by Boyce, Niamh
The only person who had ever called me Millie was Mam, but somehow I didn’t mind Birdie saying it; it made me feel sad and warm at the same time. Daft or not, she was a kind woman, one who never meant to upset. She must’ve been very worried about Veronique, for Birdie didn’t approve of the herbalist; she called him a corrupt charlatan.
So V hadn’t fallen out with her – she really was too ill to visit. But why would Birdie go to the herbalist? With her money she could bring in a doctor from anywhere in the world to cure her twin. Her mattress was so stuffed with cash that her little nose touched the ceiling when she snored, or so it was said.
I rubbed a bit of the hand lotion across my knuckle, recognized the concoction as lard and lavender. ‘Ladies’ Hand Lotion’: the label was fancier than before, fancier than what was inside. I said my goodbyes to Miss Chase.
‘Don’t forget your sausages.’
Birdie waved as I left. She seemed a bit disappointed; maybe I should have stayed longer, let her tell me how beautiful Mam was when she was young, how they’d expected great things from her, how I had her eyes, how I had her hair. All lies, but nice things to hear. But I was too vexed with the herbalist and his hand-lotion label to stay and listen. It wasn’t his handwriting on the label; it was a woman’s. And I knew who – Lady Muck, my good friend Sarah. He had told me he had sacked her, that she couldn’t spell her name if you paid her.
I popped across to Kelly’s. Let on I was passing the time of day. I was about to get to the point when Sarah slipped out from behind the counter.
‘I feel ill. Will you hold the fort?’ She looked marvellous.
‘I will.’
Dan came in, looking around him.
‘If you’re looking for the spinster, she’s in the outhouse.’
‘Haven’t you the sharp tongue?’
When there was no sign of Sarah returning, I decided to go elsewhere for my information – to go straight to the herbalist himself. I dropped Birdie’s coat and sausages off home, so I could confront him without looking too mad in the head.
Charlie was out but Father was there. He was sitting in Mam’s corner on the súgán stool, staring into a dead fire. He looked wretched, and I felt sorry for him, but there was no point in talking, never had been. We never got on, never would. He had stopped throwing his fists around far too late. There was nothing left to break.
The herbalist was distracted, so distracted that he let me in. He was in a hurry to get going. Barely noticed what I said about Sarah and him being in cahoots, and didn’t seem to have the energy to remind me that I was barred in the day-time. He was packing his boxes and bag. His hands were shaking.
‘You haven’t even made me a cup of tea.’
‘You shouldn’t be here – let yourself out.’
At that he was gone, flying off on his new motorcycle. It was the blue-black of a horsefly, had big wide ugly wheels, made a racket and left a cloud of smoke behind it. But my God he loved it – thought he was a warrior on a steed.
I didn’t let myself out; I had a good root around. The black surgery notebook was on the table. He was usually so careful with it, usually carried it in his pocket. Smudged on the left-hand corner of every written page were the clouds of his thumb prints. I kissed them.
He had it all written down, every pound, shilling and pence, paid and owed. Every patient had a page, where their name, address and complaints were listed – lumbago, nerves or blood, take your pick. There were people I didn’t think even knew the herbalist. People too upstanding even to speak of him let alone to him. Sergeant Deegan for one, and Mr Joe Nash for another. His writing slanted to the right, which meant, according to Aggie, that he took after his mother; if it went to the left, it’s the father.
His script was neat. Some words were underlined. Like ‘next visit’. There was always a ‘next visit’. A lot of women in the town suffered from their nerves. Catty Dolan was one of them. She must suffer terrible, the poor thing. Had been in near eight times in the past few weeks. And Miss Annie Brady, nine times she’d been. I got to wondering were they all in love with him? It was a bit expensive for love, at one and six a go.
The pages went back to January, to names I didn’t recognize. What town was he operating from back then? He wasn’t here. It was all written in a smooth, calm hand. Nerves. Bronchitis. Skin trouble. Examination. Stomach. Blood and Nerves. A leg ulcer. Examination. Blood and Nerves. Nerves. Nerves. Nerves. All those women, all those nerves. Not so many lately – was his star fading? Or was he just too good at his job?
And the most recent entry, in shaky writing, was Miss Rose Birmingham: ‘Examination. Paid 1/6’. There were brown marks on that page; they looked like dried blood. The ink was smudged and a line ran under the entry, a scratched, scraggly wave. Sparks of ink had flown from the nib of his pen to collect and dry in the central fold between the pages. No address, no further details. No ‘next visit’.
I shut the notebook and put it back where I’d found it. What ailed Rose? Why did it upset me? And not in a jealous way, but in an afraid way, an afraid-for-Rose way. I checked under his bed, wanting to look in the shoebox for the photograph he had snatched out of my hands. I wanted to see if there was something written on the back that would tell me who he really was. Instead I found a wooden box. It was full of implements. A strange-looking collection, things that made my stomach turn. A syringe. A bulb with a nozzle. Two shoehorns screwed together. A piece of stiff wire. A rod with a dark stain on one end. It was the sight of the rod that made me run for the back door and vomit.
