The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  A stout woman with ginger hair led the way. She waddled to the counter and, surveying the ladies with her, became their spokeswoman. ‘Now then, we believe ye’ve a cure for all ailments, particularly pertaining to the specific problems of spouses.’

  Merriment flicked her eyes over the earnest faces. What had she got herself into? Two women wanted to purge their husbands’ bad temper. Another was looking to ‘wake him up. Sure, there’s no jizz in him at all.’ One woman’s husband kept crying and needed something to lift his spirits. The last woman’s husband was too pious.

  Merriment shifted uncomfortably, fumbling a little with her ledger. She had only helped Stella and the old woman out of pity. She knew if she kept offering potions to improve the disposition of cantankerous men she could be charged with issuing unlawful prescriptions and lose her licence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she began. ‘You misunderstand. I am here to provide cures.’

  ‘That’s what we heard.’ The ginger-haired woman nodded seriously.

  ‘No, I apologise,’ Merriment interjected, acutely aware that if she admitted that she had provided powders that subdued extremely difficult men for no other reason than to help unfortunate women, she could be reported. She was in a tricky situation.

  ‘You helped Stella.’ The ginger-haired woman’s blue eyes locked onto Merriment’s face. Her friends clustered tight around her. A cold silence descended while the group which had seemed soft and giddy coalesced into a formidable force full of steely resolve. The women knew what they were asking and without speaking, in that silent collective stare, fully communicated what they wanted. They understood clearly what Merriment had done, and they wanted their share of the ‘cure’ for their difficult men.

  ‘I don’t think I can help.’ Merriment swallowed.

  ‘Course ye can, love,’ the ginger-haired woman said softly. ‘Let’s just say we’ll not tell, you’ll have our business and our gratitude and, well, a cure is a cure, is it not? And that’s yer job, is it not?’

  Merriment felt backed into a corner; there was enough cuteness in the ginger-haired woman’s eyes to expose the veiled threat. If Merriment didn’t comply, she may very well be reported to the guild, lose her licence and be flung out onto the street. She glanced over at Janey Mack, sitting blinking on her stool.

  ‘I suppose . . .’ And with those words the women achieved their victory, the atmosphere instantly softening. They babbled, flapped and flustered and pointed at powders and labelled drawers while each woman gave Merriment a long list of symptoms, curious to see what the female apothecary would prescribe for cruel tempers and spiteful rages. Once she had committed to her fate, Merriment convinced herself that by giving mild doses the guild could not touch her and the women would get some form of satisfaction. So she prepared gentle prescriptions, undercharged her clients and found herself amused by those gathered around her.

  Janey Mack entertained the women telling them about the Dolocher and sending them over to Solomon’s stall.

  ‘He’s next to Lucifer, ye can’t miss him. He’s bandaged like a boil.’

  Merriment mixed powders and tinctures and scribbled notes. She added and subtracted, made bargains and found herself laughing. All that time in sickbay she had moved among men . . . She laughed back then, she was certain of it, but here, there was some kind of unspoken sympathy, a peculiar unity of understanding that made even the simplest of remarks funny. Merriment was confounded to discover that she enjoyed the company of women.

  *

  ‘Holy mother of God and the multitude of saints and angels.’

  Gloria’s expression was trapped between surprise and horror. Her mouth hinged open and her chin puckered, and her thick, fleshy arm reached tentatively for Solomon’s jaw.

  ‘Ye look like Lazarus, raised from the dead with the swaddling shroud still on him.’

  ‘I met the Keeper of the Black Dog.’

  ‘Ye poor morsel. What did ye do to him that made him destroy yer face?’

  ‘I said hello.’

  Gloria helped Solomon set up his stall.

  ‘I’ll be with ye in a minute, darlin’,’ she called over to a young woman carrying a barrel of curds.

  ‘You go on.’ Solomon patted Gloria’s broad back. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘I’ve had three people already askin’ after ye.’ Gloria wiped her hands on her floury apron. ‘They walked over from Crooked Staff Pimlico to get a broadsheet. Ye’ll sell twice what ye did yesterday.’

  Solomon nodded. When his lips moved his whole face ached.

