Cravendish
CHAPTER TWO
There was something about the small town of Brayburn. It wasn't like other towns of similar size and demeanour, location or pensivity. Oddness would seep from the ground up, or from the top down, out of the eaves, down the drainpipes, into the damp course and through the grouting, into the pavement cracks, over to the Beach Lawns and out to sea, where it was dissolved and dissipated into harmless salt water a mile or so from the coast. No one who entered the catchment of Brayburn ever returned to their native lands without being coated in some kind of slimy eccentricity that kept the unique in and the ordinary out. Cravendish was born here, grew up here, cut his knee there and fell out of that tree - arguably no more that a month ago, but he was on a case. He was used to the chicanery Brayburn held close to it's apple core. It was every day for him. Trouble was, it was because it was every day for him that he longed for something more.
Most locals kept away from Cravendish. Many even snickered behind veiny hands and talked about him like he was ‘one of them characters in one of them magazines, what was odd and had something wrong with them’. The only thing wrong with Cravendish was his ambition outstretched his means. But that wouldn't stop him, moving as he was like a marathon runner in a swamp. At least now there was this one case.
Claire had looked excited for him, hadn't she? It was difficult to tell, as she gave so little of herself away. But a spark of light in a dark lonely cave was a Godsend to the idiot without a torch. It would keep him enthused for the rest of the day, at least, if not longer and into the night. He found he would often dream of her, their life together and the children they created. But that was all it remained; a dream.
It was still too early in the day for the truly absurd of Brayburn to rise from their Coffins, or venture out form their Mausoleums, but a handful of the truly odd did reflect the true reputation for uniqueness the town of Brayburn so secretly haled, and were just that little bit proud of in certain quarters. There was the erratic postman, named Eric, who hated people and unnecessary exercise, which led him to often leave post with the first house in a street, for someone else to distribute - and there was Evelynn the shouty lady, who roamed about the streets continuing a conversation with herself, occasionally involved others, but remained a harmless solo diatribe, nonetheless. Not forgetting Derek Stromme. He was once of the partially successful Sixties and Seventies group Golden Mane, but was now a stroller of the pathways, down on his luck and missing a large chunk of memory about his past times, due to the copious amount of drugs he consumed when he was young and invulnerable; the infinite and eternal Rock Star. It wasn't the dream of all, but still the dream of many. For Cravendish, it was evidence of the addiction of excess, incarnate in a filthy, dirty tramp with the odour of a decaying badger and carrying the carcass of a decaying badger to entertain such a notion.
But still, Derek Stromme, Evelynn - even Eric - they at least had their adventures; periods of their lives that marked their passage. Even if that mark was often brown and a bit smelly.
The Doctor's Waiting Room gave the impression of a Centre for Tropical Disease Control, but only if there happened to be a geriatric branch of that organisation. The vacuous Receptionist was fighting a soulless battle with a stapler, while attempting to manifest the impression of the Bride of Frankenstein in both manner and vocal intonation. Her words manifested less syllables, more contempt and represented the actual telephone manner of an evil sadistic robot with an attitude problem.
Around the walls of the Waiting Room was plastered a convocation of every hypochondriac's wet dream, exhibiting the varied list of likely sicknesses available, with at least one Government-funded parsimonious yet well-meaning group with a pun based name that must have been witty for the drunken hour it took to come up with it. Eventually after long minutes, where entire civilisations had risen and fell, Cravendish was called in to the Examination Room. At least he presumed it was him, as the voice that was muffled and hurried through the cheap intercom system which would embarrass even a casual drive-thru operator in its contempt, had made a noise that sounded close to it, and no one else had risen to claim the moniker.
The corridor that led to the Examination Room took a twist and turn, entirely unnecessarily. Cravendish knocked the door with all the politeness he could muster and opened the door, stiff as it was, rubbing over the dog-eared dog-pile carpet, reinforcing the deep groove embedded into it. Doctor Chandra Koar, the recently University educated General Practitioner, waved a hand to Cravendish to sit as he entered. The Examination Room was obviously used by more than this one practitioner. There were instruments for the phlebotomist, the diabetian and the obstetrician, evident through the various posters about the room, in their graphic depictions, "Please, take a seat." she instructed, "I have your case notes here, Mr Cravendish? Dairy, wheat, glucose, histamine, yeast and alcohol intolerance; it stumped a number of my colleagues up at Redwall Hospital, I can tell you!" Doctor Koar sifted through the bundles of paper she had sprinkled about her desk, revelling in the sheer delight of discovery.
"Cravendish." expressed Cravendish, somewhat distractedly.
Doctor Koar continued, "It seems, now that the results are in, that you are suffering from what is called - hang on - Hakstaeder-Minklestein Complex." Doctor Koar clasped her fingers together, unwilling to relinquish control of the details of the case, lest she should lose her enthusiasm for it, "Ah, this has fascinated me, Mr Cravendish. You know why? Well, in part, do you know how nearly impossible it is to have constipation and diarrhoea at the same time? Not to mention your protracted stomach cramps, abdominal pains, bloating and acid reflux, oh and that irritable bowel syndrome? And that's just the digestive system! What about the skin? Eczema, rashes, urticaria? And then there's the aches and pains, the headaches, sinusitis -" Doctor Koar listed the symptoms as though they came from the favourite highlights of some kind of mad scientist's wish list.
"Still, mustn't grumble." answered Cravendish, "And it's just Cravendish -"
It was quite obvious that she wasn't, in fact, listening to a word Cravendish was saying, as though his presence was an increasing inconvenience to her naked ambition, "Mr Cravendish, if you could give me your approval, I would like to make a Journal Paper out of your case? Strictly anonymous, I assure you?"
Of course she didn't really care what Cravendish's reply was, but he felt compelled to give one anyway, as the question seemed to require comment, "Just Cravendish, and yes, I can see no reason not to -"
"Good good. Now, about your Mother? I have received a letter from - a Wilbur Burne from the Brayburn Nursing Home? He says they have a place up there for your Mother, available on the Tenth. I can start proceedings with Social Services -"
"No. Not yet. Wait a bit. I need to -" Cravendish knew the words were in there somewhere, but right now they were somewhere at the end of a map, looking at the sights and landmarks of the next town over.
Doctor Koar looked taken aback by any contrary suggestion to her recommendation, demonstrating that disagreeing with her was an act of attrition, "The place won't be open for long, Mr Cravendish? Best to get the ball rolling -"
This was something Cravendish didn't want to hear right now, "Yes, I know. I'll give you my decision in the next couple of days. I've got a case of my own pending -"
Doctor Koar's raised eyebrow was in danger of becoming entangled with the ceiling air-conditioning duct and becoming danger to low flying planes, "Ah, your - Detective Agency? I have a few mental health professionals I could put you in touch with, if you think it would help with your delusion?" She held her pen in emphasis, but also as some kind of novelty weapon protecting the designated safe distance between them.
Cravendish felt slapped by a wet trout, "What? No, its a real case, about a -"
Doctor Koar wasn't listening, demonstrating a sudden and robotic disinterest in anything else that came out of Cravendish's mouth, other than blood or some dangerous foreign object, "Mr Cravendish, I have a waiting room full of other patients, you know. Look, just try and keep off those irritant foods, okay?"
Cravendish stood, cravenly walked to the door and grabbed the handle, feeling compelled to get one or two things straight, "Right. And please, just Cravendish?"
"Sorry, Mr Cravendish?" said Doctor Koar. And with that Cravendish took his exit.
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