The Herbalist

by Boyce, Niamh

  ‘I park in the shade,’ she said, ‘so me butter won’t melt nor me milk sour.’

  Mad as a hatter but she knew her knots better than any sailor, and the bloody big strong arms on her! Aggie loved that boat. I’d seen her kiss it, I swear to God. Some paint had flaked from its name, so it read iddy, instead of biddy. I kept quiet. If I passed any remark, Aggie would summon Seamus to fix it, have him slaving away in the heat. He’d do anything for Aggie; he was the only man in this town that gave her the time of day. It was quite a different story come the night-time, though. Else we wouldn’t have the Schiaparelli, would we?

  Seamus was a quare man. Shy, yet brazen when it came to doing Aggie’s bidding. Only last week he’d mended her cabin door and painted it pillar-box red as a surprise. She wasn’t a bit pleased, roaring that he was making a fool of her and forcing him to redo it in black before it had even dried. Wasn’t a bit grateful. She didn’t talk much about Seamus, and when she did she never used his name. ‘My odd-job man’, that’s what she called him.

  Aggie had taken me under her wing since our shindig at the herbalist’s had gone so strangely. She was good company, and she’d been feeding me sugared whiskey to aid my recovery. Announced that I was in dire need of womanly guidance. Open your ears now, or learn the hard way, Emily.

  ‘It’s all in the dreams. The dreams tell you everything, mark my words,’ Aggie said, all of a sudden.

  ‘What does he dream of?’

  ‘Let me see, let me see.’ Aggie tapped her forehead. ‘He dreams of Indian boys, a ball of sun and dry earth in a place where everyone looks just like him. He has to make this place up, for he has never been.’

  ‘What Indian boys?’

  ‘I don’t know – why don’t you go and ask him?’

  I had hoped she might see me waltzing through the herbalist’s dreams in a white fur stole and a lamé dress.

  ‘What about me, then?’

  ‘Oh, you’re easy: your dreams are full of white mice, they run all over your room, skid down the banisters and waltz in the cupboard.’

  ‘That’s not true and you know it, and we don’t have that many mice. What about her, then?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, your one, Lady Muck the shop assistant.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah.’ Aggie shut her eyes, waited a while and smiled. ‘Sarah dreams of a man: he’s a stranger and he’s rowing her down the river, rowing her to a nicer place than this.’

  ‘I wish someone would.’

  ‘Now, now.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘My dreams are no one’s concern.’

  ‘Ah, Aggie …’

  ‘All right, have it your way. If Aggie dreams good, she dreams of the farmhouse she was born to, the warm straw, heavy porridge, being held. If she dreams bad, then she dreams of being sent into service, and of all the grey roofs she could see from her window.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means nothing.’

  Dan Holohan walked by, and let on he didn’t see either of us.

  ‘What about his lordship there?’

  ‘Oh, Dan, he’s easy: he dreams of making love to that dark woman we saw in the paper who wasn’t permitted to sing for Mrs Roosevelt, then he dreams of making love to Mrs Roosevelt. He wakes up woeful tired.’

  ‘You’re a terrible woman!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There, all done. Now don’t wiggle those toes! They’ll be dry in no time.’

  ‘Thank you, madam.’

  ‘You’re very welcome.’

  I screwed the nail varnish closed, lay back on the grass and talked about the beautiful dresses I could make with silk or satin. Imagine, satin. The gathers, the drapes, the tucked-in waists. How I would sway into a concert at the town hall and no one would recognize me. And I would be danced all night.

  Aggie sat up and pointed to a woman pumping water near by: she was expecting a child and the six around her were barely dressed.

  ‘See her? Her poor ankles, her baggy tired body? She hasn’t many years on you. You want dancing, you want glamour, you want men? Mouths to feed, that’s what men will get you!’

  She nudged a wee naggin of whiskey from her cleavage and took a sip.

  ‘Ah, Aggie, stop, you were young once yourself!’

  ‘Agnes. Agnes Marian. I’ve got a proper name, just like you.’ She waved her finger.