  ‘I’ve more to tell.’

  Gloria’s brows sprang up, lifting her bonnet a little further back on her brown curls.

  ‘Go on.’ She licked her lips, dragging her shawl tighter, her bosom lifting with bated breath.

  *

  That day the market was throbbing. Crowds swelled in from across the river. Solomon’s stall was the busiest. He stood underneath the statue of the devil, looking like a revived corpse, the title of his broadsheets attracting everyone. By four o’clock he had sold out and still people were coming.

  ‘I’ll have more tomorrow,’ he promised.

  Corker waited until Solomon had folded up his stall and leaned it against Lucifer’s feet.

  ‘See ye met the Keeper,’ he whistled. ‘Gave ye his signature.’

  ‘Yes, thank you for the explicit warning.’

  ‘He was in a bad mood, Beresford had skinned him. He had to take it out on someone.’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  ‘Get us a pie, will ye, Solomon? Me belly is stuck to me back with the hunger.’

  Solomon snapped his carpet bag shut. He’d had an excellent day. Even deducting the money he owed to Merriment, he’d still made a resounding profit.

  ‘Come on.’

  They walked to Gloria’s stall, Corker keeping a keen eye out for the market manager.

  ‘Give us four pies, Gloria darling.’

  ‘Mother of divine, I have none left. What a day, Sol my darling, what a day.’

  Corker shrugged. ‘Ah well, never mind, love. Will ye get us two tomorrow, Sol?’

  Solomon guided Corker to the side gate and looked about for anyone selling pies. The hawkers were packed up, ready to head home and go about their evening chores. Solomon was in such a good mood, even his aching face couldn’t bring him down.

  ‘We’ll do better,’ he told Corker, pointing down Dame Street and saying, ‘Ever been in Lizzie’s Coffee Shop?’

  *

  They had cream pastries and such strong coffee that Corker didn’t know whether to spit it out or choke it down.

  ‘Curse o’ God on it, it’s like trying to swill down a cup of tar.’

  Solomon got the boy a glass of buttermilk and took his coffee.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘In the Liberties.’ The cream cake vanished in three mouthfuls. ‘Seen you slip into that woman’s shop, what’s her name with the breeches and the gap teeth?’

  ‘Merriment O’Grady’s. I’ve a room upstairs. Were you spying on me?’

  ‘I take an interest.’

  Corker bowed his head, checking to make sure Lizzie wasn’t looking before he licked the cream off the edge of his plate.

  ‘Ye need a pig’s head on yer broadsheet. A drawing of a man with a pig’s head and a gun leaning against the sentry box with clothes hanging out of it,’ Corker told Solomon, a glob of cream smeared on the end of his nose.

  ‘That’s a good idea. Can you draw?’

  Corker nodded, his brown eyes twinkling.

  ‘Like the lad who painted the ceiling in Rome.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Solomon produced his ink and quill and a sheaf of creamy paper.

  Corker stuck his tongue out as he dipped the nib into the ink and scratched a dark swooping line onto the blank page. Solomon looked about, glad of the blazing fire close by – he could feel his feet thawing out. Across the way two dandies were chatting loudly, bandying abou
t Latin quotes like they were an addition to their fine silk suits and eccentrically coiffed wigs. Beside them a solitary diner with wolfish eyes and a strangely turned quiff of black hair ate a chop. Sitting on the table before him was a small mother-of-pearl scabbard containing what looked like a curved blade. When the man saw Solomon admiring the gold filigree inlay of the handle, he stopped eating and stared. Solomon looked away, faintly amused that even the well-off in Dublin seemed to spoil for a fight. Across the way Lizzie was taking orders and making sure the new girl was moving fast enough to earn her wage. A group of men were discussing the problem of the Ormond Street Boys.

  ‘When the patterns come, there’ll be war. Let the guilds cancel the parades this year.’

  ‘And let the Liberty Boys win?’ a bald man hissed. ‘No way. No way.’

  Solomon wondered when the butcher’s guild was due to march around the city waving their colours and banging their drums. Was it November? He’d heard of the riots last year. One poor butcher was hung up on hooks and left to bleed to death. Dublin, he thought hopefully, might just provide me with enough material to have a regular stall, and maybe even more than that.

