by Boyce, Niamh
‘Don’t forget your old friends.’ She turned to me then. ‘Did you hear that this fella got a hiding?’
I looked at the herbalist and he smiled – was his tooth chipped?
‘Did someone hurt you?’ I suddenly felt like crying.
‘Miss Reilly’s talking nonsense as usual – don’t mind her.’
I gave Aggie the dirtiest look I could muster up.
‘Are you a stray or what, girl?’ she said. ‘Does no one care whether you go home or not?’
‘No, I’m me own woman,’ I told her.
‘She hasn’t a clue,’ I said to him when Aggie had gone.
‘Not a notion.’ He locked the door.
We had our lives mapped out. As soon as he was all fixed up and everything was settled and he had saved a few more bob, him and me were going to up and move to Brighton; he’d run a practice and I’d be his empress on a full-time basis. That’s what he called me, his empress, his goddess, his queen. How can I serve thee tonight, my gracious one? He loved all sorts of gabbing. Liked talking about it as much as doing it. He showered me with affection, took clippings from my skirt lining, my hair, my fingernails, put them in a little box. ‘Offerings, tokens, lucky amulets!’ he cried, as if he was selling them to the public. ‘Your body is a lucky rabbit’s foot all by itself.’ In Brighton, we would be one, but until then I had to settle for being his mystery woman, rapping at the back window of his new home, till I heard him whisper, Who goes there?
30
Carmel was slicing soda bread for their supper. Sarah was gone for a walk. Dan was doing the crossword at the table, pretending not to watch her movements, as she sawed into the loaf. She tried to calm her hands. Carmel was upset. Was always upset these days, always in need of a drink.
Something was haunting – no, tormenting, her. It was Mother. It wasn’t like Mother was a ghost or anything so tawdry. But she heard her voice. She heard it when she sat in her chair and looked in the dressing-table mirror. It was sharp, a sharp whisper, a cold breath on the back of her neck. Saying horrible things, things she used to say years ago. Always giving out, always complaining. The way, Carmel realized, that she herself did now.
She was thirty-six years of age and felt withered, on the way out. Felt so sad about herself and Dan. Were they going to have a lonely, barren marriage? What about love? Where had it gone? Silly thoughts for a woman who was finding grey hairs amongst the blonde.
At the same time, Sarah had acquired the glow of someone in love. Carmel had asked her about it – not in a pushy way, just a friendly inquiry from one woman to another, ‘Is there anyone special?’ Sarah had denied it, given a small dry laugh. This disappointed Carmel. Sarah could’ve taken her into her confidence. It would’ve been nice to be asked for advice, to chat about romance.
The handle of the butter knife came off in her hand. How did that happen? Dan’s hand covered hers – it was warm.
‘Let me finish this – you sit down and read a book.’
She pulled a volume from the dresser and took her place at the table. Tristram Shandy. Even her books gave little comfort. The stories were all getting mixed up in her mind, giving her headaches. Even her bible stories. Oh, sacred holy mother, if only her baby wasn’t in limbo. No matter where Carmel went when she died, heaven or hell, she would never meet her baby. Get on with things, keep busy, Grettie said. Most women, they just got on with it. Lived week to week, day to day, were grateful to have turf for the fire, a roof over their heads and children to pray for. But most women she knew had children to spare. Even Carmel’s one true faith meant nothing to her now. Dan sat and began pouring the tea.
‘Maybe,’ he said, looking at her sad face, ‘maybe we should get some hens.’
As if hens were aspirin. Instead of the age gap closing, it seemed to be getting wider – with him not ageing and her, well, going to the dogs. She took a bite of bread and excused herself.
Carmel was at the dressing table in her bedroom, leaning into the mirror and hearing all the bad things again. She wasn’t sure if it was memory, if it was her own mind talking to itself or if it was as real as it felt.
You’re as pale as a ghost when you wear dark clothes. Have you not got a nice blouse or something to go next to your skin? Those glasses do nothing for you.
‘Well, I have to wear them or I can’t see.’
What are you going to do about that complexion – would you put a bit of rouge on? Not there! Not there! Oh, God, and your poor thin hair, could you not do something with it, a trim might thicken it up. Have you not got the shillings for a trim?
‘A trim isn’t going to give me a head of thick hair I’ve never had. After all these years, would you leave it – have you nothing good to say about me?’
Well, look at yourself!
‘Oh!’
Dan came in, said there was a racket, that Carmel was making a racket. Grabbed her by the shoulders and made her look at the woman in the mirror. Her face was patched with make-up: the rouge on her cheeks looked like a clown’s, her mouth was dark and sticky. She was making sounds; there were words in there somewhere.
‘Were you eating lipstick?’
‘I want my baby back.’
The woman in the mirror started crying.
‘You’re having a bad dream.’
Dan guided her away from the mirror as if she were a sleepwalker, led her towards their bed, made her lie down and smoothed the sheets, and then her hair. He closed the bedroom door as though he were trying not to waken her. But Carmel didn’t sleep: she wept, and wept. Later he brought her a cup of strong sweet tea.
‘What in God’s name is wrong with you, Carmel?’
