The Pharmacist's Wife

by Vanessa Tait

  Rebecca opens her eyes and the vision vanishes. What pleasure it is to conjure up her childhood home in such detail! Usually when she tries to remember such things, even her father’s face, the features waver and blur. But now everything is sharp.

  The slant of the sunlight suggests that it was the middle of the afternoon. She taps her head, but there is no more pain. No pain, no fear of pain. She ought to rise, but it is so peaceful just lying here looking at the dust motes in the beam that she decides against it. Has she missed lunch? Rebecca cannot remember having eaten it. But she has no hunger, no hunger at all.

  She is neither hungry nor thirsty, nor is she in pain. She needs nothing, wants nothing. It is the end of desire.

  Rebecca lets her eyes drift shut again and she falls deeper, deeper. Down here Gabriel is taller and thinner in the cheek. He has just come home from school and she has rushed onto the driveway as soon as she heard his carriage on the gravel, thinking to embrace him as she usually does, but something about him stops her.

  Instead, she says: ‘Will you come to the beach? It is such a fine day.’

  But Gabriel shakes his head.

  ‘What? Not to the beach?’

  He shakes his head again. ‘I don’t know if I like to play’ – he gives a short self-conscious snort at the word play – ‘at the beach any more. I turned fifteen, you know, at Charters.’

  Rebecca takes a step back. ‘I know you are fifteen! I am also fifteen! Did you not get my birthday letter?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He scratches vaguely at the pimple on his chin, already raw. ‘Thank you.’

  He is always changed when he comes home. Rebecca has got used to his ears, or his nose, or his mouth changing shape, but this time it is his voice. A man’s voice coming from a boy’s body. And even something more; what is it? Rebecca stands on the driveway, the wind bothering her hair, no coat on, trying to work it out.

  ‘Why do you sound English?’ she asks at last.

  He flushes, the blood rising easily to the surface of his pale skin. ‘I do not!’

  ‘You do so! English, English!’ she chants, not knowing what else to do other than to tease him as she did when they were children, though she knows it in a moment: childhood is gone.

  ‘Well, it can’t be helped then, how I speak.’ He shrugs; she thinks it is with nonchalance. ‘Charters is in England. P’raps it is for the best.’ He signals for his trunks to come down from the carriage and turns to go indoors.

  ‘Oh my!’ Rebecca claps her hand to her face. They had used to mock Scottish boys who pretended they were English. ‘But that is not your voice!’

  He has started to walk towards his house; she notices the bones at his hips, his legs that have grown longer. She sees that has driven him inside. ‘You sound stupid,’ she says, to keep him.

  He turns. ‘Is it stupid to sound as if I am part of the most powerful country in the world, and the best?’

  ‘But,’ she stammers, ‘I thought we were part of it.’ She is uncertain, though; the governess she shares with four other girls at her schoolroom is not well educated.

  ‘It is not Scotland that people talk of when they talk of Britain, it is England. I don’t think there are many Scottish generals, or queens, or—’

  ‘There are philosophers, I think—’

  ‘I don’t mean here in Edinburgh. I mean out there, in the Empire! The Empire is our greatest jewel.’

  He turns to go inside then anyway and Rebecca goes to the beach on her own. With his new voice and his sentences that sound as if he has read them in a book, she does not know who he is.

  She is on her own all day. He comes to the beach the next day, though she had not asked him. He sits on a rock, on a promontory, looking out to sea.

  ‘You look as if you are thinking of poetry,’ she says, meaning it scornfully.

  He gives a little nod, as if to imply, perhaps, that he is.

  ‘Or rather, you look as if you want to look as if you are thinking of poetry.’

  He flinches. Then he says: ‘We are studying Lord Byron this half at Charters.’ He picks up a rock and flings it into sea.

  ‘Does Lord Byron mean I must make Crab Castle on my own, then?’

  He turns to her and says scornfully: ‘Do you really still want to build Crab Castle? You know all the crabs escape.’

  ‘They do not!’

  ‘They do so! The gaps in the wall are too big, you know it!’

