by Boyce, Niamh
I didn’t mean for her to hurt him like that.
You talk about everything, Aggie. As if there’s no shame.
Tell it and tell it and there’ll be no shame, only the facts of the matter and the question of who’s to blame. And it wasn’t you, child, it wasn’t you.
Let me begin. It was dusk. I heard a woeful screech from the herbalist’s old shed. I’ll never forget the sound. Don’t cover your ears, pet, don’t. It’s your tale, but we all own it.
I raced across the grass with my lantern. The door was locked from the outside, but the wood was rotten. A few kicks and it shattered open. Inside a young girl lay on the filthy stretcher bed. She looked at me, but didn’t speak.
‘What on earth ails you?’
‘My tummy hurts. It feels so pulled apart and all the blood, it keeps coming and it’s so hot and high smelling. Did you smell it – is that why you came?’
‘Of course not.’
I felt around and began to light the candles on the shelf.
‘Am I going to die?’ The child started to blub.
‘You won’t – you’re in good hands now.’ I saw the bucket beside her and retched.
‘I’ll never get into heaven, or my baby …’ The girl began mewling.
‘It was only the makings of a baby – look.’ I tilted the bucket towards her. ‘Look! There’s no baby there.’
She vomited bile on to the grey towel that covered her.
There was a knock on the door. It was sharp, a rat-tat-tat knuckle rap. A woman’s knock.
I shoved a chair against the door and put my finger to my mouth, warning the girl to be quiet. We held our breath and listened. A mouse dropped from the roof into the bucket of blood, and the girl screamed. The shed shuddered as the door was pushed.
‘Hello? Are you all right in there?’
If I kept silent someone with a tougher elbow might be called to investigate. So I wiped my hands on my skirt and opened the door slightly, keeping one foot wedged against it. Who was it only Lady Chatterley herself, Birdie Chase?
‘Is everything all right?’
‘A mouse, bedad, a mouse ran over my foot – can’t abide them.’
‘May I come in?’ she asked.
‘It’s not my place. Sorry, madam. Tra laa.’
I shut the door and listened carefully, heard silence and then a sigh before the steps on the other side faded away.
‘Madam never asked after you, but she wouldn’t be here otherwise. She must know something.’
‘Oh God, oh God.’ The girl scrambled off the bed, held her stomach, bent over.
‘No, no, stand over the bucket.’
I let the girl put her arms around my neck and hang there, over the bloody bucket.
‘Is it nearly over?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
The girl rocked on her heels, crying low.
‘Help me, help me, ah, Mam,’ she said.
The girl stayed rocking, all modesty forgotten. Her shift bloodied and rucked up around her back. She stilled as red lumps slid out of her and into the bucket.
‘Oh, God.’
We waited.
‘I think that’s all.’
The girl got on to the bed.
‘I’ll fetch water as soon as I tidy this up a bit.’
The young one looked exhausted. Soon she was dozing restlessly, gripping her belly in her sleep.
Then muggins here had to wipe the floor with rags. The whole business made me sick. I covered the bucket with straw; it quickly seeped up. I went out, made my way down the side alley, through the hedging and on to the wasteland that edged the river. When I was sure that no one could see, I emptied my burden into the reeds. River life moved towards the dark patch, and old Aggie here walked back as quickly as she had come.
The herbalist’s deserted handiwork was asleep and whimpering. I collected the bloodied rags and went into the yard behind the shed. The moon was full. The rags took to light slowly in the tin barrel where the doctor burned everything he no longer held in favour. I threw in some twigs, stoked the flames with a blackened stick and sat in the old armchair. Remembered how I’d laughed and called the chair his throne, called him lord of the river, king of all he surveyed. The low flame slowly ate the fabric. I had a slug of gin and fell into a daydream in which the leaves chattered from the trees and talked to the reeds, till the whole town was babbling that Agnes Reilly was a murderer of unborn children. I could just hear them. She flings remains into the river, feeds changelings to the trout. Don’t fish there; you don’t know what you’ll catch, or what will catch you. Hear that? That’s not the wind; it’s a poor unbaptized soul crying for its mother. It’s a river of tears. A weeping welt. And she’s the queen of it. Queen of the dumb suck.