  ‘There ye are.’ Corker held up his drawing and Solomon’s bruised eyes hurt when they widened with surprise.

  *

  ‘Are ye in for the evening?’ Janey Mack ran across the shop to say hello to Solomon.

  ‘Back early,’ he said, glancing over at Merriment, glad to be able to return her loan.

  ‘I haven’t lit a fire in yer room yet,’ Janey Mack flustered.

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Are ye hungry? I can put on a chop for ye.’

  ‘In a bit.’

  ‘Come on in here.’ Janey Mack grabbed his hand and brought him into the back room.

  It was half past five. Merriment had a problem that she hadn’t foreseen, and she was wondering about how to ask Solomon for a favour. I have some tea, she thought, then slipped into the anteroom, wondering if bribing him with tea would be enough to sweeten him up.

  ‘He made a fortune,’ Janey Mack beamed as she entered with Solomon.

  Solomon counted out eight shillings and handed them to Merriment.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘And don’t forget it.’ Janey Mack wagged her finger.

  ‘I have to go out,’ Merriment blurted. ‘I’ll pay you a shilling to watch Janey. I’ll be back by half nine. I’m certain. I think. I’ve no one to look after her.’

  ‘I can mind meself.’

  ‘Ye’ve been minding yourself for too long already; it’s my turn now.’ Merriment’s eyes pointed to the new bandage wrapped around the little girl’s burned fingers.

  ‘Half nine, you say?’ Solomon knew he owed her one, and besides he could go to a later game. ‘Don’t see why not. I’ll teach you the ciphers of your name,’ he told Janey Mack and the little girl nearly choked at the very idea.

  ‘Janey Mack, will ya? Did ye hear that, miss? Me own name.’

  ‘Let me just take a look at his wounds first, before you start with the alphabet.’

  Merriment checked Solomon’s eyes. She undid the bandage exposing the black-and-blue bruises and reapplied arnica before tentatively tapping along the sides of the splint.

  Solomon stared up at her. Her eggshell skin was burnished soft orange by the firelight. He noticed she had long lashes, that there were flecks of silver in her blue eyes and near the edge of her full lips there was a thread-like tiny scar that disappeared when she smiled. Her hands smelled of ointment, but her touch was gently perceptive. He followed the line of her neck. Her shirt collar was unbuttoned and when she moved he noticed a small blue anchor tattooed into her pale skin.

  ‘You’ll get worse before you get better,’ Merriment told him.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  Janey Mack butted in. ‘What about me bandaged hand?’ She waved it in front of Solomon. ‘Won’t that stop me holding the quill?’

  ‘Can you pinch your index finger and thumb together?’

  Janey Mack could.

  ‘You can hold a quill.’

  That sent the little girl into a spin. She rooted in his bag without asking, pulling out the ink and quill and paper. When she saw Corker’s drawing her mouth swung open.

  ‘Did you do this?’ she gawped.

  ‘That was drawn by my assistant.’

  Corker had done a deal. For a ha’penny and two pies he would sketch for Solomon and attract more to his stall. Merriment paused to look at him.

  ‘What?’ he asked, picking up on the question in her eyes.

  ‘Nothing.’ Merriment shook her head and cut three slices of bread and some crumbly cheese, putting the food on three plates.

  Maybe we all manufacture ways to tie ourselves down, she thought.

  At half six she fetched her cloak and filled her medicine bag with an array of purgatives, purifiers, three of Misses Phillips’ Engines and four bars of sweet-smelling soap. She packed a new ledger and two sharpened pencils. Instinctively she patted the pistol hidden beneath her waistcoat and popped a tricorn hat on her head.

  ‘You heading?’ Solomon asked, looking up.

  Janey Mack was sitting on his knee, bent over the paper, her bandage full of black splodges that fanned out and spread with every mistake she made. She squeezed her lips between her teeth, frowning with the strain of trying to make the slippery quill form the lines and swoops of a capital J.

  ‘I’ll try not to be long,’ Merriment said, checking the address written on the card – 17 Henrietta Street. ‘Better go.’

