Literary Orphans

Eson’s Nose
by Eric Nicholson

Nevermind_the_memories_by_DianaCretu

There was an Old Man with a nose,

Who said, ‘If you choose to suppose,

That my nose is too long,

You are certainly wrong!’

That remarkable Man with a nose.

Edward Lear

That Christmas Eson had experienced increasing difficulty breathing. He had tried all sorts of inhalers and nasal sprays, all to no avail. He would have made do with Fisherman’s Friends if it had not been for his profession. As a concert trumpeter he relied on his nose, lungs and throat being in perfect working order. He was relieved that his affliction had developed over Christmas when he had no concert bookings. He had tried inhaling through his mouth whilst playing his trumpet but the results were unmusical. His condition seemed to worsen during the period after Christmas, so he had made an appointment to see Dr O’Neil.

He had the operation on the 16th of January which was good going in these days of long waiting lists. A simple matter of a nasal polyp. A globular growth snipped under local anaesthetic. His sister had remarked that was why he’d been seen to so quickly. It wasn’t exactly major surgery.

A week after the operation Eson was playing the trumpet as commandingly as ever. He had been plagued by a tickling sensation at first but that had soon worn off. He gave his first concert on 29th January and the reviews were complimentary. Afterwards Eson gave a sigh of relief and told his sister, half seriously, that he might have to insure his nose to cover possible future incidents.

A few weeks later his sister wondered how serious he had been. Eson began to complain that his nose itched continually and had started to grow at an alarming rate. Joy had thought that her brother was indulging his impish sense of humour at first, but when he repeated his story day after day, she had had to take him seriously. She noticed that he began to change in other disturbing ways. Subtle changes to begin with which, no doubt, strangers would have put down to absent-mindedness. After all, Eson was now in his fifty ninth year and mild dementia was not out of the question. Joy thought about their father who had suffered from Alzheimer’s before he died.

Eson continued to play the trumpet as brilliantly as ever, although critics remarked that he now held his golden instrument in a lowered position as if avoiding an invisible obstacle in front of his face. Critics also commented on his increasingly eccentric behaviour. For example he would converse with music stands and instead of shaking hands with the conductor, he would grasp the nearest potted plant at the foot of the stage. On one occasion he hung onto a hanging basket and it crashed into the front row of the audience knocking an elderly woman unconscious.

When Joy questioned him about his behaviour, he gave the impression of being genuinely puzzled by her concern. He continued to talk proudly of his enlarged nose. He boasted that it was almost three feet long and still growing. Joy tried every device to bring him to his senses. She had thought at the beginning of this nightmare that a mirror would have settled the matter once and for all. Eson, however, merely admired his proboscis in the mirror, stroking it lovingly. As for his other eccentric behaviour, Joy was initially relieved that he still recognised her as his sister. This relief was unfortunately, short-lived. As the weeks passed it soon became apparent that Eson recognised no-one. He went about his daily tasks mechanically, often singing to himself. On the occasions that people spoke to him he ignored them. He stopped playing his trumpet but spent a lot of time polishing the instrument until it gleamed like new. Matters came to a head when he flung his overcoat over Joy’s head and asked the hat-stand what was for dinner.

Joy made an appointment with Dr O’Neil. He was as puzzled as anyone about Eson’s strange condition. During the extensive examination he could find nothing wrong with his eyesight or hearing. Physically he seemed to be A1. The problem obviously lay elsewhere. The doctor had to conclude that the condition was either psychological or the result of a brain tumour. Until a brain scan could be arranged he preferred to keep an open mind.

As Dr O’Neil finished the examination, Eson had a brief moment of lucidity. He turned to the doctor and said, “I used to be a concert trumpeter. My trumpet is very valuable.”

But the doctor was less encouraged by Eson’s next utterance: “Now I polish my nose every night.”

 

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Eric Nicholson is now retired. He worked as an ESOL teacher and also worked in other fields of education. Now, in his retirement he enjoys countryside conservation, wildlife recording and walking. Has published in neutronsprotons.com. Member of North East of England writing group, called, Scribblers.

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–Art by Diana Cretu

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