The Herbalist

by Boyce, Niamh

  The stuck-up biddy mauled Mam’s photo and tried to cram it into her pocket.

  ‘That’s stealing,’ I said.

  Mrs B didn’t have the decency to look embarrassed, but she handed over the photograph all the same. They sobered up a bit then, started munching on the fruit cake. I lifted the box from the table and left the room. I wanted air. I’d heard people say that before and never known what they’d meant, but I did then.

  I found the photo that had caused the shrieks. It was taken on a rocky beach, and a group of seven were wearing dark old-fashioned swimming costumes. Four men, two women and a girl. They seemed to be mostly in their twenties, a bit old to be dressed so friskily. The men’s costumes were black vests and shorts; the women wore belted tunics that were edged in white at the neckline and ended above the knee. They seemed to have some sort of bloomers underneath, but still it was all very indecent, to be half dressed in mixed company and probably wet from the sea to boot. They looked kind of ordinary all the same, like there was nothing to be fussed about. A couple sat on the sand, four perched on a rock, and a man stood behind, leaning down. He had his hand on the girl’s shoulders. She was the only one not wearing a cloche swimming hat; she was reaching back so her hand lay on his forearm. The standing man was striking and somewhat familiar. He had black hair and muscled shoulders. His face was flushed and very handsome. Though he was older than the other men, he made them look old, all fuddy duddy in their duds.

  Which one was Mrs B? I was searching from face to face, trying to find her, when I suddenly locked on a pair of eyes: Mam’s. How had I not seen her? She was the girl reaching back towards the man with the muscles, but she looked so young, so tiny, compared with the others.

  And the man on whose arm her fingers lay? I knew the answer as soon as I’d thought of the question – that was the man who had turned into my father.

  Let the other women stay at home – I was going to the funeral Mass. They couldn’t stop me if they tried. I always felt weak in chapel, but this time was the worst, when we were seated at the top of the church and our mother was in the centre of the aisle in a wooden box and the priest looked straight at me every time he spoke.

  The brothers always made a laugh of how afraid I was of that Father Higgins. Whenever I saw his gaunt white face, all I thought of was the first time he’d come to our house. I was only seven but I never forgot it. He came in without knocking. Mam was all about him – ‘Father’ this, ‘Father’ that. I just looked at my plate. It was blue and white. There was a bridge over a stream, and on the bridge was a maiden wearing a round-brimmed hat. Pastures and blue skies – that’s all you want underneath your Sunday dinner, under your potatoes, ham and cabbage. The more you eat, the more you see the whole picture. I looked harder. Didn’t taste a thing. Tried not to listen to what Mam and the priest were saying. A blessing … a casting out … yes, Father … of course, Father. There was a smoking chimney on the roof. The whole picture appeared as I cleared my plate. The woman in the wide-brimmed hat was leading a cow over the bridge to market. When he came back into the kitchen, the priest had a rope.

  Charlie carried me out of the church. Said I’d fainted. He didn’t make me go back in, said I’d been through enough.

  14

  Dan was asleep, but Carmel couldn’t rest. Yet she was so tired all the time, couldn’t manage to stand and wash over the tin, felt ill at the line, kept wanting to curl up in the hedge at the bottom of the garden. The house felt alive with dust, like it was calling her to get up and clean it. So she pulled back the covers and quietly got out of bed. She had already spent the day getting the place ready for the help that was coming. She had intended to put her in the spare room, to leave Samuel’s room as it was, ready, in the hope of another chance. Carmel walked down the hall, opened the door and switched on the light.

  She sat in the rocking chair. She had been expecting the last time she had done that. There was bird noise from the chimney. She listened carefully: no. No, there was nothing; just the usual night rustling. She would leave this room be; it had witnessed his silent birth. Carmel would use the spare room if she was lucky enough to be blessed. This bedroom would do the woman coming.