The girl’s moans interrupted my reverie. I twisted my numb foot as I hobbled towards the shed to quieten her.
She was sitting up, naked from the waist down, her fingers covered in red, screaming.
‘Where’s my baby!’
‘Hush, hush, it’s over now. It’s over now. There was no baby; it’s all in your head, there was no baby.’
Eventually she slept again, or maybe she had passed out. How thin she was: I could see the pearled row of her spine. We’re no better than animals, I thought, losing our offspring in straw, like cattle.
After an hour I checked the lane for any sign of life, and then lifted the girl from the bed.
‘Put your arms around my neck.’ She did as she was told.
An obedient thing, she let herself be carried on to the boat and laid on the settle bed. Seemed to curl up, seemed at last ready to rest. I sat on my stool outside while my kettle simmered. What would the herbalist think when he found his birdie had flown? It was all only a shambles. Everything was strange and yet felt like the realest of dreams. I felt old and of little use to anyone except for that girl. I didn’t often think like that. I knew how wise I was, how I knew men and their women too. How when you weighed up my bodily sinning against my adoration for the holy virgin I came out even. Just look at the love Jesus showed for Mary Magdalene over everyone else. Washing his feet with her tears. Oh, I’d give my right arm to dry the saviour’s feet with my hair. Sure Jesus died for our sins; if we committed none, the poor man would’ve died for nothing.
The girl wasn’t happy when she woke, fretting. Her skin was like fire. I opened the hatch.
‘Why did his lordship leave you there all alone?’
‘He said I’d be all right, that it was over, and when I wasn’t looking he slipped out.’
‘Was he meeting someone?’
‘I don’t know; he said it was a matter of extreme urgency.’
‘Must be Emily up to her tricks. She’s mad for him. She stops short of wrapping herself in butcher’s paper and delivering herself to him.’
‘She’s too soft.’
‘You’re too good-natured. And now you have to go home. Are you listening to me? We have to take you home and tell your father and mother what happened. They can help you. You’re fevered; you might have an infection. We have to get proper help for you.’
The girl wouldn’t meet my eye, wouldn’t answer. I went back to the shed and gathered her clothes. I began to help her dress, and went about it slowly, as you would with a child, raising one arm and then the other, slipping her back into her beautifully cut garments. Her pale blue finely tailored skirt and jacket. I cleaned the girl’s hands with a damp cloth, her palms first and then between each finger, over and over, rinsing the cloth many times in a bowl as she tried to rub the last of the dried blood from her nails. She just watched, as if they were someone e
lse’s hands, as if none of this was happening to her. Her blonde curls were flat to her neck with sweat. She was so thin, like a fledgling fallen from the nest. Raw boned, fragile. Helpless.
‘Stay there. I’m going to get my odd-job man to take us in the trap. Don’t worry – he won’t ask any questions. He’s not the type.’
I half expected her to have run off when I arrived back with Seamus in tow, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. But she hadn’t; she was curled in a ball, crying. Seamus carried her to the trap without a word. Thank God it wasn’t day-time or the whole town would have been out gawking, asking questions. The streets were raw with silence. The clatter of the horses’ hooves was the only sound. Crouched between us, the girl winced at every knock of the gig but never said a word. I held her hand, gave it a squeeze.
‘You’re a good girl,’ I murmured, ‘a good girl.’
She looked at me strangely, as if I was speaking foreign. It didn’t dawn on me till afterwards, but I never asked the girl the big question. I never asked who the father was. At the gates to her home, she spoke up.
‘I’ll go in on my own. My father would blame you, you and Seamus. He would have your boat destroyed, Aggie.’
Between us, we helped the child out of the trap. She hugged me then with a strange fierceness. Whispered into my ear.
