The Herbalist

by Boyce, Niamh

  It was nice to work alone again. There was something about Sarah. The air changed when she was about. The girl was a good worker and people had taken to her, though they still asked after Emily – who would have thought it? There were two old ones in today, wanting to drop off clothes for mending. Carmel sent them on their way. Even Grettie B, the biggest snob in town, said she missed her, even missed her inane chattering.

  Carmel had begun to tot up the afternoon’s takings when she felt, rather than saw, Sarah come back in. She was radiant from being outdoors. Carmel excused herself and went through to the kitchen, half hoping that one day soon Sarah would slip out the back door with the silverware like serving girls were meant to.

  It was chilly despite the evening sun, so Carmel threw on her mother’s ancient brown fur. It had hung for decades on the back door. By now the pocket had torn from the weight of her trowel. She must mend it. She carried the small stool out into the garden. There were so many noises – blackbirds, thrushes and a pigeon’s low cooing. The carrots were doing well, their ferny fronds upright and shy. Eliza trotted over, expecting a treat, nudging a damp nose into Carmel’s empty palm. She circled her feet like an excited puppy. Dan should sell Eliza before she forgot she was a pig altogether. Carmel led the animal to her pen and tied the gate before strolling towards the end of the garden.

  She set her stool in the long grass by the back hedge and sat down. Her back and belly ached. The rosebush was bare of flowers, except for one stem that leant to the ground with the weight of two pink roses. A bumble bee sailed from lavender stem to lavender stem, till one by one they nodded from its attentions. She thought of her baby, his body in the earth, his soul in limbo – all she wanted to do was to wrap some warmth around him. She recited Hail Marys through her tears. She recited the Guardian Angel prayer. Then she sat in silence and listened to the birds.

  A dream returned from last night. Dan had something to tell her, something important. She was at the basin rinsing dishes; he had walked into the room and was watching her. He was preserving the seconds before he told her something, something that would make her whole world come crashing down. So the Carmel in the dream didn’t turn around; she just washed and washed the one white plate, squeezing the sudsy dishcloth around its rim, circling in towards the centre and out again, determined to wash that plate for ever. That was all she could remember.

  Was this all there was going to be of their marriage? A life half lived, love half given? She thought of all the foul words that had been hurled relentlessly back and forth between them, of having nothing worth holding close to her heart. Except for hope. She felt a sharp pain then, the pain that came with every blood time, every month. It was back. She would go to the herbalist that night.

  Carmel hurried along. The moon moved behind clouds till the houses, bridge and river flushed dark and melted into the blackness. Rain washed her eyes, her cheeks, dripped from her hair on to the back of her neck. She had left Dan dozing by the fire and would have to be home before he woke. As she walked, she tried to loosen the stopper on the small glass bulb, to save time, but the rain ran over her hands till they were blue knuckled and numb. She stopped at the entrance to the alleyway to check that no one was around. Carmel realized that she was still wearing her slippers, down at heel and sodden. Thank God for the dark. Suddenly she felt old – old and desperate.

  She ducked into the alley, ran to his doorway. Gave it two short raps. Waited. Knocked again. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she saw that there’d be no answer; there was a padlock on the grey door. She yanked it, but it wouldn’t budge. Where was he? What about her, what about her treatment?

  As she shoved the empty bottle back into her pocket, her fingers touched a wet handkerchief – she was soaked through. Carmel walked back the way she had come, her heart pacing, her teeth chattering, ashamed and in naked torment for all to see. In the depths of her pocket, she clutched the empty bottle – it felt like a tiny skull.

  You found the herbalist, didn’t you, Aggie, after he was beaten? They said he was barely breathing, and that his own cures brought him back from the brink.

  Not a bit of it: he wasn’t next nor near death. That lad never missed an opportunity to advertise his own wares. But it was me who found him all right. Curled up on his own doorstep. His face drenched red. It took a while to find his key in the pool of blood, but I did and then I dragged him inside. Do you know what he said as I wiped his face? ‘Who did it, Aggie?’ As if I would know. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

  ‘I saw nothing,’ said I, taking a snort of snuff. ‘I heard a racket, looked out and saw you lying in the gutter. Your old head’s sliced. A bottle, I’d say. Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘they’re just jealous.’

  I smiled. That was my saying, the one I used to account for my unpopularity with the ladies of the town.

  ‘That well may be.’

  The Don didn’t recall much except that an ugly mouth came close to his face and snarled. Couldn’t recount what happened next. He passed out, woke with a cut in his head. He told me that there had been a few of them, that he’d fought tooth and nail.

  I wasn’t going to tell him that I’d seen everything, that there’d been only one, a boy less than half his age. I had a soft spot for young Charlie, as well you know – all us ladies did. Whatever ‘it’ was, Charlie Madden had it in spades. Got it from his father. Brian Madden was a vision in his day.

  I ran my nail down the back of his bloodied white shirt.

  ‘It has the look of a map, red, white and dust. What country would that be?’

  ‘What country? It would be mine,’ he said.

  Ha! I should’ve known. All about the love of himself.

