The Pharmaceutical Journal Vol 267 No 7179 p911-936
22-29 December 2001

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Christmas miscellany summary

A pharmaceutical time warp

The pharmacist walked the length of his stylish, modern shop and locked the front door. "You can go home Christine. I know you must have lots to do as it's Christmas Eve. It was good of you to help me with the late dispensing duty."

"Goodnight Mr Smith. Merry Christmas." He heard Christine close the side door behind her as she left.

John Smith hesitated in the empty shop. "Peace at last," he sighed. It had been a particularly busy and stressful day. There had been the first signs of a 'flu epidemic, making several urgent oxygen deliveries necessary. Several repeat prescription forms had somehow gone astray between the doctor's surgery and his premises. All these problems came on top of the inevitable seasonal rush. Christmas time was always fraught with problems.

"I don't know why I bother." He voiced his frustrations, and looked around the depleted shelves. A couple of days' rest then back to this grind. It gets worse each year. Maybe I'd have enjoyed it better in the old days, in those slower, less stressful times, John thought ruefully. Then he had time to think and time to talk to his customers.

John shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the dispensary, intending to set the burglar alarm and switch off the lights. He looked over at the computer to make doubly sure that Christine had turned it off. His eyes fell on the old prescription book that he had found in the cellar that morning, when he'd moved the last of the oxygen cylinders. He'd been too busy then, so he'd pushed the book on the shelf above the computer. Now he noticed it was leather bound with gold lettering on the spine. Even though use and time had dulled the gold leaf, the year, 1901, was still clearly legible.

Exactly a century ago, John thought, one hundred years full of changes. On impulse, he reached the book down from the shelf and idly opened the front cover. Stuck on the first page was an ornate dispensing label.

"Cornelius Beadle, Chemist & Druggist. Late of Savory & Moore of London, Chemists to Royalty."

He flicked through the pages and glanced at the entries: gonorrhoea powders, blood cleansing pills, wooden tongue mixture for cattle — each page presented another strange prescription. Each recipe was written in Latin, in a round, copperplate hand. His interest aroused, he turned towards the back of the book, looking for the entries for 24 December, exactly one hundred years before.

"My God! It was just as busy then," he muttered to himself as he ran his finger down the successive pages of closely written items, each one a preparation that was extemporaneously made. It appeared the Edwardian patients left everything to the last minute, just as their modern day equivalents did.

"Ah, I wonder what happened here?" Three quarters of the way down the fourth page the writing ceased in mid sentence and there was a large ink blot spattered across the paper like a flat black spider. "That's very out of character. Everything else is so neat." He was about to turn the page to see what it said on the reverse, when there was a loud noise from the cellar.

He knew the shop was empty. He slammed the book shut and started to hurry out of the dispensary. Only then did he notice the changes in his surroundings.

The interior of the shop had altered completely. Gone were the modern fittings, the display stands and the bright strip lights. Gone were the colourful packets and bottles from the shelves. The shop was now fitted in dark mahogany. Glazed doors enclosed all the stock shelves. Behind the counter was a run of drug drawers with gold labels and glass knobs. Above these high fittings sat two huge shop rounds of coloured water, and between these ticked a large, round dialled, wall clock. In place of the strip lighting, gas lights hung from the ceiling, giving a dim, spluttering illumination. The whole place looked like a museum exhibit.

An accident!

John hardly had time to take in these changes before a boy, dressed in old fashioned clothes and wearing an overlarge leather apron, rushed into the sales area from the cellar steps, his boots rattling on the bare wooden floorboards as he ran.

"Mr Beadle, Sir! Mr Beadle Sir! It's Billy. He's had an accident. I think he's dead!" The lad glanced around the empty shop, then rushed out into the street, still calling the name.

But I just locked that door, John thought, bewildered. Then the words the lad had shouted registered with him. Someone had had an accident in the cellar. Billy, whoever he was, needed help.

John rushed down the cellar steps, pausing at the bottom to get his bearings in that strange place. The cellar, like the sales floor, had changed beyond recognition. It was ill lit, with two oil lamps suspended from the low ceiling. The walls were shelved and lined with stock. Black lacquered tins with Latin labels lined one side. The opposite wall was full of bottles, bags and small barrels. Upended on the floor was a large wooden barrel and sticking out from beneath it was a pair of legs! John rushed over to Billy and tried to lift the barrel off him but it weighed too much, so he rolled it carefully off the boy's chest and pushed it aside.

A closer look told John the lad was not conscious. He knelt down at the victim's side and checked his breathing. There was no discernible breathing. He felt for a pulse and put his ear against the lad's chest to search for a heartbeat, but he could detect neither. Immediately he started CPR, as he had been taught in a first aid class at college. There was no time to stop and wonder about the strangeness of the situation. No time to query whom this lad was and how he came to be in the cellar. John concentrated solely on performing the lifesaving routine, putting everything else out of his mind.

After 10 minutes of mouth to mouth resuscitation, punctuated by pumping the victim's chest, John was relieved to feel the boy move. A quick check confirmed he was breathing for himself and his pulse had returned. The lad opened his eyes and looked up at his saviour with bewilderment. John smiled down at him and was about to speak to reassure him, when he became aware of the sound of shuffling feet nearby. The boy he had first seen, accompanied by a tall man in a dark frock coat, was staring at him from the cellar steps. John rose from his knees and smiled at the newcomers. They returned his gaze with wide eyes and shocked looks. Slowly the scene dissolved. The cellar returned to the familiar room that John used to store his oxygen cylinders, the old invoices and paperwork. The dark figures faded away like shadows. He was left standing alone in the silent room.

After some minutes, assuring himself that all was normal again, John climbed the cellar steps to the shop. He was relieved to see the sales area was exactly as it had been. It all seemed to have been a dream.

In the dispensary he picked up the old prescription book and read again the entries for 24 December. Nothing had altered there. The last page still stopped abruptly at the spidery ink stain. He turned over the page, as he had intended to do before the apparition of the boy appeared, hesitating momentarily to listen in case the scene was re-enacted. Silence filled the shop. With relief he looked down at the new page and was amazed at what was written there.

Miracle

"Yesterday, 24 December, I witnessed a miracle. Billy was returned to life after a fatal accident. I myself saw an angel bending over him and breathing life into his dead body. Daniel, my other apprentice, was with me and witnessed it all. Billy is non the worse for his ordeal, suffering only a little bruising about the ribs from the weight of the molasses cask. May God be praised." Beneath the entry was a bold signature. "Cornelius Beadle, 25 December 1901".

John shook his head in disbelief and closed the book. It was then he realised his fingers were slightly sticky. He rubbed his thumb against the unknown substance and gingerly touched it to his tongue "Molasses, Well I never!"