thudding. It was what he considered the London-noise: sometimes it was tolerable and could be ignored, other times not. When he had been in Yorkshire, all he had usually needed was a quiet day without people closing doors too near him, and he'd have been all right the next day.
He tried to hide under the pillow, which never worked for long. A too-loud rap on the door restored him to reality.
When he was dressed, his head itched under his wig, and none of his clothes felt right. Given that he never bought new clothes in years because he loved the soothing softness of his old ones, this was most unfair. He did not like the sound of his shoes tapping on the hard floor.
Going down for his usual morning gruel, he was disappointed-but-unsurprised to find it too thick. Or too thin. Or otherwise unfamiliar and unpleasant on his tongue. It was sweet, which he normally liked, but somehow the wrong sort of sweet. He did not trouble to send it back and ask for a better one: sometimes he did that, but it never seemed to work.
People were trying to talk to him. He made an excuse and went to his library as soon as possible.
He tried and tried and tried to work, even failing to sit comfortably with his books and read with no direct goal at hand, which he could usually manage. The pages sounded crunchy when he turned them, and the writing crawled under his eyes. Lascelles kept asking him for the draft of an article which he had believed would be ready today.
He should say something to Lascelles. What sort of thing did people say about that?
Childermass was away. He missed Childermass, who usually had the knack of redirecting his attention or somehow soothing him. Childermass would have known what to say.
He had the head-ach from reading, which did not usually trouble him, and his stomach was slightly tender and queasy.
Whenever the servants came to ask him what he would like, he waved them away, not feeling capable of speech.
At dinner-time he went down to dinner simply because he thought too much fuss would be made if he didn't.
The food was far too salty, and far, far too highly-spiced. He could also smell some pleasing sweets, but they were making him feel a little sick so close to the smell of the savoury food, and he had no actual appetite.
He did not know whether it would be reasonable to require them to withdraw the duck because it was making him feel ill, or whether he had only the right to insist on what he himself should or should not eat, and let others manage themselves.
Lucas leaned over him and (speaking in a nearly-low-enough voice) asked if he would take chicken, or carrots, or mashed potatoes.
"I do not feel hungry," he said, voice even quieter and more monotonous than usual.
Lucas insisted on his drinking a glass or two of orange shrub, which he did, in tiny sips. He liked the sweetness, was less sure about the bite of the citrus or the vinegar, and by-and-large felt just a little better for drinking.
The next couple of days he felt largely similar. He had forgotten that after a "bad day" it might help to push himself to eat and go back to normal, so he spent a lot of time in bed. Every time he noticed a glass of something was near the bed, he drank from it, and every time he needed to, he got out and used the chamber-pot, shivering with cold.
Another time he woke up, Childermass's voice felt like it was inside his ears with him. Childermass was holding him close and whispering, "I'd swear th'hast no more sense nor a bairn, didn't I say to look after thissen when I'm away?"
"Sorry," said Mr Norrell, creakily. Of course Childermass had said that sometimes. But it was lovely to hear a voice and it not to hurt.
"Can't face it," he said. "Too queasy and stomach-achy," and had to lie still and rest.
"You do realise part o' that's because you've not been eating?" said Childermass. His voice rose to its more normal tone and style of speech now Mr Norrell seemed to be a bit more aware of things.
Mr Norrell turned over on his side with his back to Childermass, trying to cradle his tender stomach protectively.
Childermass very gently drew him over on his back again, and pulled down the bed-clothes.
Mr Norrell winced a little, but said, "Will you help me, Childermass?"
Childermass reached for the jar of massage-oil beside the bed.
"Is it warm?" said Mr Norrell.
"Yes, sir," said Childermass. "Now show me where you have a belly-ache and I'll soothe it better."
Mr Norrell sighed, and pushed his night-shirt up so that only his warm night-breeches remained between him and the draught. He gestured to where his muscles were so tight and painful.
Childermass's hands should have been rough, Mr Norrell thought, but instead they sought out the knots that hunger and pain and nervous tension had left in his middle, and worked them till they eased.
After a while, he stopped feeling ill, as well, and took a long happy breath because he felt like himself again. Childermass straightened his clothes.