  The herbalist took off his shirt, wrapped it in a sheet of newspaper and went out to the backyard. Burnt it in the bin. Watched it blacken till it was ashes.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a strange man?’

  ‘What would you have me do with it?’ he asked. ‘It could never be worn again.’

  ‘You’d have a duster out of it at worst.’

  ‘Allow my own blood to be rubbed in grime! I should think not.’

  He had to bring his fresh split head to old Doctor Birmingham. That near killed him. Pride was a big thing for him. He told me later that Doctor B didn’t ask how he’d got the wound, but he didn’t go easy on The Don.

  ‘Are you,’ the doctor asked, ‘are you intoxicated?’

  ‘No,’ The Don told him, smart as anything, ‘I was set upon by some of your fellow Irishmen.’

  ‘And what did you do to upset them?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Doctor B poured something foul and burning on the wound, let it drip over his forehead and then began to stitch it in the hall of the house, without any ceremony.

  ‘I’m surprised …’ Doctor B said.

  ‘Surprised at what?’

  ‘That such a great and wonderful doctor as yourself couldn’t do the sewing on your own head.’

  ‘I’ve many things in many places,’ The Don told him, ‘but I don’t have eyes there.’

  At that, there had been movement on the stairs. And out of sight of Doctor B, wasn’t there pale hair trailing over the banister, as his wife listened to every word?

  ‘All done,’ said Doctor B. ‘Three and six. I’ll send you the bill.’

  ‘Night night, Grettie!’ The Don waved towards the staircase and legged it out of there. That was probably the most civilized meeting him and the good doctor ever had. I wondered at The Don being on first-name terms with the doctor’s wife; I bet the doctor did too. I’d say the conversation they had when he left was far fr
om civilized, wouldn’t you?

  The Don wasn’t floored for long. One day he was on the ground stinking of piss and blood, and the next standing at his doorway, chipped tooth and all, waving to the women with open arms. ‘Ladies, ladies, come on in!’ His white shirt opened at the chest, a necklace with a blue stone pendant shining from across the street. Could you be up to him?

  Could you be up to anyone in this town? You know, I thought Charlie was protecting his sister’s virtue when I saw him leap on the herbalist. Wasn’t I a terrible innocent? It wasn’t Emily he was fighting for at all, was it? No, it wasn’t her.

  Is that a smile I see?

  26

  The Adventures of Robin Hood had returned to the Picture Palace due to popular demand. It was Charlie’s day off and I really wanted him to take me. I asked him at breakfast while he was still fuzzy.

  ‘They say Errol Flynn wears no underpants,’ I said, joining him at the table.

  ‘Will you shut up saying that? Anyway, I’m busy today. You can come the next time I’m going with a gang.’

  Gang my bum, Charlie never went with a gang; Charlie always had a girl. He had started late and was making up for it. No wonder he ate like a horse.

  ‘Are you not going to bring Rita?’

  ‘No, not this time. Pass the marmalade.’

  ‘Will you ask Rose perhaps?’ I said. ‘You can bring Mrs B too; cuddle up to her fox-fur. Have an old nuzzle-nuzzle.’

  ‘Stop it. You’d need to grow up.’ He let on to smack my shoulder; it didn’t hurt – Charlie couldn’t hurt me if he tried.

  ‘I am grown up,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a beau.’

  ‘Ah, will you stop. Don’t talk nonsense.’

  ‘I do, he’s John Gilbert and Clark Gable all rolled into one. Before Gable grew that fat moustache, I mean. I really don’t like that moustache, I hope he trims it …’

  ‘That herbalist is a pauper who thinks he’s a prince. And if he doesn’t stay away from you, I’ll make him.’ Charlie touched my arm. ‘Everyone is laughing at you, Emily.’

  He said the last bit softly. I didn’t like Charlie saying that so gentle, making it sound almost true.

  ‘I’ll keep to my love life; you keep to yours.’

  He sighed, and chewed away on his bread.

  ‘How is poor Rita?’

  ‘She’s fine, busy enough nowadays. We’re just pals.’

  ‘I’d say that suits you. So, who are you seeing on the sly?’

  ‘No one.’ He knocked back the rest of his tea.

  ‘You’d like to, though, wouldn’t you? Go to the flicks with Rose? Pity, he’d have your guts for garters.’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’

  ‘Her father of course, the eminent Doctor B.’

  ‘That man’s a brute,’ he said, shoving his plate away and standing up. ‘Cows. I’m off.’

  There was no picture house for anyone that afternoon. There was me at home drawing water from the well, carrying bucket after bucket into the kitchen to fill the kettle to put on the fire, because our lad Charlie had decided to wash the windows of the parlour and needed hot water. Then more turf had to be brought in to keep the fire going to heat the water to clean the tiles.

  And for what? He said he just wanted it ship-shape.

  Well, I wanted to feed the hens and bring in the eggs and clean them. But I had to take out the ashes that had built up from keeping the water boiling hot for Charlie, the new lover of sparkling windows.