  Rebecca is furious. They never admit that the crabs, small enough to fit on Gabe’s fingernail, could escape. They had taken great pride in the building of the walls, selecting the stones and fitting them together. If they saw a crab inching its way out they would pretend not to have seen anything and call to the other for more stones or seaweed.

  ‘They do not escape!’ She runs over to his promontory and gives him a shove. He falls sideways but as he falls he grabs hold of her by the hair. She shrieks, he curses. It is a shock, up close, to see here and there stubble on his cheek, and the sharp new bone of his brow and the smell of him, an earthiness that comes through the smell of the sea, as land does.

  He is different, not only from how he was before, but different to her, in a way she had never noticed.

  They lie together, awkwardly tangled. Her head stings where he has pulled it. ‘Get off, you wretch! Is this something they taught you at Charters too?’

  ‘No! Though they do,’ he swallows, ‘they do ask me about you.’

  ‘Me? What do they know of me?’

  ‘Only what I tell them. That you are a stupid girl. They say girls do not like the same things as boys, that you will want to get married soon enough if we spend any more time—’

  ‘Married?’ Rebecca is astonished. But she has thought of it, during the lonely months he has been at boarding school. They were idle thoughts, stupid ones.

  ‘And,’ Gabe runs his tongue over his lips, ‘would you?’

  ‘Would I what?’

  ‘Want to get married.’

  ‘No! You’re mad as hops.’

  They can hear the sea slapping up against the rock. ‘Would you?’ she says.

  ‘When I am at Charters,’ he says carefully, turning his head away, ‘I think of you, as much as any girl would think of a boy, though I try not to. During all my lessons of Lord Byron, and Robert Burns, and in Chemistry and in History, I think of you all the time until I would do anything to be rid of it.’

  They have grown still. His cheek is flushed.

  ‘Do you?’ Her heart has begun to beat hard, it feels like terror.

  She feels him now, his hips against her hips, his hard bones pushing against her soft ones. Slowly he brings down his mouth and covers hers. It is surprising, stifling, gritty. She is about to pull away when, by mistake, she tips her tongue to his. A shudder runs through him. The slime of it does not feel right, their tongues are minnows in a rock pool. She nearly tells him this and nearly laughs. But then his tongue, now she has discovered it, runs over her lips, and then she does the same to him, as a game at first, only then tremors run out from her lips all over her face and then over her chest, and pulls it in tighter and tighter until she can hardly breathe with the kissing of him.

  ‘And now you must marry me,’ says Gabe, when at last they pull apart. ‘My friends were right. I think we have to now.’

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘See now how she slumbers,’ said Alexander. ‘She is murmuring something.’

  ‘And how she tosses her head from side to side. No doubt she is dreaming of you,’ said Mr Badcock, running his fingertip along the back of Rebecca’s hand. ‘For what else do women dream of but their husbands?’

  ‘Tea sets and Turkey carpets, I dare say!’ said Alexander. ‘But how do you think the medicine does?’

  ‘She sleeps very deeply; perhaps you gave her too much.’ Mr Badcock turned Rebecca’s hand over and pressed his fingers to her wrist. ‘Her pulse is slow.’

  ‘That is to be expected, it does not mean the dose is too much.’


  Mr Badcock leaned in and put his ear close to her mouth. ‘Her respiration is shallow.’

  ‘That is also to be expected. Be careful, John, else you will wake her; see how she stirs.’

  Mr Badcock dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘But I did so want to see for myself the effect. The effect of the first time! She is slumbering certainly, but …’

  ‘But it is not the usual kind of sleep, I know. Anyway, that is only part of it. She will wake and the medicine will still have its hold on her. Come,’ said Alexander, standing up. ‘I do not want her to wake and see you. She will wonder why you are here.’ He signalled to the window.

  The two men went to sit down at Rebecca’s card table.

  ‘Did you read the paper?’ said Alexander.

  ‘What, the Scotsman?’ said Mr Badcock.

  ‘No,’ said Alexander, picking up the newspaper. ‘Ach! What is that doing in here?’

  ‘Not much news in it, I dare say.’