‘What did she say, Ag?’ Seamus asked as the girl made her way inside.
‘“I love you.” That’s what she said. Can you credit that? Such a strange poor craythur.’
My voice went a bit hoarse but I contained myself. No tears for Aggie. That was my rule. Always my rule, from way back. I watched as the girl hobbled along the tree-lined avenue, watched as she approached the dark house and became a shadow. No tears.
‘Gee up, Seamus,’ I told him; ‘get this old filly home.’
52
I spent the afternoon looking for the herbalist. Maybe I was wrong in what I was thinking about him. Maybe he could explain it all away nicely. I called to his house, but he wasn’t there. There was no sign of him anywhere else. I wondered had he up and left the town. I wondered had I accused him in the wrong. Nothing they don’t ask for. That’s what he had said. Nothing they don’t ask for. What did they ask for? What did he do? He saved the day. I asked around, asked had anyone seen him; I got laughed at, I felt like a fool.
I never went to bed. I just sat by the window in my bedroom. Had he run off? Had I offended an innocent man? It was past midnight when I decided to go to see him again. After all, he wouldn’t have expected me during the day. I was his night woman. I took Charlie’s bicycle.
There wasn’t a soul in the square; even the corner boys had deserted the place. When I got to the herbalist, his door was locked, and there wasn’t a stir from inside. I waited for a while and then decided I might as well head for home. I cycled by the river way, glad of my lamp. You could hardly tell the water from the path. The moon was a big one, and it seemed to float in the river.
When I saw her, she was gleaming in the dark reeds. It was Rose, half in, half out of the water. I knelt on the river edge and tugged at her lapels, dragged her up on to the verge. I felt uneasy about touching her without permission. She weighed nothing. Her baby blue jacket felt scratchy and opened out as I tugged at it. The silk of her white blouse clung to her like a second skin. Her curls were flat and darkened. The mud spatters on her cheek looked like tea leaves. Her eyes were half closed, like she was swooning in the moonlight, but she wasn’t. She couldn’t. There wasn’t a breath in her body.
I went to close her jacket over her, when I saw something white peeking from the inside pocket. I slid it out. A card envelope, addressed to her mother. It was stamped and everything. I shoved it into my own pocket. The centre of her skirt was black with blood. What kind of monster had Rose run into? Had I heard the grass rustle? Was someone moving through the fields behind me? I wasn’t sure.
It was terrible peaceful then: just the reeds swishing in the brown water, the weir running. I wanted to stay there, hating the idea that someone else might come upon her. Her bloodless face was whiter than the moon, than chalk, than bone. Her expression was smooth, her mouth relaxed. She looked calm, almost pleased, like the last thing she had seen was something nice.
I wanted to shout for help but couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t remember the last rites. I whispered into her ear, ‘Oh blessed Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who sought thy help was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, virgin of virgins, my mother.’ Then I started to cry. She needed the rites, the last sacrament, she wasn’t long passed. I kissed her cold forehead, made the sign of the cross and cycled back towards town.
The place was dead, black except for a glimmer between the curtains of the River Inn, and I wasn’t going in there for help. Not again. A trap rattled in the distance but didn’t hear my calls. So I hurried to the Birminghams’. How was I going to tell them? The avenue to their house had never seemed so long. I banged on the brass knocker, but no one came. I kept hammering, heard it echo inside. The door opened slowly and Margery Daly peeked out.
‘I need to speak to Mrs B or Doctor B. It’s very important. It’s about Rose. It’s bad.’
She let me into the hallway, didn’t ask any questions; just signalled me towards a small door. It seemed to be a storeroom of sorts. I was about to turn when she pushed me. It went black and I heard the key turn. Was she completely mad? I knocked and knocked on the inside of the door. I began to shiver. My sleeves and skirt were sopping wet. I stank of river.