  I’d have much rather been holding my breath in the picture house, watching the ever so dashing Errol Flynn robbing rich folk. I loved it there. The sticky Highland Toffee, the wait for the picture to begin, the music, the suspense. Oh, there was nothing like it. I even loved the smell of tobacco and brilliantine. The stink of piddle from the flea pit. It was so good to be there in the dark, in a packed smoky picture house, with the stars on the big screen. Watching a man stretch his arm around his girl’s shoulder and trying to look casual about it. It was pity to come out again, out of the dark into the bright shining daylight of the same plain town you were born into.

  Charlie had the windows wide open to help the tiles dry; he’d even wiped down the walls. He was fierce busy tidying a parlour that no one ever went into, the room Mam kept for good use. The one we’d laid her out in. Poor woman. I didn’t like to think about that, of her keeping the room clean for visitors when no visitors did she get, not a one. Not till she had passed on.

  It was the coldest room in the house; never got any sun, never would. I stored the butter box in there. Not that anyone noticed or cared. My father was in the pub or visiting, hardly ever came home. Visiting, mind. Who would bother with him at all? I could never fathom it. Some old biddy must’ve been feeding him. He almost never showed for dinner but, as far as I could tell, he hadn’t starved to death yet. Who’d think that he’d be the one widowed when he married Mam all those years ago, she twenty and he thirty-five? And there he was, a vagabond thriving on a regime of drink and tobacco. ‘Never marry muscle.’ That’s what Mam used to say, amongst other things.

  I tiptoed across the tiles and sat on the windowsill, watching Charlie sweep a damp rag across the floor and wring it out in the basin. If Father had been here, he’d have been telling him off for doing women’s work. His pals in the foundry would have been laughing their heads off.

  ‘Charlie,’ I asked, ‘why are you cleaning up in here?’

  ‘Might have a friend coming, just for a short time.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. But this person needs somewhere safe.’

  ‘A sanctuary?’ I loved secrets.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘You’re not to tell anybody, Emily. Not even your man from the market.’

  ‘He has a name.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Who’s this friend, Charlie?’

  ‘I can’t say, Emily, I really can’t. Someone who desperately needs help.’

  ‘Oh, how exciting. I’ll help. I’ll cook extra and bring it to him. Does he like eggs?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone like eggs? You’re a good one, Emily.’

  ‘Ah, feck off,’ I told him.

  Charlie looked like he was going to say something else, but he didn’t. He just wrung out the cloth and brought the basin back into the kitchen. I stayed on the window-ledge, imagining Charlie’s desperate friend. How grateful he’d be for the kindness of Charlie’s sister. I’d crimp my hair and swan around in a gauzy gown with fur cuffs. Sit with my elbows on the table and say things like, ‘Now wait a minute, fella. You have to eat, you have to keep your strength up.’ I was a terrible eejit, really, when you think of it. I should’ve guessed when Charlie came waltzing in with a vase full of poppies and set it on the sideboard that this desperate friend of his didn’t wear trousers.

  27

  ‘It says here, it says here that this wine restores normal vitality when reserves of strength have been depleted. A glassful taken three times a day will key up the appetite, bring refreshing sleep and build up energy and bodily strength with gratifying rapidity.’

  Dan didn’t answer; he just growled and stretched his legs. Carmel loved to read in the evening, relished the combination of tonic wine, a thick novel and a dying fire. And when she could no longer fix her eyes on the page, she’d resort to reading the label on her tonic wine for convalescents.

  ‘And it also says that it contains medicinal ingredients not to be found in any other tonic wine. What do you think of that?’

  ‘It would want to, at six shillings a bottle,’ Dan said.

  ‘It’s made by monks, I’ll have you kno
w.’

  She liked to read and read – she was mad for it. That night it was Madame Bovary. Dan went in search of something that needed painting, or fixing, or both. He was back in a breath.

  ‘Look what our shop girl’s been gobbling up – The Fortunate Mistress! How did she get her hands on that? I found it beside the ledger – anyone could’ve seen it.’

  ‘It’s not hers. It’s ours.’ Wine made Carmel brave. ‘You know Finbar does great work on behalf of the Catholic Truth people. Well, I was giving him a hand, checking a few suspect novels that might have to be reported to the censorship board. You can’t be vigilant enough nowadays, can you, Dan?’

  She hoped Dan wouldn’t spot the lie.

  ‘Underlining dirty bits in foreign books?’

  ‘Most of them are Irish, I’ll have you know. And he’d no choice the way things are, the way the government is coming down on all of us. Do you think he could have said no? Well? Said no to the Catholic Truth people and he the master of a Catholic national school? An overseer of the innocent?’

  ‘But you could’ve said no! And what kind of man would give his sister questionable books to read?’

  She hadn’t an answer for that.

  Carmel watched her husband fume as he flicked through Moll Flanders. Such a big man – his thighs were as hard now as they’d been on the day they married. He was so righteous, sturdy and stern. Dan had a real soft spot for the sacrament of confession, for those fleeting seconds when his soul was officially declared sin-free and pure. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.