This week’s choice is “The Recumbent Posture” by Marriott Edgar and I have chosen it for those of my friends and family who have been suffering from the usual seasonal ailments.
He sent up a bottle of physick,
Marriott Edgar (1880—1951)
With instructions on t’ label to say,
“To be taken in a recumbent posture,
One teaspoon, three times a day.”
Poem 354. The Recumbent Posture
The day after Christmas, young Albert
Were what’s called, confined to his bed,
With a tight kind of pain in his stummick
And a light feeling up in his head.
His parents were all in a fluster
When they saw little lad were so sick,
They said, “Put out your tongue!”, When they’d seen it
They said, “Put it back again – quick!”
Ma made him a basin of gruel,
But that were a move for the worse;
Though the little lad tried hard to eat it,
At the finish he did the reverse.
The pain showed no signs of abating,
So at last they got Doctor to call.
He said it were in the ab-domain
And not in the stummick at all.
He sent up a bottle of physick,
With instructions on t’ label to say,
“To be taken in a recumbent posture,
One teaspoon, three times a day.”
As Ma stood there reading the label
Pa started to fidget about.
He said, “Get a teaspoon and dose him,
Before he gets better without.”
“I can manage the teaspoon,” said Mother
A look of distress on her face.
“It’s this ‘ere recumbent posture…
I haven’t got one in the place.”
Said Pa, “What about Mrs Lupton?
Next door ‘ere – you’d better ask her;
A woman who’s buried three husbands
Is sure to have one of them there.”
So they went round and asked Mrs Lupton,
“Aye, I know what you mean,” she replied,
“I ‘ad one on order for ‘Orace,
But poor dear got impatient and died.”
She said, “You’d best try the Co-Op shop,
They’ll have one in stock I dare say;
’ Fact I think I saw one in the winder
Last time I was passing that way.”
So round they went to the Co-Op shop,
And at the counter for household supplies;
Pa asked for a recumbent posture
And the shopman said “Yes sir… what size?”
Said Ma, “It’s for our little Albert,
I don’t know what size he would use,
I know he takes thirteen in collars,
And sixes for fittings in shoes.”
“If it’s little lad’s size as you’re wanting,”
Said the shopman, “I’m sorry to say,
We nobbut had one in the building,
And that one were sold yesterday.”
He sent them across to a tin-smith,
Who said, “I know what you’ve in mind;
If you’ll draw me a pattern, I’ll make one.”
But Pa’d left his pencil behind.
They tried every shop they could think of,
They walked for two hours by the clock,
And though most places reckoned to keep them,
They’d none of them got one in stock.
The last place they tried was the chemist,
He looked at them both with a frown.
And told them a recumbent posture
Were Latin, and meant lying down.
It means “Lying down”—put in Latin
Said Father, “That’s just what I thowt.”
Then he picked up a side-glance from Mother,
And pretended he hadn’t said nowt.
“They’re not dosing my lad with Latin.”
Said Mother, her face looking grim,
“Just plain Castor Oil’s all he’s getting
And I’m leaving the posture to him.”
I was reminded of this monologue at a concert in St. Andrew’s Church before Christmas where one of the Local Vocals group performed it, and it seems appropriate when several friends are suffering the woes of flu, Covid, or the common cold.
We begin with Albert languishing in bed, struck down by some kind of distemper afflicting his head and “stummick” equally. Ma and Pa are “all of a fluster”—agitated—by Albert’s sickness and make one of the standard parent requests when a child is ill, “Put out your tongue!” but tell him to put it away when he does. Ma makes him something to eat and Albert makes a valiant effort but “At the finish he did the reverse”—apparently refilling his bowl, though not with anything one might want to eat.
Eventually they resort to “Doctor” who is a fairly typical specimen of the type and in a very superior manner informs them that Albert’s problem lies in the “ab-domain” and provides “a bottle of physick” for the patient. This is where the problems begin, since Doctor’s manner extends to his written instructions and they say the medicine must be taken “in a recumbent posture,/One teaspoon, three times a day.” Physick in this context probably means laxative since Albert’s complaint is in his abdomen (or “ab-domain”).
Ma is nonplussed by this instruction and has to re-read the label; Pa, distressed at having had to pay for the Doctor’s visit and for the medicine (this is before the advent of the NHS), urges Ma to “Get a teaspoon and dose him/Before he gets better without”—having paid for the bottle of physick, he wants his money’s worth!
Mother explains her confusion: she hasn’t got a “recumbent posture” and Pa (who is equally at sea) suggests that the next door neighbour might have one, since she’s been widowed three times and presumably has several of these mysterious items. Mrs Lupton, however, is unable to help—“I ‘ad one on order for ‘Orace” (Horace) but the “poor dear got impatient and died” before his recumbent posture could be delivered.
She suggests “You’d best try the Co-Op shop,” saying that she’s pretty sure she “saw one in the winder” (window) when she passed by recently and Albert’s parents go in search of a “recumbent posture” for their son, presumably leaving him at home alone in bed—this was also before such neglect would have led to a visit from Social Services. Co-Op shops were (and are) owned by the Co-operative Wholesale Society (now Co-Operative Group Limited but still trading under the Co-op name. The shops had their roots in Lancashire, being set up to combat the Wicked Grocers who adulterated food to maximise their profits.
At the Co-Op shop, they ask for a recumbent posture at the household supplies counter and the shopman, unwilling to admit to ignorance, asks them what size is needed. Ma explains that she doesn’t know exactly but gives Albert’s collar size and shoe size in the hope that they will be relevant. The shopman, scenting a way out, tells them that the last one in the building “were sold yesterday” and sends them across the street to a tin-smith (a worker in tin or other light metals, a whitesmith as opposed to a blacksmith).
The tin-smith tells them he can make one if they can provide him a drawing but Pa has no pencil (he actually has no idea of what to draw and I suspect uses the lack of a pencil as an excuse) and so the quest moves on to other shops, none of which have a recumbent posture in stock (or any idea what one is) and the minutes tick by until they enter the shop of the chemist who does know what a recumbent posture is, and tells them that it means “lying down” in Latin. Pa claims that he thought that himself but is immediately silenced by what I can only imagine is a furious look from his wife.
Ma announces that despite the cost of the Doctor and his bottle of physick, she doesn’t hold with “dosing my lad with Latin” and she proposes to cure him with doses of castor oil “And I’m leaving the posture to him.” Castor oil is also a laxative, so she’s probably chosen the right medicine in any case.
I always enjoy the Albert monologues—the byplay between Pa and Ma entertains me immensely and the procession of people prepared to swear to the existence of “a recumbulent posture” (as Ma says in one of Stanley Holloway’s performances) is a comment on pretentiousness: the propensity of people to offer their expertise on matters about which they know nothing. The little moment near the end where Pa claims he knew ‘recumbent’ meant ‘lying down’ and Ma shoots him “a side-glance” is a wry observation on people’s habit of claiming that they’ve known something they’ve just learned all their lives, and the usual response to such a claim.
The best performance of this monologue is, of course, Stanley Holloway’s.
I hope that those friends who have been unwell in the last fortnight or so have recovered or are recovering from their illness and that this little monologue helps to lift their mood.