Seconds, then minutes passed, until I had no more sense of time. I heard a commotion, people arguing, a knocking sound. I banged and banged on the door – had Margery forgotten about me? I didn’t know what to do. I called out. No one answered. And all the time Rose was lying on the ground for anyone to see, all lonely under the moon. A voice said, real soft, Rose won’t be lonely any more. But there was no one there.
I thumped the door again; it swung outwards. It had been unlocked. The hall was empty. There was no sign of crazy Margery. The door to the living quarters, however, stood open. I walked through. There in her dressing gown was Mrs B, just sitting in a big green velvet chair with her hands in her lap, staring at the pink-flowered carpet like it was talking to her. She didn’t seem to see me, let alone worry about why I was there. I knelt in front of her.
‘Mrs B, I’m so sorry, a terrible thing …’
She looked past me, towards the middle of the room, and in the middle of the room was a bed with Rose laid out in it. I must’ve fainted, for next thing it was me on the green velvet chair, with my head between my knees and smelling salts under my nose. The salts were held by Margery. Her pretty face was sulky, tear-stained.
‘I found Rose by the river. She was dead, by the river.’ I was so cold, my teeth chattered.
Margery pressed her lips tight and shook her head very slowly from side to side. Then she walked over to Mrs B, crossed her arms and stood behind her. Mrs B’s mouth was slack; her hands were wrapped in a rosary beads.
I approached the bed. Rose had been on the river bank, wearing a blue suit. Now she was lying in a bed wearing a black dress with a white Peter Pan collar. The curls around her face were dry, but the white satin pillow underneath her head was water stained. How had she got from there to here? How had Rose died? Why had Rose died?
Her father came in and looped beads through her fingers. The stiff way he nodded at me made me realize that I was an intruder. That all three of them, Margery, Rose’s mother and father, were looking at me with disgust.
‘I’m sorry for your trouble,’ I stuttered and left.
The hall was empty and the front doo
r hung open. I stood for a second. The house was silent. There was no priest, no prayers, no mourners. Maybe someone in the family had found Rose before I came upon her and, like me, had gone to get help. Maybe they were on their way to get her while I was running towards the house. The horse and trap I’d heard, that must’ve been them. That was it. But why hadn’t they moved her out of the reeds, as I had? I left the Birminghams’ and shut the door behind me. My bicycle wasn’t where I’d left it, and I couldn’t see it anywhere. Turning out of their avenue, I put my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. That’s when I felt the letter. I hadn’t the heart to go back. It felt wrong to pester them. Also, I wanted to read it for myself.
Poor Rose. I’d known her all my life, who hadn’t? She was well known but no one’s friend. Always smiling, always perfectly beautiful, but hardly ever had much to say. She was a bit silly maybe, but in a way that didn’t mean harm. I couldn’t stop crying. I felt a pain in my heart for her, just like I did for Mam. But Rose wasn’t close to me, wasn’t close to anyone. She was just a nice girl who looked like she’d love to have a chin-wag, but her mother was always pulling her away from people. I thought of the wounds on her knees, the cuts up her legs. I’d forgotten about them. What happened to her at all?
I walked quickly. The shapes and sounds on the road to our house didn’t seem so nice and familiar any more. Even my own footsteps were putting the heart crossways in me.
And there was something else. Rose’s name was in the herbalist’s notebook. But lots of people’s names were and they weren’t dead. Whoever had hurt Rose could be out there yet, roaming the town, waiting for another victim. I screamed the rest of the way home, swear to God I did.
Charlie was asleep in the kitchen. Head down, his arms on the table, coat still on, the lamp left burning as if he was waiting on me to come home. I watched him sleep. Wanted to put my hand out and ruffle his hair, wake him and tell him everything. But I didn’t. He’d be heartbroken soon enough. Charlie didn’t take things well; when Mam died he’d hauled her old armchair out into the yard, hatcheted it to pieces and burnt it. I quenched the lamp and went up to my room, unpeeled my wet clothes, took an extra blanket from the wardrobe and slipped into bed with it wrapped around me. Wishing Mam was there to hold me safe and sound. I bawled myself to sleep.