  ‘Enough to fill a woman’s head.’ Alexander pursed his lips, folded up the Scotsman and put it to one side. ‘I meant, have you read Mr Davy’s paper?’

  Mr Badcock spread out his fingers on the table and inspected them. They were very clean and fat. ‘Yes, I read it.’

  ‘The research is not current, of course, but the experiment was the first time the fields of chemistry and personal experience were brought together, I believe. Many have attempted something similar since then, but I think that Mr Davy’s has still not been bettered. By measuring the amount of nitrous oxide he consumed, in a laboratory, he made an attempt to describe the human condition.’ Alexander poured himself a glass of water from the windowsill.

  ‘Although to immerse oneself in an airtight box, stripped to the waist, inhaling nitrous oxide until Mr Davy lost consciousness does not follow a reputable scientific method,’ said Mr Badcock.

  ‘Yes, it does smack of hedonism. Nevertheless, his conclusion is what interests me: Nothing exists but thoughts.’ Alexander tapped his finger on the table as he said each word. ‘The world is composed of impressions, ideas, pleasures and pains. And that, John, is where our future lies.’

  ‘And this here …’ Mr Badcock gestured to Rebecca, who twisted in her bed, and sighed, but still did not wake up. ‘This here seems to confirm it. Who knows where she is now? But that she is perfectly content, I don’t doubt.’

  Alexander tweaked off the head of a little wild rose that was sitting in a vase on the windowsill. ‘If it were possible to bathe an individual’s brain in a vat of contentment, like this,’ he dropped the rose head into his water glass and set the glass on the table, ‘it does not matter what external things befall him – or her. I may cause a commotion over here,’ Alexander slapped the table with an open palm. ‘But if the brain is surrounded by – water, in this case, see how the little flower stays still. Even now see.’ Alexander shook the edge of the table. ‘There may be a few ripples, but nothing compared to what is happening outside.’ He took hold of the glass and began to slop it about. ‘Not until I cause quite a commotion does the flower begin to suffer.’ The head of the rose went lower and lower into the water, the beads of liquid on its petals sitting like heavy jewels.

  Jenny entered the room only a moment later but by then the rose had almost sunk to the bottom.

  ‘Careful now, Alexander,’ said Mr Badcock.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir, Mr Badcock.’ Jenny made him an awkward nod over the pot of tea and biscuits she carried. ‘I didn’t know you were in here. I came to see if Mrs Palmer was awake, if she was hungry.’

  ‘She is not,’ said Alexander.

  Jenny looked at the windowsill. ‘Would you like another glass? I’m not sure you can drink from that.’

  ‘No need,’ said Alexander with a shake of his head. ‘You may go.’

  ‘Your maid is very young,’ remarked Mr Badcock as the door was pulled to. ‘Barely past menarche.’

  ‘Young and inexperienced.’

  Mr Badcock stroked his beard with the pad of his thumb and stared at the closed door. Then he turned back to his friend. ‘But we are drifting, if I may say, dangerously close to heresy! The solipsists believe the same thing, that nothing exists but thoughts, and they are heretics. If only one’s mind can be sure to exist, the external world and other minds may, as the solipsists say, be simply a figment of one’s own mind. And God also might be a figment of one’s own mind, which, of course,’ Mr Badcock raised his eyes heavenwards and pressed his fingertips together, ‘is the worst kind of thinking.’

  Alexander frowned. ‘I am sure you exist, John, for I can see you here praying to God. But say this: a man may wake up one day and feel happy, and wake up the next and feel as if he cannot go on, though his life remains exactly the same. Or, to take another example: two men may lose their sight. One man quickly adjusts to it and continues to lead a useful life, the other falls into despair. What does that tell us? That the mind is all! If we can control the mind, it does not matter the circumstance.’

  Alexander’s eyes were dark and his face pale. In front of him Rebecca stirred and opened her eyes. Both men stilled as if they had been put in the ice house: Alexander with his fingers spread out as if he were pressing an invisible box, Mr Badcock in the middle of idly pulling the petals from another rose.

  But Rebecca’s eyes only gazed unseeingly ahead for a moment and then fluttered shut.