Then Childermass sat him up in the bed a bit, against a heap of pillows, and took the lid off a tall jug.
Mr Norrell smelt something savoury and warm. He yawned. "C'n I go t'sleep now?"
Childermass said, "Not yet. Open your mouth, sir."
A spoonful of beef broth was worth keeping awake for, he decided. It was delicious, and the strange thing that had happened on his tongue had gone away. Suddenly, he was much more interested in actual food.
"Have you got any..." he yawned again.
Childermass said, "Here you are, sir," and popped in a little bite of fresh bread.
Alternate mouthfuls of beef broth and bread probably wouldn't strike Childermass as a fit dinner, but to someone like himself, sore and miserable but still hungry, it was perfect. He opened his mouth quickly for each bit. When he slowed down, Childermass said, "That's enough for now."
Mr Norrell looked about. "Have you got any..." It seemed greedy and disobliging to ask for sweets, as if dinner wasn't enough.
"Got you a biscuit. I know you like something sweet after dinner."
Mr Norrell sighed happily, and took the first half in a neat bite from Childermass's fingers. He chewed and swallowed, and opened his mouth for the rest of it. It didn't taste the wrong sort of sweet, the way every thing was the wrong flavour and texture on his bad day.
As soon as his mouth was clear, he gave a positively enormous yawn, and was dimly aware that Childermass was laying him down and tucking him in.
"Thank you, Childermass," he said. He wished for Childermass to get into the bed with him, and hold him, but he told himself he was lucky enough to be looked after the way he was.
He went to sleep, thinking that he had noticed Childermass's boots were a little thin this winter. Perhaps he could send out for some more weatherproofed ones tomorrow.
FILL: A Bunch of Spoons and a Spork (various ratings and pairings) (1 of 6)
Mr Norrell has Indigestion (Childermass & Norrell, gen)
Mr Norrell knew that Childermass didn't really understand his...weakness. Which was fine, because he didn't really understand it himself.
He would go for days eating much what everyone else did, and (as long as he managed to avoid salmon, duck, aubergine, strawberries, oysters, asparagus, walnuts, tomatoes, or certain sorts of cheese) he would do very well.
Mr Norrell loved sweets, as well, but they did not always return that affection by giving him a settled stomach.
Today was not a good day. He woke up too early, and his head was full of noise. Not real noise, apparently: if it had really sounded the way it did in his head, people would rush out into the streets to remonstrate with the cause of the noise. It was a sound of distant voices and dull thudding. It was what he considered the London-noise: sometimes it was tolerable and could be ignored, other times not. When he had been in Yorkshire, all he had usually needed was a quiet day without people closing doors too near him, and he'd have been all right the next day.
He tried to hide under the pillow, which never worked for long. A too-loud rap on the door restored him to reality.
When he was dressed, his head itched under his wig, and none of his clothes felt right. Given that he never bought new clothes in years because he loved the soothing softness of his old ones, this was most unfair. He did not like the sound of his shoes tapping on the hard floor.
Going down for his usual morning gruel, he was disappointed-but-unsurprised to find it too thick. Or too thin. Or otherwise unfamiliar and unpleasant on his tongue. It was sweet, which he normally liked, but somehow the wrong sort of sweet. He did not trouble to send it back and ask for a better one: sometimes he did that, but it never seemed to work.
People were trying to talk to him. He made an excuse and went to his library as soon as possible.
He tried and tried and tried to work, even failing to sit comfortably with his books and read with no direct goal at hand, which he could usually manage. The pages sounded crunchy when he turned them, and the writing crawled under his eyes. Lascelles kept asking him for the draft of an article which he had believed would be ready today.
He should say something to Lascelles. What sort of thing did people say about that?
Childermass was away. He missed Childermass, who usually had the knack of redirecting his attention or somehow soothing him. Childermass would have known what to say.
He had the head-ach from reading, which did not usually trouble him, and his stomach was slightly tender and queasy.
Whenever the servants came to ask him what he would like, he waved them away, not feeling capable of speech.
At dinner-time he went down to dinner simply because he thought too much fuss would be made if he didn't.
The food was far too salty, and far, far too highly-spiced. He could also smell some pleasing sweets, but they were making him feel a little sick so close to the smell of the savoury food, and he had no actual appetite.