  ‘Don’t you like children; did you never want some for yourself?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, girl, want children? I’m well past all that.’

  ‘But did you ever …’ I let there be silence. Aggie hated silence.

  ‘I had a child, a long time ago.’ She tugged the fringes of her shawl.

  ‘Where’s it now? Did it pass on?’

  ‘Don’t know. End of story.’

  ‘Ah, Aggie, please …?’

  She rooted her cigarettes from her skirt pocket, lit one and took a hard pull. Looked at me.

  ‘I was very young, engaged but not wed. They said I had to go into one of those places. I wouldn’t agree to go. In the end I was carried through the big gates, kicking and screaming and seven months gone.’

  Aggie let out a long breath, and sighed before she continued.

  ‘Soon as the cord was cut, a pretty nun by the name of Sister Angela bent over me and snatched the child from between my legs. It slipped from her hands, fell back on to the bed. “Oh, sacred heart of Jesus,” she said. I lifted my head, but couldn’t see past her veil. And then she was gone. Never knew if it was a boy or if it was a girl. Never saw the baby again at all. Just heard it cry. When Sister Angela returned an hour later, she was empty-handed.’

  ‘Go on, don’t stop.’

  ‘Next day I was moved to a women’s prison in Galway, served eight months and was released. That part was lucky, getting jail time; otherwise I’d still be in there, wouldn’t I? Locked behind those high gates with all the other unweds.’

  ‘Why did they send you to prison, Aggie?’ I whispered.

  ‘Didn’t I say? I was sent to prison for breaking Sister Angela’s lovely face.’

  I tried to picture all those things happening to Aggie, but could no more picture her young than I could picture myself old.

  ‘Nothing else came out of there alive.’ She pointed to you-know-where. ‘Bad luck or silver lining, who knows?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Heed my advice, Emily. Don’t fuss about dances, wooing or finery. That just leads to yearning, and yearning is another way of doing nothing. Ask yourself every day – how can I make a few bob? You have a sewing machine and a good pair of hands; get them busy. Sure you’re all set up.’

  ‘Set up to make dresses for other girls to go to dances in?’

  ‘Ah, don’t be so sour – a woman can’t rely on others, she has to be her own boss. Like me, answering to no one.’

  ‘You couldn’t keep going without the men. If they gave you nothing, you’d have nothing.’

  ‘How dare you! I’m me own sewing machine!’ She was raging, ran her hands down her front. ‘You hussy.’

  Then she started laughing. If Aggie liked anything as much as cheap gin, it was being given out to.

  ‘You’re a holy disgrace,’ I chanced.

  ‘A terror,’ she said.

  ‘A blight on the country.’

  ‘Coming apart at the seams.’

  ‘A boil on the face of humanity.’

  ‘The scourge of the earth.’

  She closed her eyes and smiled, her squishy big cushion like a dirty old halo.

  ‘A terrible woman,’ she said softly.


  I wondered who Aggie had been engaged to all those years ago? Who was her young man? And where had he been when she’d needed him?

  There was no sign of the herbalist that day. Moving on up in the world, Aggie had said, leaving the rest of us well behind. Moving on up in the world. He might want another girl. Poor Emily and Aggie would be left in the dark nowhere space. Aggie yawned and stretched her legs; it was as if she had read my thoughts.

  ‘When the herbalist leaves,’ she said, ‘he won’t look back, not once. Kiss me arse, nothing. Remember that and don’t follow him.’

  I covered my ears and hummed.

  ‘It’s the truth. What do you want from me, warm milk and fairy-tales?’

  Aggie was warning me, always warning me, about the darker side to things. And I should’ve listened. I didn’t listen, but I did the next best thing. I made Aggie a dress.

  It was smart, just past the knees. Olive-green and V-necked. It was a lovely shape but not so sleek when cut for a 46" bust. Aggie said she was terribly pleased, for ever in my debt. But she paid me. Not much but all it had cost me was my time.