  ‘I ought to go,’ said Mr Badcock, pushing his chair back quietly. ‘But what a stroke of luck, dear boy, hmmm? This neuralgia!’

  ‘Indeed. It has the natural look to it. Though the right opportunity would be bound to present itself sooner or later.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mr Badcock looked at his friend sharply then brought his hands together quietly in what would have been a clap. ‘I see it now! This is why you married her, hmmm?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean, John?’

  ‘She is handsome enough, though you could have got handsomer.’

  ‘Every enterprising man needs a wife, John.’ Alexander smiled.

  ‘And you could have got one before, you had plenty of opportunity!’

  Voices sailed up from the street and it seemed as if Rebecca would wake again, but she only murmured and turned onto her side.

  ‘But I did not need a wife before now,’ said Alexander.

  Mr Badcock gave a low whistle and shook his head. ‘Most impressed, Alexander, hmmm? Yes indeed. And she has no parents to speak of either, which fits the bill.’

  ‘Her father, poor man,’ said Alexander, ‘fell down dead in his factory. Over-work, I believe. Left her nothing but debts.’

  ‘You can’t have everything. Not everything. Otherwise perfect, yes?’

  Alexander gave a low laugh, looking at Rebecca as he did it. ‘Well, John, you have discovered me! Rebecca is perfect in nearly every way, what of it?’

  ‘Oh dear boy, I thought you could not surprise me any more, but I must say, hmmm? Such dedication to work!’

  ‘Work and science,’ said Alexander gravely, his black figure at the window almost blotting out the light.

  Mr Badcock pulled the door of Rebecca’s room closed behind him and crept out along the corridor. Rebecca was sighing and fidgeting; she would be bound to rouse herself soon. What fun Alexander could have with her after a dose of his medicine, if he so chose! And that could be another application of it, yes? Why, they could brand it under the heading: A Man’s Best Friend.

  All was quiet, which was good for his purpose, but was it too quiet? Pray God she was not in the kitchen, hidden away like a little trinket in a muck heap. Mr Badcock stole to the door and put his ear to it. The cook was muttering, but to whom? No, he could not hear a reply. Only muttering over her pots, then. He let out his breath through puckered lips.

  Mrs Bunclarke need not bother with Mrs Palmer’s supper; she would have no appetite this evening. He ought to suggest that she not make so much, when it seemed to be costing her so dear. But then if a cook did not cook, what use was she? Another idle w
oman in need of her medicine.

  Mr Badcock crept to the parlour, making hardly a sound, marvelling at his nimble feet. It was too quiet down here, though, and empty of course. The door to Alexander’s study was also closed and silent. No one in the dining room either, just the grandfather clock, the sun and the moon ticking round on their orbits.

  Ah, but what was that? A sound coming from upstairs: something being moved, perhaps? But what perfect timing, she must be waiting for him! Though he mustn’t frighten her, she was bound to be timid, she was fourteen, fifteen at most. Though those country girls let all sorts have them, he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d been spoiled already.

  He had caught a glimpse of Jenny’s large curved calves walking up the stairs as he’d stood in the hall taking off his coat and now he could not get the image out of his mind. The way she’d glanced back at him as she went down was an invitation. Nice little Annie, and Alice too, hadn’t they worn just the same expression? And they had been most welcoming. They had both been saving for something, he forgot what, but the extra money had come in handy. No doubt young Jenny was saving for something too, and had taken a fancy to him to help her buy it.

  ‘We have Mr Darwin to thank, do we not, dear boy?’ he would tell Alexander, if he were interrupted. ‘We men are but slaves to our sexual appetites.’ Though perhaps Alexander would not be too pleased, if he did happen to interrupt him with his maid; better to be circumspect.

  He reached the end of the corridor. The linen cupboard was ajar – she was in there, of course, putting away the sheets! He could push the door shut, for a joke, to hear her shriek, just as Alexander once had told him his mother had used to do to him. Only his mother had kept the boy in for several days at a time, as he remembered, without food. Alexander had seemed quite cut up about it.