by Boyce, Niamh
‘We – well, myself and the doctor – we often wondered what was going on with you, Carmel. You know, you weren’t exactly interested in men, then you went and married a kid like Dan. We wondered was it because your mother wanted someone to edge old Finbar out. We wondered …’
What? Wondered what? Don’t ask.
‘You know’ – Grettie forced a laugh – ‘we wondered if you liked men at all, or were you one of those inverts?’
‘An invert.’
‘Isn’t that funny? Doctor B thinking that about you! Isn’t it silly?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Laugh, you must laugh.
Carmel laughed. Her throat was dry. A whole reel of film unwound on to the floor. The back of Sarah’s neck, warm and brown like an egg. And that girl, that girl when she was twelve. But nobody knew about those things, those nothings. She felt herself redden. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be. She liked that part of being married. She liked Dan’s body.
She was being punished for something she had said earlier, but she couldn’t remember exactly what.
‘I must go now. Dan will worry if I’m late.’
Carmel began to put on her cardigan. Her elbow got stuck.
‘Will he?’
‘Yes, he will, Grettie. Dan loves me, and I love him.’
Oh, no, not tears.
Grettie rose up, leant towards Carmel and wrapped her arms around her. Carmel’s nose began to run; she wiped it with the back of her hand. Grettie hugged her tightly. Carmel sniffled.
‘I’ve upset you – I’m sorry.’ Grettie handed her a napkin from the supper platter. ‘Carmel, I’m sorry, I’ve been an old meanie.’
Grettie walked over to the fireplace; she hoisted up her dress to warm her legs.
‘Carmel, if I’ve been a bit catty, it’s because I feel so wretched myself. I’m in a dreadful situation.’
‘I’d no idea.’
‘Yes, I’ve been caught short. I don’t want to worry Doctor Birmingham, but, frankly, I need a small loan to tide me over. I had to pawn something of value and I need it back.’
‘Oh.’
‘We’re friends, aren’t we? We’ve been friends a long time?’
‘A long time, Grettie.’
‘I’ve never asked you for anything before …’
‘Oh, you mean me?’
‘I’ve never –’
‘But I don’t have any money.’
‘Of course you don’t.’ Grettie pursed her lips.
‘I really don’t.’
‘No, really, forget about it, Carmel. I’m embarrassed to have asked.’
She didn’t look embarrassed; she looked disappointed.
‘Can I ask what –’
‘A private matter.’
Carmel tried to stand. She wobbled.
‘Grettie, I think I’m drunk.’
‘Sit down and let’s get you drunker.’
41
Each week Sarah would decide not to go to the herbalist’s. She didn’t want to go. She never, ever, wanted to. Yet, each Sunday after dinner, when faced with an afternoon of Dan and Carmel, she rose, washed her face and left. Carmel had been sorry-looking since trying to smack her, but there was no sign of an apology, just an extra helping of chicken breast at dinner.
The herbalist looked dreadful and was very quiet. The place was spotless, but it stank of alcohol. He must’ve had a late night. He waved her towards the desk in the corner; the bottles were in a box on top.
‘I wrote a list for you.’
He handed her a page: ten foot rubs, ten back oils, and so forth. Sarah looked at the box of unmarked potions.
‘How will I know which is which?’
‘Just have an old sniff; you know yourself by now. I’ll be out in a bit.’
With that he closed the door of his bedroom. It was a quiet afternoon, and she took her time. It was a gentle quietness, not edgy like in the shop, where you knew it could be broken at any minute. People would call, but not till later. They’d play poker, old maid, rummy, twenty-five. Drink tea. Some had a tipple, port, brandy – respectable drinks. Sarah hoped Aggie wouldn’t come today. She knew Aggie was of the opinion that she had swiped the job in Kelly’s from under Emily’s nose. Made it obvious that she thought it was too smooth a replacement, that Sarah was too clever for her own good, not as soft as Emily. She had said as much at the last game of cards.
‘Emily would’ve given her right arm to be here having the crack. Whereas Miss Sarah’ – Aggie raised her voice so Sarah wouldn’t miss a word – ‘I don’t know why she comes at all. Sitting up so straight, saying nothing, taking it all in.’
The herbalist seemed to have gone to sleep; there wasn’t a sound from the room. She put the kettle on the stove and hoped that maybe by the time it boiled a visitor would have arrived to play a round of rummy with her. Maybe John the Jobber, Seamus or even Lizzie. She didn’t want to leave without talking to the herbalist; he still hadn’t paid her a penny. He must have the money: his business was thriving, and now he had this place. Sarah wanted to be well out of the town before she started showing; she needed to get the boat and fast. Mai had written to Sarah again. She said she had appealed again to her sister Margaret in London, implied that Sarah had married badly, was having a baby and needed a safe place to live temporarily. Please believe or pretend to believe was the prayer that Sarah repeated to herself when she thought of her aunt Margaret reading that letter. She hadn’t seen her since she was twelve years of age.