  She invited me to her next spiritual night in the boat. ‘Free of charge! And you can make a skirt for yourself with the leftover fabric.’

  Leftovers. Did the woman not know how broad she was at all? It fitted her perfectly, and was more sober and neat than most of her clothes. She wore it so much it became her second skin, shiny in the seat and the elbows.

  ‘My dressmaker, Emily, put this together for me,’ she’d say.

  There couldn’t be a worse advertisement for a dressmaker than to have Aggie strutting around in one of your creations. I decided that she wasn’t smelly, really; just a bit salty. ‘Salt of the earth,’ they said, when she was dead.

  40

  Carmel took some care getting ready for her Sunday supper at the Birminghams’. She chose her cream wool cardigan and her spotted bottle-green dress, splashed a bit of Dan’s cologne on her wrists and arranged her plait extra carefully about her head. Her hair had darkened since she’d married. It used to resemble wheat; now it was more of a biscuit colour. She lay on the bed to hoist on her stockings. Thank God her damn monthlies were over. She felt such hell when they were due, and such heartbreak at their arrival. Barren, barren, barren, announced the red blood.

  Stop! Think nice thoughts. Chocolate. Lilies. Madame Bovary. Just look at that dust on the ceiling!

  Now for the face. She dabbed on some powder and a touch of lipstick. It wouldn’t do to look too done up, too eager. She pulled the green dress from the hanger and put it on. It was tight around the waist; the buttons on the chest gaped. When had she become so busty? Well, it would have to do. It was her best frock and the ones Emily had altered were too plain, too humdrum. She buttoned up the cardigan. Wore her mother’s marcasite necklace to jazz things up a bit.

  She had taken great pleasure in telling Dan she wouldn’t be home that evening. He was glad for her, said that she deserved a bit of fun. He wrapped his arms around her waist and gave her a lovely squeeze. Then he went and spoilt it all by saying, ‘I wonder what Grettie is after?’

  The house was so silent. Sarah was at her other job, labelling medicines, pickling plants. She should be home soon. Carmel hadn’t yet said anything to the girl about what had happened. Several times she’d begun to, but her apology had got caught in her craw, or she had changed her mind and decided it was Sarah who should be apologizing for casting aspersions on the niceness or otherwise of Carmel’s family home. Not that there was any family in it. Now, now, don’t get cross again.

  Carmel’s form had improved by the time she reached the top of the Birminghams’ avenue. It was nice to be away from her own four walls; she should go places more often. A dour girl took her coat and left her shivering in the hall. ‘The missus will be with you shortly,’ she said. The girl looked familiar. It took Carmel a moment to place her – with that dark complexion and the dramatic widow’s peak, she was a Daly. But which of them had got the job in the Birminghams’? Oh, yes, Margery.

  There was no sign of Grettie. Was Carmel early? Her answer came from a blue cuckoo. He sprang from his house over her head: cuckoo, cuckoo … Lord, would he ever stop? She counted his cries. It was eight o’clock. She was on time. She sat on the long oak bench. A tall brass lamp stood like a sentry beside it, casting a pool of honey-coloured light. The walls were newly painted a clean pale green, no botched wallpaper for Grettie B.

  The doctor’s door faced her. It was a heavy black door, a bit battered-looking and at odds with the white roses in a crystal vase on the ornate hallstand beside it. It was nice to be here when the place wasn’t full of patients moaning and sneezing and noticing everything about everybody else. Carmel had only been twice that she could remember. At least she was healthy in that way; not everyone could say that. She should count her blessings. The stairs were steep, and situated to the right of the doctor’s room. The handrail and balusters were plain, simply painted white. Carmel would have loved to wander up those stairs. She could imagine the luxury on the second floor: the thick carpets, heavy drapes, antique heirlooms, the four-poster beds.