46
Carmel walked briskly up the road to Doctor B’s house. It was a dull morning; the rain was a soft mist, and there weren’t many people out and about. Carmel had a five-pound note in her purse for Grettie. Only it wasn’t just a five-pound note – it was a perambulator, it was stuffed toys for her baby boy. It was a loan, not a gift, she had to make sure Grettie understood that. Birdie was sweeping the path in front of her shop. Seamus was painting the Nashes’ window-frames. Carmel waved across the road at them but kept going; she didn’t want to delay.
You never knew who had trouble and who didn’t. Grettie of all people, and everyone had thought she had done so well for herself and that Rose was a saint. It was true what they said: street angel, house devil. It had all been revealed the other night in Carmel’s kitchen, when Grettie kept her up till the early hours, pouring out her troubles.
Rose had her father wrapped around her little finger. He bought her anything her heart desired – jewellery, perfumes, trinkets, expensive clothes, a whole new wardrobe. He’d hired someone to paint her portrait, for God’s sake, when she was only eleven. And all she wanted was more, more, more. Doctor B kept his wife on a tight budget, yet lavished money on their daughter. And was Rose grateful? No, she was not. She was the opposite to grateful. Nowadays she hardly spoke, and when she did she said awful things. ‘Obscenities,’ Grettie said. Carmel was dying to know what the obscenities were, but Grettie wouldn’t say.
There was ivy twisting around the Birminghams’ heavy iron gates. They would want to get it cut back. They had the hired help, hadn’t they? This time Carmel didn’t wait to be admitted. The surgery was packed anyway. She walked on through to the living quarters without asking whether she could or couldn’t. Grettie was in her drawing room, swathed in a green kimono, her face all puffed out from crying. It really was a terrible sight. She lounged on one of the big chairs by the fire, which was smouldering – the room was smoky.
‘You’d need to get that chimney cleaned.’
‘Albie slammed the door; that always draws smoke into the room. He did it on purpose, the devil.’
It
wasn’t like Grettie to be calling the doctor by his first name. Things were worse than they’d seemed. Carmel pulled a stool over to where she was sitting.
‘I have that money for you,’ she whispered.
‘Oh, thank God.’ The tears that were welling up flowed over.
‘But I’ll need it back in a month, Grettie.’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘I’ve drawn up a docket.’
Grettie took the paper from her, read it. Carmel had set out the amount of the loan and the repayment date.
‘You really are a shopkeeper, Carmel.’
‘It’s money I can’t afford to lose; you must know that.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Grettie called out for Rose, who appeared in seconds. Evidently she had been waiting in the dining room. Rose smiled at Carmel. She looked wan. Her skin was always pale, but today it was practically translucent. Carmel could see the blue veins in her neck. She was dressed beautifully, as usual. Today she wore a white brocade dress, with gold buttons down the front. The grip pinning her hair back was ruby. Only the best for Daddy’s girl. You never really knew, did you?
‘How are you, Rose?’
‘Good, thank you, Carmel – would you like a tea or a mineral?’
‘A cup of tea would be nice.’ Carmel was parched.
When Rose brought in the tray, Grettie ordered her to sit down and join them.
‘I’ve very good news, Rose. Mrs Holohan has been kind enough to give us a loan, so we can get by now; we can pay that bill for another week or two.’
Rose fled the room without excusing herself.
‘See what I mean?’ Grettie sighed.
It was shocking, Carmel agreed; the girl had been thoroughly spoilt.
Carmel went home with her docket signed and tucked into her purse. Helping Grettie had put a spring in her step. Maybe, she thought, it was a mistake to be so focused on her own troubles, maybe it would be best to try to be more outward-looking, more charitable towards others. She waved cheerily at Sarah as she walked through the shop, picking up an apple from the basket on the way. She unlocked the cupboard door in the kitchen and removed three random novels. It was work, really. How could she recommend them, if she hadn’t read them?
Tucked up nicely in bed, crunching away on the hard green apple, she began the first novel without even reading the title. She’d do that till it was time to make dinner and then she’d start up again. It was nice to feel industrious while you were lying down.
47
Sarah now woke with excitement for the coming day, for the thrill of seeing Dan. She was no longer afraid of being caught, had no more concerns about Carmel, his witch of a wife. It was so much easier to think of Carmel like that now.
Even though she was sick every morning, the mirror told her she had a glow. Carmel would be puzzled about why she looked so radiant – or at least she would be, if she were able to get out of bed. While the cat’s away, the mice will play. And play they did. Their fingers touching on the counter.
He whispered to her when the shop was empty.
‘I respect you, Sarah. Please don’t think that I want to take advantage.’
‘Well, what do you want to do, then? Marry me?’
‘I can’t do that, I’m married already.’
‘No, really? Why didn’t you say?’
‘Look, Sarah, I don’t want to spoil you for anyone else. We’re going to have to do something about our little problem.’
It was still little then.
Anyone could tell that Dan and Carmel weren’t happy together. They must’ve been once. Sarah looked again at that wedding photo. Carmel so serious but pleased with herself. Pleased wasn’t the same as love. Sarah looked closer at the bride. She doesn’t even love him.