  Carmel wondered what she was like, this Sarah? Carmel hoped she was strong and able. She felt bad for sacking Emily. With her poor mother passing, it was unfortunate. She must make up a parcel of food for the Maddens next week, that would be the appropriate way to help out. She would send the new help, so she didn’t have to go to the house herself. The wake tonight had been bad enough.

  And she would find a way to be soft towards her without giving Emily the impression there was any chance of her working in the shop again. She wasn’t a bad girl, but she was going the way of her mother before her, besotted with an unsuitable man far too old, making a fool of herself, and look how that had ended for Maureen? Living in poverty with a shell-shocked alcoholic. Everyone had warned her at the time: what would a travelling salesman – if that’s what he was at all – know about land? All Brian knew about was drink and women. God, he was lovely in his day, though, had put the d into dashing. But Maureen had paid for her silliness, God bless and save her – all her lovely fields were eventually let out to neighbours, and for half nothing at that.

  Perhaps Carmel should also take it upon herself to talk to Mr Don Fernandes. He must be mortified by the moony-eyed attentions of a scrawny girl like Emily. Carmel could advise him on how to let her down easy. The direct approach was more effective with some people.

  She hoped he had found himself somewhere better to live; she wasn’t going back to that place, and being seen at the market stall buying potions wasn’t a good idea. People would guess, they would jeer. She had hid her distaste on entering his premises – his shack, really – but he must have noticed, because he immediately told her that it was only temporary, that he was looking for suitable accommodation from which to practise. Come to think of it, the herbalist could give his remedies to Carmel, on a sale or return basis, and Carmel could sell them in the shop. They would seem more reputable then. She would suggest it to him: he’d be delighted. And then she wouldn’t have to leave her own premises to get cured at all.

  She had taken her tonic this evening before bed; the herbalist said it would take some weeks before it made any difference. Told her that she was still in recovery and had to mind herself – she enjoyed hearing that. It made her feel looked after. She asked him for a month’s supply. She wondered if he knew why.

  She didn’t sleep well any more, walked the house, in and out of every room, checking, tidying, moving things. Sometimes she heard him crying. The first time she had been sleepwalking. That’s what Dan said. He had found her here, opening the drawers, pulling out the blankets.

  ‘Where is he?’ she had said. ‘I hear Samuel crying – he’s crying so softly, where is he?’

  Grettie B told her to concentrate on other things – the business, the garden, the parish, the community – that there was more to life than babies.

  ‘Should I give up? You know … trying?’ Carmel had whispered.

  ‘What do you mean, give up? Sure that would be a sin. Hush now; you don’t want Rose to hear such indiscretion, do you?’

  ‘God forbid.’

  Rose was doing what she always did when her mother was deep in conversation: standing there, daydreaming, pushing back her cuticles. She was well used to waiting for her mother. Carmel was sure she was privy to many indiscretions.

  Concentrate on something else. She had cleared some brambles at the back of the garden, cut back the climbing rose on the shed, taken a wire brush to the garden gate so she could give it a lick of paint. But she always ended up in the sam
e place: the back corner of the garden. It was overgrown but got the most sunlight. She’d find herself sitting on her old childhood stool, her eyes closed, the warm sun on her face, feeling close to Samuel, the closest to praying since he had been lost. She kept the soft blanket he had been wrapped in. It smelt of him yet. If she sat there and held the blanket to her, she too felt still-born, suspended, almost at peace.

  Theresa Feeney had been in the shop earlier, her brood with her as usual. She had been a few years ahead of Carmel in school, and, though she had been harassed by life, she was always good-natured. Her eldest daughter, Tessie, was carrying the latest addition to the family. Mrs Feeney rubbed its tiny chin and looked towards Carmel, expecting the usual congratulations. Carmel gave her best smile.

  ‘Is that your grandchild?’

  ‘It’s my new baby, you know it is.’

  ‘You’re at the age to be a granny, not a mammy.’