How quickly a room can change character as one person, then another, walks into it. Within an hour the herbalist was up and chatting to his first caller, a large man unknown to Sarah. Then Lizzie came, and after a while Ned the road sweep arrived, looking sheepish. Young Michael Ryan soon followed. There were more, later, that she couldn’t rightly remember. Things became bleary and fun and not real, and the herbalist’s kitchen transformed into a party palace. And she was pealing with laughter – even sour old Lizzie was warm to her; they held each other’s arms and laughed with their heads back at something outrageous Lizzie had said. Sarah had shocked her by replying back in kind and everyone roared, and there was singing. Some sort of nursery-rhyme song they all chanted and chanted; the table was pushed back and they pranced around the room, mobbing against the wall. She felt dizzy, unbalanced. Realized that someone had slipped something stronger than orange into her orange. She must vomit, she must get the alcohol out of her system.
She fumbled towards the outhouse. By the door a woman was moving in the shadows, moving her hips in a slow, circular motion. Someone was pressed against her – another woman. They stopped embracing and looked at Sarah, mouths wet and slack.
‘Good evening,’ Sarah said, as if she had met them in the street.
What a stupid thing to say. She almost tripped, and then a man appeared out of nowhere, and she rested her head on his shoulder, till his fingers strayed where they weren’t wanted. She shred the skin of his groping hand with her nails and wrestled free. She didn’t go back into the house to collect her things, she just stumbled home to the Holohans’.
She expected Carmel to be standing guard, but she was nowhere to be seen. Dan was home. He stood up when she came in. His hair was tousled – had he been dozing? Sarah focused on the stairs, tried walking towards them without wobbling. If she could get her hand on to the banister, she’d be grand.
Dan was having none of that. He said he smelt alcohol off her. Sarah tried to interrupt him, but he wouldn’t stop talking and accusing, accusing her of entertaining notions about the herbalist, of being up to no good at all hours. He had it all wrong if he thought Sarah was pining afte
r the herbalist. She didn’t even like him; he frightened her almost. She just desperately needed the money he would pay her. But she couldn’t tell Dan that, couldn’t tell that to anyone.
‘You’re not going back to that place.’
‘I’m not a child; you can’t tell me what to do.’
‘I can let you go.’
That gave her a fright. She took a step back.
‘I’m disappointed in you. Visiting a man like that, consorting.’
‘Like what, Dan, like what?’
‘Immoral …’
‘What makes you think he’s immoral?’
‘Just look at who he consorts with – bad women who –’
‘It takes men too.’
‘Stop that. All I’m saying is, adult or not, no more of those visits.’
‘What else will I do? Sit and listen to you and Carmel argue all night?’
She shouldn’t have mentioned their arguments.
‘You disgust me, Sarah.’
‘No, I don’t.’
She took his hand and placed it over her heart. Held it there. Saw him redden. He was so big and tall. She would have liked him to collapse, to have held him in the palm of her hand. To have had his naked body cover hers. Where this desire came from she didn’t know; she hadn’t known she had it in her.
‘I think you’d better call it a night,’ he said, turning away.
42
I had sewn in my bedroom all day. My eyes were sore and my elbow ached from feeding fabric to the sewing machine, but I was happy. I got through a pile of mending and then drew out a pattern for my new satin – yes, satin – dress. I had paid for and collected the fabric that very morning. It was only divine, slippery and shiny, and the most beautiful blue I’d ever set eyes on. ‘Are you making curtains?’ the shop girl had asked when I bought it. Some people have no class. I asked Charlie over supper if he wanted to come along to Aggie’s spiritual session. Charlie thought it was a load of silly codswallop. So I decided to clear up and go to bed instead. I was wrecked by that time anyway.
I was drifting off to sleep, warm and lovely, in my own world, when I felt someone was there in the room with me, someone who was looking down on me. I froze, afraid to open my eyes or even to let my breath out. A finger pressed against my lips. I bit down. The yowl put my mind at rest. I recognized his voice.
The herbalist was standing over me. He was holding his finger and looking mad as hell. He placed his hat on the chair and sat on the bed alongside me. He was unshaven; it made his face look thinner, meaner.
‘You frightened me!’
‘You frightened me too.’ He held up his marked finger.
‘What do you want – has something happened?’
‘I just want to talk.’
‘All you do is talk. You said you’d build me a boat, that we’d float down the river all the way to the ocean. Oh, I was to be the queen of the river, the love of your life …’
‘We will, we’ll go down the river.’
He pulled back the bed-covers and turned me over, on to my belly. He undid the string at the neck of my nightdress and slipped it off my shoulders. I felt his jaw against my skin: the bristles felt like a shoe brush.
‘When, when will we?’
‘Some night soon. Where did you put the fox-fur, Emily?’
‘You can’t take it back; it was a present.’
He pressed his fingers against my neck and then he spread them wide till he was holding my throat, real gentle, not so it hurt.
‘It will all come to pass, I promise you. We’ll drift along the river in a cascade of flowers. You will be queen.’
‘And we’ll have a feast?’ I was glad he’d forgotten about the fox-fur.
‘Everything we want and more, wine, women and –’
‘And what about that other one, writing your labels?’
‘Sarah can barely spell. I gave her the sack today. “Get out!” I told her.’