  Janey Mack looked up, her huge eyes blinking. Two candlesticks framed her small round face and the glowing light made her look almost healthy.

  ‘Be careful, won’t ya, miss. There’s blackguards and thieves out there.’

  ‘You won’t even know I was gone,’ Merriment smiled. She was completely unfamiliar with the feeling of saying goodbye to a small child. Usually when she made a call, she just slammed the door and left. Now there was a little girl who needed her to come back, and for the first time, the songs that spoke of sweet, sad parting struck a chord in Merriment’s heart.

  ‘Right,’ she said, hiding the pang by turning abruptly and leaving.

  She’d have to step it out; it would take her half an hour to walk briskly to the Northside. The rain had stopped but the streets were still wet and slippery. The lamps had been lit and already the theatre traffic was blocking the road in front of the opera house. The coachmen parked wherever they could. Addled footmen opened carriages, helping out ladies in fine cloaks and shimmering gowns and gentlemen in brocaded jackets trimmed with the new winter colours. Merriment pushed her way through the throng, listening to the shrill high squeaks of young ladies as they recognised each other. There were elaborate embraces, earrings glittered, feathers flounced, some women spoke French while groups of young bucks eyed up the females, both sexes flirting and fluttering with guile and anticipation. The Beggar’s Opera was on and Thomas Sheridan over in Smock Alley was going mad because ‘Who wants to see Shakespeare when there are songs to be sung?’

  Merriment practically ran up Sackville Street. She should have left earlier. The night watch outside the Lying-In Hospital shouted to her as she passed.

  ‘Take it easy, ye’ll burst something, yer in such a hurry.’

  It was quarter past seven when she knocked on the door with the number 17 neatly displayed in polished brass on the raised panels. Peg Leeson lived on a beautiful, brightly lit street that even on a damp night looked elegant and refined. Every entrance path was tiled and every doorway was framed by Ionic columns. The fanlights, lit by glowing lanterns, picked out the neat beadwork curling in garlands and swags and delicate tendrils like fine ribs through clear glass.

  A footman opened the door. He had a long nose and pinched lips and, despite being done up to the nines, gave the impression that nothing pleased him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m he
re to see Miss Leeson.’

  He stepped to one side, curtly inviting Merriment into the glittering interior. There was a painted gold armoire with mirrored panels standing to one side of the enormous, blindingly lit hall.

  The footman lifted a gloved hand and stiffly pointed for Merriment to go through. She aimed vaguely for the first door to her right, pausing to check with the footman. He nodded and she went through, wondering why he had not announced her.

  Peg Leeson was sitting on a green velvet chaise longue in a peach gown, wearing paste diamonds that looked real, an ostrich feather dyed silver and flapping a silver fan. At the sight of Merriment, the man caressing her fingers jumped to his feet and opened his arms, his face beaming wildly.

  ‘Merriment O’Grady, as I live and breathe.’

  Merriment gave a short laugh, masking her surprise as she quickly assessed the scene. Ashenhurst Beresford was coming towards her genially smiling, seemingly thrilled by her presence, but her heart plummeted, her ribs closed in as she quickly realised that she had interrupted an intimate moment. She remembered the time he had come back sad, after a long furlough, and had told her that he intended to be true to his wife. She had nodded meekly, but she had cried later, on her own, in her cabin. It took them some months to steady their relationship, to return to the roles of captain and surgeon. It had taken time for her to put away her hopes, to learn to see Beresford as a friend. Now, here he was in all his glory, lavishing attention on none other than the renowned madam Margaret Leeson: his commitment to his wife it seemed, did not exclude a casual encounter with an expensive courtesan, and this rankled with Merriment. Her feelings chaffed, she was careful to keep her emotions well hidden. She glanced at Peg, who smiled knowingly, sitting back in her chair. Peg, it seemed, had staked her claim. Lord Beresford was hers. Merriment concealed her disappointment and irritation beneath a cool politeness and, unable to stop herself, let Peg know she had enough history with Beresford to intimately use his first name.

  ‘Ashenhurst.’ Merriment’s brows rose good-humouredly. ‘Are you well?’

  He swooped his arms around Merriment and held her tight.