  Carmel left the bewildered woman and ran into the back. She felt a meanness rising up in her, pure hatred for the stupid fat bitch at the counter. She knew it was wrong – that Theresa Feeney couldn’t help having all those babies – but it wasn’t fair, and until she calmed down Carmel almost wanted to kill her. She had locked the shop when the Feeneys left, and just sat at the counter looking at her hands: they were shaking.

  As she rocked, she wondered what was happening to her? Throwing spite at an exhausted mother? The chair rocked noiselessly as Carmel stole into a fretful sleep.

  When she woke, she was on Dan’s lap. They were still in the rocking chair. His arms were around her, and he was fast asleep. His neck was at an awkward angle, and there was sweat on his forehead. His vest was damp where her face had been resting. Had she been crying in her sleep? Had she cried out for him? She inhaled the scent of his warm skin. Her husband. That he had come to her in the middle of the night, that he had lifted her from the chair and set her on his lap without waking her, made her feel a terrible tenderness, gave her hope.

  15

  Sarah unfolded the softened paper one more time, just to see Mai’s familiar round handwriting. A short note and directions to the shop. It was sweltering. She had worn her Sunday coat; it was far too heavy to carry. She found the shop easily: it was just off the market square, perched over a narrow road where the windows of terraced houses glared across the street at each other. Kelly’s was a small shop and a dark one at that. Sarah pushed the door. A bell tied to a string gave a half-hearted clang. The place was empty. She put her case on the ground, where it promptly fell on its side. She picked it up again.

  The counter was coated in thick cream paint, and she guessed that she’d soon know every crack and dent on its surface. Sarah swung the door back and forth, hoping the bell would alert someone. A section began to separate from the wall at the rear of the shop – a door. It was painted the same pale mushroom as the walls. A man appeared: he was very tall, broad shouldered with dark hair. She glimpsed the pink wallpaper behind him as he turned to link a woman’s arm. The woman was fair and short. Her plump face had just passed pretty. Mrs Holohan looked nothing like her brother, Master Finbar. Sarah tried to smile, but her lips were so dry the skin cracked.

  ‘You must be Sarah.’ Mr Holohan’s voice was jovial.

  He patted his wife’s shoulder while he told Sarah how welcome she was.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Carmel?’

  ‘Yes, Dan.’

  ‘And where’s the child?’ Sarah managed a smile.

  A bead of blood rolled down her chin. They were interrupted by an untidy woman who bustled into the shop carrying a wicker basket.

  ‘Morning, Aggie.’ Dan frowned.

  His wife turned on her heel and disappeared into the wall, shutting the painted door behind her. Mr Holohan motioned for Sarah to slip behind the counter alongside him.

  ‘Let’s get down to business. Watch and learn. Tobacco, Aggie?’

  ‘And tea, a quarter-pound, Danny boy, no more, no less.’

  Dan measured out the leaves without introducing Sarah. The woman was mid-aged but wore no headscarf to cover her untidy copper knot and white roots. Her long navy coat was shiny at the cuffs, and its round buttons were tugged to the last across her chest. Her shoes, however, weren’t shabby at all: they were the latest in platforms. White, cork heeled. Something a glamorous girl would wear. City shoes. Aggie was studying her too, and not in the most friendly of ways. There was something familiar about the woman.

  ‘Who’s this one?’ Aggie asked.

  ‘This is Sarah – she’s taking over full time.’

  ‘You mean poor Emily’s out of a job and her mother not even cold?’

  ‘Bad timing, Aggie, bad timing.’

  ‘Bad timing my backside.’

  Dan smiled as if Aggie were joking and hurried her on her way. When she was gone, he shivered.

  ‘Well, I suppose her money’s as good as anyone else’s.’

  The woman’s coins went in a box under the counter, instead of in the drawer with the other takings. He didn’t explain why.

  He took Sarah through the workings of the measuring scoop and the weighing scales as if it were all terribly complicated or she were a terrible fool. He never mentioned the ‘other one’, the one whose mother had just died.

  ‘Add an extra few ounces on the day they are settling up and make sure they see. Always say, “Here’s a bit extra for luck.” Encourage them to pay something off every time they buy – God knows money’s scarce, but mention it all the same.’