He tightened his fingers on my throat, pressed himself against me. Then a sound came from outside: the honking of a motorcar.
He jumped up and just left the room. I heard his steps on the stairs and then nothing. The herbalist had never come here before. I should’ve liked it better. I pulled back the curtains and looked out of the window. There was no sign of him. Why had he left without so much as a word? Was he afraid of my father? As if my father would notice anything I did. I could have the whole army up here and there wouldn’t be a word about it.
I eased the cloth bag from between the bed and the wall, opened the drawstring and pulled out the fox-fur. It was funny, but there in the moonlight, as I tugged it from the mouth of the blue bag, it looked like an animal being born. I slipped it on and lit one of my father’s cigarettes and smoked with my elbows on the windowsill. Maybe the herbalist had been lured all the way out here by my womanly mystique. I blew the smoke out into the dark and spent a few minutes being sultry. After that I couldn’t sleep a wink, so I hid the fur, made myself respectable, and decided to take Aggie up on her offer and drop in on her spiritual session.
I might’ve been better off in bed. It was roasting on the boat, and only one sod in the stove. I was sweating. It didn’t bother Ag; I suppose she was used to it. There were great sopping patches under the arms of her new dress, and yet she threw a black crocheted shawl across her shoulders.
‘Will you not boil up in that yoke?’
‘I always wear this – it adds to the magic.’
There were three women due that night. Aggie told me it would be great sport, and Sally Heaney coming made it an easy one. Aggie knew Sally’s recently deceased fairly well – well enough to know what he’d say if he was summoned from the grave for a chin-wag. He liked a fine wide arse on a woman, and Bisto in his tea. That’s what Aggie told me. The trick, according to her, was not to say too much too quickly.
‘Let them wait, whet the appetite, like a striptease. The Gypsy Rose of the tea leaves, that’s me.’
Aggie had set up her stow-away table with four stools around. We heard the women making their way on to the boat, the clip-clopping of heels and squeals, as if they were stepping on to the high seas. Aggie stood by the hatch to welcome them and take their sixpence admission. There was Mrs Heaney, Mrs James and Miss Fortune.
Mrs Heaney tried to bring her cat. No moggies on my boat, said Aggie, and she fecked it back to dry land by the tail. Aggie hated cats. The women sat around the table with their hands flat and fingers touching. There were dozens of candles on the table. It made their faces look paler, and the shadows under their eyes darker. I knelt in the corner on a cushion like a squaw.
‘There are things that do happen, ladies,’ Aggie said, ‘that there’s no earthly explanation for. As you know I was born with the caul, so I see what others do not …’
There was a sharp rap on the door. Miss Fortune leapt. Hot wax spilled across Mrs Heaney’s wrist, and she roared like a banshee. A narrow face peeped in – it was Ned. He never missed a thing.
‘Come on, come on in,’ Aggie shouted, red-faced with impatience.
Ned had a dusty old job sweeping the roads but was always neat as a pin. Lived in one of the worst terraces for rats and muck, but to see him on a Sunday in his good suit and gleaming shoes you’d swear he lived in a manor. He tucked himself on to the step by the door. Mrs Heaney wanted a word with her Raymond; Mrs James wanted to talk to one of her dead children, it didn’t matter which one. Miss Fortune just wanted to listen; it was her first time, she didn’t want to ‘rush things’. Her fiancé had been killed in the war and it had left her very fragile. Twenty years later and she still wasn’t over it.
Wh
en Aggie spoke on behalf of the departed, her voice went very deep and she pressed her chin on to her chest. The women were delighted to hear their relatives were having great craic in the ever after. I had nearly drifted off when they began to stretch their legs and take out the gin. Aggie was relaxed, now she was done conning them out of their sixpences. Miss Fortune started humming and I could feel a sing-song coming on. The hatch was opened to let some night air in.
‘I can feel them, out there.’
‘Who, Aggie?’
‘The restless ones.’
‘Oh, God, don’t say that,’ said Miss Fortune.
‘It’s all right – they often come. They come when I’m half dozing – when I’m sitting out on the deck in my chair, snug with all my coats on, and a blanket up to my chin. Once you’ve seen them, you can’t go back to when you didn’t – you can’t do that.’
‘What do they look like?’ I asked. She turned sharply, as if she’d forgotten I was there.
‘Like wisps of smoke rising from the river. It goes real quiet, like the whole river is holding its breath. It’s always around three in the morning.’
‘The time of death,’ whispered Ned.
‘My living heat pulls them, draws them.’
‘The way a poultice draws the poison,’ said Ned.
‘The very same.’
‘I’m frightened,’ said Mrs Heaney.
‘They’re the frightened ones, poor things. They come close to me, then closer again. The air cools. I hear them, but mostly I don’t understand what it is they’re whispering … but they’d break your heart.’
‘Whimpering like a shivering pup of a winter’s evening?’ said Ned.
‘The exact and the same. Poor divils.’
‘What do you do, Aggie – are you terrified?’ I asked.
‘Nope. I go shush, shush, it’ll be all right. And I might sing an old rhyme.’ Aggie began to sing:
See saw Margery Daw