Corduroy Mansions

54. Polar Bears and Vitamin A

Dee’s Saturday was busy, even if it was not as hectic as William’s single-handed ordeal at the wine shop. The Pimlico Vitamin and Supplement Agency always took a close interest in the latest vitamin stories to appear in the press, since the effect of these was inevitably felt during the week following publication. That Thursday had seen the announcement of the results of a study into vitamin D deprivation in Scotland and she knew that it would result in a run on vitamin D in Pimlico.

This proved to be correct.

‘Three bottles of cod liver oil capsules left,’ said Martin. ‘Everybody wants it now.’

‘So they should,’ said Dee. ‘But I do wish they’d send us a circular before they made these announcements. Then we could meet demand.’ She paused. ‘Are you taking it yourself?’

Martin shook his head. ‘Should I be?’

Dee looked at him. ‘Your skin’s quite pale,’ she said. ‘Pallid, even. Are you getting enough sunlight?’

‘I thought we shouldn’t,’ said Martin. ‘My dad plays golf with a dermatologist. He says that people shouldn’t be going to Spain and sitting in the sun.’

‘That’s true, but you need some sunlight to manufacture vitamin D. That’s the trouble with people in Scotland. They don’t get enough sunlight what with all that mist. And their diet’s awful too. Look at Glasgow.’

Martin nodded. He was uncertain about Glasgow. The previous week he had been on a train with some Glaswegian football supporters on their way to a friendly. Perhaps their problem had been vitamin D deficiency.

‘Of course, you can get too many vitamins,’ Dee went on. ‘Do you know that if you ate a polar bear’s liver you would die? Did you know that, Martin?’ She made the statement with the air of one giving a warning.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Their livers contain lethal doses of vitamin A. They’re very efficient at making it, polar bears are. They need to be, up there. Poor things. Their ice floes are melting.’

‘And people shoot them,’ Martin observed.

Dee was puzzled. ‘Do they? Or do they just shoot grizzly bears?’

Martin adjusted the position of one of the remaining bottles of cod liver oil on the shelf. ‘I don’t know. But could you sleep at night, if you were a bear, in the knowledge that people were out there, prowling around, hoping to shoot you?’

‘Why do they do it?’ Dee mused. ‘Why does anybody shoot anything for pleasure, Martin? Do you understand it? You, being a man, does it make more sense to you?’

It did not. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘But it’s not just men, Dee. There are some women who shoot too. They approve of shooting creatures to death. Ending their lives, which is all they’ve got. Even if they’re just bears, their lives are all they’ve got.’

It was a defence of men that Martin felt he needed to make. Many of the shop’s customers assumed that men did not understand, and Martin resented this. He understood.

Dee did too. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you’re right. Women can be as bad as men, I suppose. Not normally, of course, but sometimes. They have fewer toxins than men, you know. That makes a big difference to behaviour.’

Martin shifted on his feet. He was not sure that he wanted the conversation to drift onto toxins, but now it was too late. Dee was looking at him with renewed interest.

‘On the subject,’ she said, ‘have you thought about what I said yesterday? About colonic irrigation?’

‘Not really,’ he mumbled. This was not true, however; he had thought about it a great deal and had even looked the matter up on the Internet, where he had found numerous descriptions of the process, complete with diagrams.

‘Well, you should think very seriously about it,’ said Dee. ‘In fact, why don’t I do it tomorrow?’

Martin suppressed a shudder. ‘Do what?’

‘Give you colonic irrigation,’ said Dee. ‘You really need it, you know. When I gave you the iridological analysis it was sticking out a mile. You really need it. All those toxins . . .’

‘I don’t think I’m particularly toxic,’ Martin said.

‘But you are, Martin! You are!’ She reached out and took his arm. ‘Listen, Martin. Tomorrow’s Sunday. Come round to my place. Come round to Corduroy Mansions tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock, maybe. Round about then. And I’ll do it for you. I’ve got all the stuff there. All right?’

He looked about him wildly. ‘I don’t know—’

Dee cut him off. ‘You’re in denial, you know, Martin.’

‘I’m not—’

‘There you are - denying.’

‘I’m denying that I’m in denial. That’s not denial.’

‘Well, if it isn’t denial, then what is it?’ asked Dee. She did not wait for an answer. ‘So that’s settled then. Eleven tomorrow. Sunday’s a very good day to do it.’

Martin seemed defeated. He found it difficult to stand up to Dee and this, in spite of the intimacy of the subject, was no exception. Even if he did need colonic irrigation - and he had nothing against it in principle - he was not sure that it was something that one should have at the hands of somebody one knew.

‘I’m sorry, Dee,’ he said. ‘I know that I might need it but why don’t I go and get it from . . . from a colonic irrigation place? From somebody I don’t know.’

She stared at him. ‘And pay for it? Why? Why pay for it? I’m helping you to save money. You didn’t think I was going to charge you, did you?’ She laughed at the sheer absurdity of charging a friend or, in this case, an employee, for colonic irrigation. Colonic irrigation could be a gift between friends; surely he knew that?

‘It’s not the money,’ Martin protested. ‘Money’s got nothing to do with it.’

Dee seemed puzzled. ‘Well, what is it then?’ She paused, searching his expression for some clue. ‘You aren’t embarrassed, are you, Martin? Surely you aren’t embarrassed?’ She smiled playfully. ‘It’s that, isn’t it?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Oh come on,’ she said. ‘You won’t find it in the slightest bit embarrassing. Not after we start. I promise you. So don’t think twice about it. Really, don’t.’ She looked at him. ‘Feeling better about it? Good. Tomorrow then. Eleven.’