The Irresistible Inheritance Of Wilberforce by Paul Torday Page B

my face beginning to hurt quite a lot as whatever painkillers I had been given wore off. At odd intervals in the middle of the night I was awakened by a nurse coming in wheeling a trolley offering treats such as spaghetti hoops and jam sponge in custard. Despite the fact that I had not eaten for so long I could not bring myself to take anything, and sent them away. How long was it since I had had a glass of wine? I lay on my bed and tried to remember all the wines produced in the Bordeaux region of Pessac-Léognan and Graves. In the darkness I murmured to myself: ‘Haut-Brion. La Mission Haut-Brion. Carbonnieux. Smith-Haute-Lafitte, Château Chasse de Frites . . . and . . . and Malartic-Lagravière . . . and . . . and . . . Haut-Brion - no, I’ve done that one . . . and Pape Clement, of course . . . and ...’
    As I tried to remember other names, my body became damp with perspiration, and my arms and legs twitched restlessly. I had some Château Carbonnieux in Half Moon Street. Half Moon Street! That was where I lived. I could not at present say what number it was, but the door was painted a dark blue. Now I had remembered where I lived, why should I not check myself out and get a taxi to take me home? There must be some money in my pockets. Hadn’t I intended to go shopping?
    I rang the night bell, and after a few moments the night-duty sister put her head around the door and said, ‘Is everything all right? Can I get you something?’
    ‘I want to go home,’ I told her.
    ‘At four in the morning? I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Mr Wilberforce. Much better you stay here until the day doctor has been in and had a look at you and we find out a bit more about what’s wrong with you.’
    ‘I know what’s wrong with me,’ I told her. ‘I’ve got my own doctor.’
    ‘Who’s that, dear?’
    I tried to remember, and this time the name came. ‘Colin Holman - Dr Colin Holman. I’ve an appointment with him. What day is it today?’
    ‘It’s very early on Monday morning.’
    ‘Then I must go home,’ I told her. ‘My appointment is later today. I must go home. It’s very important.’
    ‘And what does he say is wrong with you, dear?’ asked the night sister.
    ‘He thinks I’m dying of too much drink,’ I told her, ‘although I only drink wine, and then always the same amount, of very good quality Bordeaux. I never drink spirits, of course, and I never drink excessively.’
    Two hours later I had managed to make them bring me my clothes, found my money and my flat keys, signed several forms to allow the hospital to release me, and managed to find a taxi to take me home.
    The taxi driver looked in the driving mirror when I climbed into the back of the cab. ‘Blimey, you’ve been in the wars, mate,’ he said cheerfully.
    I caught a brief glimpse of my face which was livid purple on the side I had fallen down on, with bandages taped over where I had cut myself. ‘I’ve been in Bogotá,’ I told him.
    ‘Really? Must be rough over there, then,’ he said.
    I sat in my kitchen at home, relieved beyond measure to be back within my own four walls. I still felt distinctly unwell, and very empty, but somehow another trip to the shop, which would be open by now, did not appeal just at present. Perhaps I could ask Colin to get in a few things when he came to see me later in the day.
    Meanwhile, it had been a very long time since I had drunk a glass of wine. With, I admit, trembling hands I found the last bottle of Château Carbonnieux and opened it. An alcoholic, which I am not and never have been, would not have sat and let it breathe for half an hour, and let it come up towards room temperature. He would not have poured it lovingly into the large bowl of a tasting glass, to ensure the bouquet could develop properly. Nor would he have checked the glass first for any mustiness. So often a musty glass can destroy the taste of the wine in it. I could smell nothing on the glass, although a smell of mould did