‘I don’t know.’
How does it happen, Carmel wondered; how do you become an embarrassment to yourself? Is anything ever going to be good again?
31
Sarah was doodling on the previous day’s paper, pencilling an angry moustache on a millionaire’s daughter who had just flown her first aeroplane – THE SKY’S THE LIMIT said the headline – when she smelt a whiff of cedar and saw a shadow move over the paper. Master Finbar was standing there. How had he got in without the bell ringing? Her mouth went dry.
‘Is my sister on the premises?’
‘She’s lying down – will I wake her?’
‘No, no need. It’s a flying visit. I was in the locality.’
She resisted the urge to cover her stomach with her hand. He couldn’t know, she thought. Of course not. See how prim he is, how clean his collar is. He knows nothing except for book learning. His eyes, when they found hers, said otherwise.
‘How are you fitting in, Sarah?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Nothing untoward to report?’ He smiled with his mouth shut.
He talked like that – nonsensical, sarcastic but gentle. She never knew what he really meant, even though he spoke plainly enough. His shirt was the whitest she’d ever seen. He was wearing a black tie, neatly knotted. Who did all that for him, kept the widow man so spick and span?
‘I see you’re filling out.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t a compliment. It wouldn’t do to put on too much condition. Not at your age.’
He tapped the counter absent-mindedly. He was treating her coolly. It hurt. From the time Sarah was four and started school, the Master made no attempt to hide the fact that he’d a soft spot for her. Was especially kind, attentive. Now he was icy. Suspicious. Angry in a calm way. He held his fingertips to his temple as if he had a terrible headache. Sighed, as if there were nothing left to say.
‘Have you seen Mai, Master Kell
y?’
‘For what?’
Sarah pressed against the counter, the wood smooth on her stomach, shielding her from his gaze.
‘I’ll be off – give Carmel my regards.’
‘I’ll do that.’
His cologne lingered after he had left; it was pungent. There was too much alcohol in the mix.
Sarah felt chilled. Finbar Kelly knew. Or maybe he just suspected and had come to confirm his suspicions. But how had he guessed? Had Mai told him? No, of course not, Mai knew he’d have Sarah locked up, hidden. Buried alive, if he could. She saw it in his eyes.
That Saturday afternoon, when Sarah met the herbalist and he doffed his cap and asked her if she could assist him, she listened. She needed extra money and sooner rather than later. Carmel paid her a pittance. Subtracted bread and board from her wages, and left her with hardly anything. As if a girl had no future, no need of money, as if they were doing her a favour. Sarah needed the price of her fare, a ticket to somewhere.
It was very simple. It seemed the herbalist couldn’t keep up with demand. Sarah would write the labels for his remedies. There might be other small chores to do around the making of the ointments and such, but not to worry, she wouldn’t get her pretty hands too dirty. He proudly gave her the directions to his new address.
When she arrived the next day, the herbalist was at his kitchen table, rubbing leaves off stems. The leaves crumbled easily between his fingers. They were too dry and brittle; they should still have been green. She said nothing. Fine herbalist he was. Aunt Mai would be disgusted. His new place was a simple two-roomed house, but there was plenty of light in it. He tapped at a child’s school-desk; his latest acquisition, he told her. This was where Sarah was to work, to write out the labels. There was black ink in the inkwell, a fine narrow nib to work with, a blotter, gum and sheets of thin paper. Sarah was to write ten labels for a ‘Warming Chest Rub’ for starters. She watched him work as she practised her strokes on a scrap of paper.
The herbs he had picked that morning were pulpy. He must have gathered them too late. She could see that he overhandled the leaves, bruised them, took too long. Sarah considered not telling him, letting him go on making that mistake. She didn’t know why – other than that he was so high and mighty when he obviously didn’t know half as much as he let on.
‘You should pick before the plant flowers, on the morning of a finer day than this, after the dew has been burnt off.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who says?’
‘My aunt Mai.’
‘Well, tell her the herbalist sends his regards.’
What a funny way of saying thank you. There were a dozen sealed glass jars on the mantelpiece. Sarah wondered if they had any potency at all. When she finished her work, he handed her a slip of paper, an ‘I owe you’, he called it.
‘I’ll have cash next time.’
Sarah hoped that the herbalist would pay her sooner rather than later. She had less and less time to save her skin and that of the child that was coming.
It had occurred to her, to her shame, that there might be time to meet a man, to get herself safely wed. However, the men she met in the shop were either very young, or married, or widowed and decrepit. The older and uglier they were, the more freely they flirted. Her only offer had come from Jackie, a fifteen-year-old who had wanted to take her to the latest Andy Hardy picture. It was laughable. Pitiful.
‘Well, if no one else comes along, he’s not the worst,’ Carmel said.
They started roaring laughing then, her and Dan; it cheered their night up no end.
‘You’re too good-looking, Sarah, you scare them,’ said Dan when Carmel had left the room.
Then a new man began to come to the shop. Shy, with high cheekbones and dark slant eyes, a full mouth in a sunburnt face. Matt was his name. He was much older than her, lines winging from the corner of his eyes, grey cutting through his hair. He got his paper and tobacco every second day. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.