He did not know whether it would be reasonable to require them to withdraw the duck because it was making him feel ill, or whether he had only the right to insist on what he himself should or should not eat, and let others manage themselves.
Lucas leaned over him and (speaking in a nearly-low-enough voice) asked if he would take chicken, or carrots, or mashed potatoes.
"I do not feel hungry," he said, voice even quieter and more monotonous than usual.
Lucas insisted on his drinking a glass or two of orange shrub, which he did, in tiny sips. He liked the sweetness, was less sure about the bite of the citrus or the vinegar, and by-and-large felt just a little better for drinking.
The next couple of days he felt largely similar. He had forgotten that after a "bad day" it might help to push himself to eat and go back to normal, so he spent a lot of time in bed. Every time he noticed a glass of something was near the bed, he drank from it, and every time he needed to, he got out and used the chamber-pot, shivering with cold.
Another time he woke up, Childermass's voice felt like it was inside his ears with him. Childermass was holding him close and whispering, "I'd swear th'hast no more sense nor a bairn, didn't I say to look after thissen when I'm away?"
"Sorry," said Mr Norrell, creakily. Of course Childermass had said that sometimes. But it was lovely to hear a voice and it not to hurt.
He opened his eyes.
Childermass smiled crookedly beside him. "Dost want dinner, then?"
"Can't face it," he said. "Too queasy and stomach-achy," and had to lie still and rest.
"You do realise part o' that's because you've not been eating?" said Childermass. His voice rose to its more normal tone and style of speech now Mr Norrell seemed to be a bit more aware of things.
Mr Norrell turned over on his side with his back to Childermass, trying to cradle his tender stomach protectively.
Childermass very gently drew him over on his back again, and pulled down the bed-clothes.
Mr Norrell winced a little, but said, "Will you help me, Childermass?"
Childermass reached for the jar of massage-oil beside the bed.
"Is it warm?" said Mr Norrell.
"Yes, sir," said Childermass. "Now show me where you have a belly-ache and I'll soothe it better."
Mr Norrell sighed, and pushed his night-shirt up so that only his warm night-breeches remained between him and the draught. He gestured to where his muscles were so tight and painful.
Childermass's hands should have been rough, Mr Norrell thought, but instead they sought out the knots that hunger and pain and nervous tension had left in his middle, and worked them till they eased.
After a while, he stopped feeling ill, as well, and took a long happy breath because he felt like himself again. Childermass straightened his clothes.
Then Childermass sat him up in the bed a bit, against a heap of pillows, and took the lid off a tall jug.
Mr Norrell smelt something savoury and warm. He yawned. "C'n I go t'sleep now?"
Childermass said, "Not yet. Open your mouth, sir."
A spoonful of beef broth was worth keeping awake for, he decided. It was delicious, and the strange thing that had happened on his tongue had gone away. Suddenly, he was much more interested in actual food.
"Have you got any..." he yawned again.
Childermass said, "Here you are, sir," and popped in a little bite of fresh bread.
Alternate mouthfuls of beef broth and bread probably wouldn't strike Childermass as a fit dinner, but to someone like himself, sore and miserable but still hungry, it was perfect. He opened his mouth quickly for each bit. When he slowed down, Childermass said, "That's enough for now."
Mr Norrell looked about. "Have you got any..." It seemed greedy and disobliging to ask for sweets, as if dinner wasn't enough.
"Got you a biscuit. I know you like something sweet after dinner."
Mr Norrell sighed happily, and took the first half in a neat bite from Childermass's fingers. He chewed and swallowed, and opened his mouth for the rest of it. It didn't taste the wrong sort of sweet, the way every thing was the wrong flavour and texture on his bad day.
As soon as his mouth was clear, he gave a positively enormous yawn, and was dimly aware that Childermass was laying him down and tucking him in.
"Thank you, Childermass," he said. He wished for Childermass to get into the bed with him, and hold him, but he told himself he was lucky enough to be looked after the way he was.
He went to sleep, thinking that he had noticed Childermass's boots were a little thin this winter. Perhaps he could send out for some more weatherproofed ones tomorrow.