After that, Sarah paid more attention than before to the goings-on between them, which weren’t much. One night she heard what she hadn’t heard in a while: the bed squeaking, the movement of the headboards against the wall, whispering that had nothing to do with fighting. Then she thought to herself, I’m imagining things.
In the shop, alone, Dan smoothed imaginary fluff from her blouse. She needed to talk to him properly, to confirm that something really was happening, but Carmel was always in the house; she never went out.
One evening over supper Carmel suggested that Sarah might like to go home ‘to the country’ for a few days. ‘You’d like to see your people’ was how Carmel put it. As if they were a whole tribe different to herself and Dan. ‘I’ll have Seamus Devoy come and collect you in his trap. There’s no need to thank me.’
Did Carmel suspect something? If so, she would hardly be standing there talking normally. There was something up, though. Dan hadn’t so much as caught her eye this evening. Was it a game to him? Was he that kind of man? No, he couldn’t be; he was always so gentle in his dealings with her.
Sarah would be glad to see Mai – the thought itself almost made her cry. But what if she was seen by the neighbours? There was no counter to hide behind; and folk at home would know she wasn’t the kind to put on an ounce. Not ‘Skinny Sarah’, long drink of water that she was, not for no reason at all.
Sarah couldn’t sleep that night; she lay there listening to the house creak. She turned on to her back; it was easier to lie like that. Her breasts had grown fuller, and they prickled. It was unpleasant, made her queasy. With every signal that her body was changing, Sarah wished it was a dream, that it wasn’t so. This was something that happened to others, to poor unfortunates, not to girls like her.
Time was against her. Every day brought her closer to being exposed, to being locked up. In the mornings her mouth filled with saliva and her stomach heaved. By the time Carmel came down, it had settled somewhat. Dan looked like someone was going to take him out and shoot him. He went to confession every single morning, to the new priest, because he was wet behind the ears and didn’t know the family. So Dan would be absolved of sin till sometime in the afternoon, when she’d turn around to find his mouth crushed against her own. She pitied the young priest and dreaded passing him in the street.
There was something else. All in her imagination, she knew – probably to do with the changes in her body – but it was nerve-racking. It always happened when she was alone, maybe sweeping out front at the end of the day, or strolling back from an evening walk. She’d feel someone watching her, feel a cool shadow fall across her back, smell cedar and turn around to find that no one was there. Sometimes she’d hear footsteps in the distance, which she took for the unmistakable sound of Master Finbar’s heavy shoes hitting the dusty road.
She ran her hand across her belly. Her stomach was swollen. That much was real. Sarah imagined soft baby skin and the child safe in her arms. What in God’s name would become of them if she did nothing? She’d be put away and the baby would be taken; she’d be placed in a home, or a laundry, like Annie Mangan. There was no word from her aunt Margaret in London. What would she do?
She had almost enough for her fare, for a ring and for widow’s weeds. She would have to leave. It was as simple and as hard as that. Because no one was getting their hands on her child.
She thought about what Dan would think if he knew she was in trouble. He wouldn’t look at her that way any more. No, he wouldn’t.
But what if he thought the child was his?
He would come with her, and they could start a new life together, away from all this. Couldn’t they?
What a terrible thing to think. How could that even cross her mind, to be so deceptive, to sink so low? She could never do that. It was wrong, there could be no excuse for a lie like that.
Not even to save an innocent child?
There were movements in her belly lately, like butterflies. The softest, almost unnoticeable flutters. Safe. For the moment. When Sarah thought of these flutters, she knew that for the sake of the child she could become someone else, someone who would do such a thing, someone who could swallow her virtue and get Dan to lie with her. Who could trick him into thinking she was carrying his child. She’d be safe then, they’d both be safe. Wouldn’t they?
The house was silent. No voices from the living room. It was well past midnight. Sarah knew she wouldn’t sleep. She knew he was awake too. She just knew. Before she could think too much about it, she slipped out of bed and padded down the stairs as softly as a cat and unbolted the door that separated the house from the shop. She felt her way to the counter. The darkness tasted of nutmeg.
She decided to count to a hundred. If he hadn’t joined her by then, she would go back to bed and consider her choice made.
By the time she got to ten, he was inside her.
Sarah leant against a stack of newspapers on Seamus’s trap and looked up at the sky. The clouds tumbled past like puffy circus clowns and the sun toasted her face, giving her respite, a little peace. She was grateful that Seamus seemed as preoccupied as she was. The weather was warm, and there was a good clean light, but there was something else too, a feeling of summer winding down. Though it was bright till late, that would change soon. Soon there would be dark and rain, soon she would be showing. But for the moment she wasn’t, and the fields were like spun gold.
She thought again of Rumpelstiltskin. What’s my name? What’s my name? Jumping up and down in front of some poor mother. Why on earth would he want a baby? Children had a hard time in all the tales Mai had told Sarah when she was young: they were either left in the woods to die or swapped for a head of lettuce. But that was all once upon a time. Nowadays they had no need for witches. They’d had their very own demon, the cruelty man in his brown suit. Well, he wouldn’t be getting his hands on Sarah’s son. Her son. She hadn’t realized it till that very second but she was sure her child was a boy.