‘He comes three times a week,’ Dan would say. ‘Sarah has a shine for three times.’
It was true that Sarah lived for when he came in. She could see that he liked her too. And it grew on her that he could be her ticket – her way out. But, for some reason, she found herself lost for words when she was serving Matt.
32
I waited till Charlie had gone to bed before sneaking out to see the herbalist’s new house. Charlie was starting to quiz me on my whereabouts. It was a bit late for anyone to be giving a toss about my whereabouts. I sneaked down the stairs, carrying my shoes. My father was crumpled in the armchair. The curtains were still open, the fire was dead. A saucer of cigarette butts had fallen from the arm of his chair on to his lap. He never so much as stirred as I tiptoed past him to open the back door.
I kept my torch aimed at the ground in front of me. There were strange shapes in the fields, looming and sinking, like pirate ships in high winds. The moon looked brittle. The breeze bit at my ears; my own steps sounded like those of someone close behind me, my own breath like that of a twin chasing me down. Turn back, she was saying, you’re sinning. Turn back. Turn back.
I began to run and run, my arms pumping the air like pistons, like when I was a child and we were playing catch in the fields and I wanted to be the fastest and to never, ever get caught. Sweat covered my back in seconds, but I felt better, felt wonderful. Even the ache in my calves seemed to sing. Soon, soon, soon, they said, soon you’ll see him.
Light glimmered between the curtains at the back window. I gave my secret tap. He swung open the back door as if he was welcoming the sweet Lord home to Jerusalem. Oh, he was in the best of form: he rubbed me all over, to make me warm. He was wearing the loose white cotton shirt that I liked so much. He smelt good.
I got the grand tour; it took half a minute. He had two rooms. The kitchen had a nice fire going and a gas-lamp glowed on the narrow table. He had new furniture, a school-desk, a cupboard for his potions, a big armchair by the front window. The curtains were a beautiful cornflower-blue. In the bedroom, his bed was done up all nice, with fresh pillows and a cover. His knick-knacks, ointments and boxes were all neatly arranged on shelves.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
He was excited, full of plans. Now that he had a proper house, he would attract a better class of customer. Those who weren’t too keen on queuing in the market could call round here instead. He was making a sign for over the door: HERBAL SURGERY, it would say. Once he had an idea, he put it into action immediately. The wood, he told me, was outside. For, ta da da da, he had a yard and all … He flung open the back door to show me: the river was silvery and swollen in the moonlight. The place would flood in a bad winter, but I didn’t say anything, didn’t want to spoil his fun.
The herbalist’s brand-new house wasn’t that much of a step up. It was bigger than the shed, but not by the miles that he had said. Two rooms that you could just about swing a cat in, if it was a kitten. Of course, nothing would do me but to tell him that. He was not amused. As far as he was concerned, he was nearly on par with Doctor Birmingham.
His golden Holy Mary calendar hung on a nail on the back door. There were lines through the days that had passed, and I felt a sting of hurt.
‘What are you counting off the days till?’
‘Till we can leave this place and be together in Brighton by the sea, a double act, a team. “The herbalist and his lady”.’
‘Are you asking me for marriage?’
‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’ He nipped at my neck.
‘Dracula!’ I fell back in a swoon.
‘Casan
ova,’ he corrected, catching me and turning me towards the bedroom door.
The new house was less draughty than the shed, I had to give it that. But I was heart-sore for the shed. I always felt sad when worn-out things were abandoned.
Then I suddenly thought of Father. But he was no one to be feeling sorry for, not him. No, it was poor Mam. Then I thought, Why did she leave us? And I felt like going all the way back home and waking my father and shaking him and asking, Why, why did she leave us like that, when we needed her so much? Before I knew it, I was weeping.
The herbalist put his arms around me, pulled me to his chest and whispered, ‘I know, Emily, I know.’ He made me feel better for a bit, but what did he know? How could he know, when he never asked why I was crying? How could he know, when he just clamped his mouth over mine?
He took off his shirt and told me to wait in his new bed while he shaved his face smooth. It wouldn’t do for me to have a beard rash; it wouldn’t do for me to have a mark on me. What would the people say? I took off my dusty shoes and sat high up on the pillows. I still felt shaky, so I told myself things that would make me feel better, hearty things like No more manky curtain walls for us! I told myself that we were like Gable and Colbert in It Happened One Night. They’d had a blanket too. It hung between their bachelor beds to preserve their modesty when they were forced by circumstances beyond their control to share a motel room. ‘The walls of Jericho’, Gable had called it. And, in the end, when they got hitched, he brought a trumpet into the motel, and when we heard the trumpet sound we knew that the walls of Jericho had come tumbling down. I told the herbalist all this while he shaved. But he had no interest in films, and pointed out that we didn’t have any curtain now. The gas-lamp by the bed spooned light upon the wall. I made shadow shapes with my hands while he tackled the awkward bit around his Adam’s apple. I made a dog with slit eyes, no, it was a wolf. ‘Ahwooo!’ I called out. The herbalist looked at me funny.