  A muttering came from beyond the panelled door at the end of the hall. The living quarters. Carmel got up quickly to check her face in the mirror behind the roses, but it was impossible to see beyond the blooms. Their dusky sweetness tickled her nose, made her throat itch. She began to pace. She noticed a split in the wall beneath the upper section of the stairs, ran her finger along it and felt a draught. She stepped back. It was a door, flush with the wall and painted the same green as everywhere else. Grettie B’s voice came from somewhere and was coming nearer. Carmel had reached the bench by the time she entered the hallway.

  ‘Forgive me, Carmel, the silly girl just told me you were here!’

  The inner sanctum was threadbare compared with the harem of luxury in Carmel’s imagination. Still, it was nice, spare but very elegant. There was a long table, at which the surly Daly girl sat polishing some silver cutlery. Her eyebrows were black and furious; she practically glared at Carmel. It was a bit strange to be polishing on a Sunday. Was Grettie B making her maid work late just to show off?

  She was led to a smaller room; it had the look of a ladies’ drawing room. Now, this was everything that Carmel had imagined. The pale yellow floor-length curtains on the bay window, soft furnishings covered in a cream fabric blushing with rose patterns and trimmed in gold. A low round table was set for two. Carmel’s heart sank – it was just the two of them. She took a low chair and was sucked into its softness. Grettie B swished past in her long plum gown. It was dated but suited the room.

  The evening began pleasantly enough. Supper was cold meats, stuffing and pickled onions, then plum jelly, cream and scones. And sherry, and a few Irish coffees and then more sherries. The fire was kept topped up with log after log by the sour-faced girl. All Grettie B had to do was ring a small bell and she came running. Carmel relaxed in no time; she even shed her cardigan.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ She had forgotten the gaping buttons. ‘I must get Emily to let this dress out. The poor motherless girl. Who would’ve thought that Mo would die so young?’

  ‘I bet Brian didn’t; bet he thought he was set up for life.’

  ‘Poor man.’

  ‘Nothing poor about him, Carmel.’

  ‘Do you remember you wanted to marry him?’

  Carmel couldn’t believe she had spoken so out of turn – it must be the drink – but she ploughed on. ‘Aren’t you lucky you didn’t get what you wanted?’

  ‘Did I? I don’t think so, but maybe my memory isn’t as good as yours.’ Grettie B topped up Carmel’s glass. />
  ‘Yes, wasn’t that when the coolness set in between you and Maureen? You were very close, even for cousins. Remember? You had your eye on Brian –’

  ‘It was the other way round!’

  ‘You had to look out for Mo that day, and you had set up a date with Brian so you brought her along, remember? And he fell in love with her on the spot.’

  ‘That’s not what happened at all! The only one I had my eye on was Doctor Birmingham. Do you think I’d choose a travelling salesman over a doctor?’

  ‘They were just men then, and we were just women.’

  ‘You weren’t a woman; you were a child of ten!’

  ‘I know, but children see and hear things.’

  Carmel knew she should stop, but she couldn’t. Grettie B’s face was a sight. It was almost fascinating to watch her contain her rage.

  ‘How would you have known what was going on either way? You were such a long time on the shelf yourself, Carmel; you didn’t know one end of a man from another.’

  ‘Excuse me. I was fussy!’

  ‘Do you mean I wasn’t?’ Grettie B leant forward to reveal a splendid powdered bosom.

  ‘No, I don’t mean that at all. You were very pretty, Grettie, almost as lovely as Rose. And you were very fussy – you could’ve had your pick of the men in this town.’

  ‘Almost as lovely? Well, you were a nice-looking girl too, Carmel.’ She tapped her spoon off her cup. ‘But may I be honest? That weight does you no favours. You’re too small-boned to carry extra baby weight.’

  ‘Maybe I want to carry it? Maybe I don’t want to lose my baby weight?’ Her hand trembled as she set down her glass.

  ‘You know, Carmel, losing that child might’ve been for the best – have you ever considered that? Not everyone is able for motherhood. Not everyone has the … stamina.’

  Silence. Tinkle. Sherry.

  ‘How could you?’

  Carmel lost interest in the conversation – or in correcting Grettie’s versions of everything; she just wanted to go home to her husband. But Grettie B wasn’t finished.