  He opened a faded blue ledger and ran his finger down the names and accounts of all the customers. As far as Sarah could see, nearly all the customers were in arrears. There were several more ledgers on the same shelf. He took out one from 1908.

  ‘That’s my mother-in-law’s handwriting; she passed away some time ago.’

  He looked quite chirpy about that. He’d a butt of a pencil and ran it down the lists, telling her which families went back a long time. Good stock, he called them.

  ‘We’re making progress.’ He didn’t look directly at her, but at some place around her ear.

  He seemed pleased, yet Sarah had done nothing but nod at him. Her case was still on the floor. A smell was coming from beyond the door, a soapy dank odour. Bacon and cabbage. She realized she was hungry. Mr Holohan stretched his arms out in front of him and cracked his knuckles, as if he’d just completed a hard day’s labour.

  ‘Well, sugar is thruppence a pound, potatoes are sevenpence, eggs one shilling and twopence a dozen … Don’t look so worried, the prices are all in here.’ He smiled and handed her a copybook. ‘I’ll leave you to it. We close at six on Saturdays, and nine the rest of the week. Any trouble, give us a shout.’

  Off he bolted through to their living quarters without even offering her a glass of water. There wasn’t much to get the hang of. The drawer for the cash was set into the counter: she pulled it out. Either they didn’t make much or they didn’t trust her. Alongside the tray of coins was a fountain pen, an inkwell, string, a short, sharp knife and a spool of navy thread. The ledger was simple enough: what was bought, what was paid and what was yet to be paid were listed each week for each customer. She was to use the copybook for totting up the sums. She’d a ruler, a pencil.

  Sarah leant against the high stool. There was a whole shelf of glass sweet jars to her right. They had red cloves, toffee mints, butterscotch, fruit drops, sherbet lemon, butter mint, bon-bons and acid drops. Again, she wondered where the child was. Maybe they planned on keeping Sarah in the shop. She wanted to wash, to rest.

  She kept remembering: his face, the jolt when she’d hit the ground, the waltz being played in the house,
her going-away party in full swing, and that horrible cold moon. She wouldn’t think about that. She’d put it all behind her, like Mai had said. Today’s a clean slate.

  Everyone that came in that afternoon asked about ‘poor Emily’. Her mother’s funeral had taken place that morning. It made Sarah feel awkward. She had weighed tea, sugar, biscuits, flour, potatoes, sold bread soda, Reckitt’s blue and soap, and twelve times said yes, it was a tragedy. And no, she hadn’t known Emily or her mother. Her legs were killing her – she wasn’t used to all the standing. Then, just as she thought the day was over, a crowd of young people arrived, asking all at the same time for sweets, toffees, Peggy’s Legs, broken chocolate, apples. That’s when Mrs Holohan finally came in.

  ‘It’s the intermission crowd, Sarah – you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘From the Picture Palace up the road – there’s a show and a ten-minute intermission on a Saturday. Do you like the pictures?’

  ‘I’ve never been.’

  Mrs Holohan saw her suitcase on the floor then.

  ‘Go on in the back – there’s a plate of cold meats and bread laid out in the kitchen. Wait for me there.’

  Her case seemed much heavier than it had earlier. The living room she landed in was dark and smoky; a glass door opened on to a brighter room that Sarah guessed must be the kitchen. There was a tea towel over a plate in the middle of the table. She lifted the cloth – sliced ham, a boiled egg, tomatoes and scallions. She was ravenous. There was a jug of milk and a glass set out. She felt shy about eating in a strange kitchen all alone, but she ate every morsel. The kitchen was an odd shape: it was the width of the house. A window on one side looked into the living room, and the two on the other looked out into the garden – it was most peculiar sitting there, like being on display. She could see the man of the house out in the back garden, which was long and narrow and dipped at the end, where the hedging was rather wild and beautiful. He was running back and forth: he seemed to be playing with a dog. She had just finished when Mrs Holohan came in.