by Boyce, Niamh
Rose walked through my dreams all night. She wore blue serge and carried a case like a schoolchild’s. The blue she wore was like nothing in nature, bluer than a hot summer’s sky; it was a blue I could nearly reach, nearly grasp, but never would. Her voice, when it came, came from somewhere outside my dream, a soft crying. Save me, Emily, save me.
53
On the third morning in a row that Carmel heard Sarah vomit into her chamber pot, the penny dropped. The way she was putting on a bit of condition. The way her skin gleamed. The stupid girl had got herself in trouble. Well, she could go back home, let her country aunt take care of her. And all the trust they’d put in her. A wretch like Sarah having a child, when a respectable woman like Carmel was crying out for one. Who on earth had fathered it? And under their watch! The girl had to go.
Carmel threw on her dressing gown, ran downstairs and signalled Dan into the kitchen. Sarah had already made it to the shop counter, looking very green around the gills.
‘That Sarah one is expecting. She’s been getting sick every morning. She can’t stay here, the stupid girl.’
Carmel awaited his outraged response. Men didn’t notice these things the way a woman did, so he wasn’t quite taking it in. He looked at her blankly.
‘She may go back where she came from. God knows we tried. I knew, I just knew something was going on.’
She babbled on and on, her heart missing beats, fear infusing her, knowing she was skipping something right under her nose.
‘That’s the thanks we get, Dan, isn’t it, for giving her a start?’
He opened his mouth but said nothing. He stared at the clock on the mantel.
‘Well, say something.’
He didn’t look at her. More was wrong than Carmel knew, and still it was eluding her. She looked around. There were two cups and a packet of biscuits on the table. A funny old breakfast. But Carmel wasn’t usually up for breakfast, so how could she know what they ate? The chairs were together, the cups were together. They had been sitting talking. Sarah’s place was always set at the far end of the table. That’s where Carmel always put her.
She walked over to the table and threw one of the chairs to the floor. Dan stood as loose as a hanging man. Her throat was dry and her heart seemed to be fluttering inside it.
‘It was you?’ Her hands shook.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ he said, his voice unsteady.
‘It was you!’ She pulled at his shirt. ‘You bastard, look at me.’
He wouldn’t.
‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’
She screamed at him till she was bent in two, till her voice ran out. When she stopped, he was gone. And Sarah, she had run off too. The shop was empty.
Where did he go? Where did she go? Everything they owned was here under Carmel’s roof except for the clothes they walked in and their unborn child. She locked all the doors. As she secured the kitchen window, she saw Eliza. The pig had got huge. It backed into the far corner of the pen, as if it knew what Carmel was thinking.
Carmel sat on the last step of the stairs and cut Dan’s face out of the wedding snap with her nail scissors.
Looked in the hall mirror. Old poached face.
Carmel scored the scissors on the clouded grey-and-green-speckled glass till the blades bent backwards and sliced into her palm. Blood on the mirror. The shelter for her madness, for her ugly, tear-stained, blood-smeared countenance.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
If Carmel had a hunter to do her bidding, she would’ve ordered him to bring her the lying, cheating heart of Sarah Whyte.
54
Sarah was serving Miss Dolan when she heard Carmel begin to shout. The shop was packed. Silence descended as Carmel’s hysteria rose. The women looked at each other, and at Sarah. She could feel, rather than see, their smirks and raised eyebrows. She walked the length of the counter and past them with her head held high. When she reached the living room, she could see Dan’s silhouette through the bubbled glass. She raced up the stairs like a redshank, pulled her suitcase from under the bed and flung in anything that came to hand. She pulled the wooden panel from the front of the fireplace, put her hand up the chimney and felt around until she found her jar of savings. She emptied the money into her purse, grabbed her suitcase and raced down the stairs. Carmel’s screaming grew louder all the time. The crowd parted as she went through the shop. Surely there weren’t that many people when she had been there a minute before?
She walked as fast as she could without running, walked along the main street with no idea which direction to take. She couldn’t go to Mai’s; it was too risky, with Finbar lurking there. She almost had the price of the fare to London, but where would she stay? What would she do? She needed more money. The herbalist owed her for all that time labelling; he hadn’t paid her a penny. So she turned on her heel and headed for his house.
It was an age before he answered the door. When he did, he was wearing a soft leather motorcycle helmet and brown jacket. He was impatient to get going, told her that he had no money in the house.
‘Come back in an hour or two,’ was all he said.
But she had nowhere to go till then. She began to weep.
‘Can I wait here, till you come back?’
‘No, you can’t.’ The herbalist was jumpy, irritated.
‘Then you must give me my money now.’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘I’ve waited long enough; I need it now.’
‘Look, come back in an hour, then you’ll get it.’
He shut and locked his door, mounted his motorcycle, started it up and buzzed off. What would she do for the hour, where could she wait? Trust the herbalist to be the only person in the town who locked his door. She walked around the back of the house, to find somewhere to sit while she waited. The back window was open slightly, just two or so inches. Enough for her to get a good grip and shove it upwards. It made a horrible grinding sound, but it opened. Sarah took a quick look around to make sure no one could see and then climbed up on to the sill and in. The window was harder to close than it had been to open, but she tried to leave it as she’d found it.
She moved a chair to the front window, buttoned up her coat and sat waiting. He’d go mad when he saw her here, but what choice did she have? She had nowhere else to go.
She wondered what Dan would do. He would probably go to his pal Mick Murphy’s and Mick would keep him there. They were both hiding like children; it was laughable. Since Carmel thought the child was Dan’s, perhaps Dan did too? As far as she could make out, he hadn’t denied it to Carmel. Maybe he believed he had got Sarah in trouble. The whole town would think it was Dan’s child after Carmel’s theatrics anyway. Maybe Dan and Sarah could run off together? Could start somewhere else, where the people weren’t so narrow-minded.
An unwelcome thought popped up – Dan was narrow-minded. She wasn’t even sure if she could go to him.
Panic set in. What would Mai do? What would Mai say?
One step at a time, that’s what she’d say. Just concentrate on getting your money, and getting the six o’clock train to Dublin. In Dublin, worry about getting to London. In London, worry about getting to your aunt Margaret. Then worry about her turning you away.
One step at a time. Just like she had managed.
The thick greying plaster on the herbalist’s walls made her queasy. When was he coming back with her money?
55
Charlie was inconsolable. He had gone into town and heard of Rose’s death even before I’d got up that morning. The news had spread quickly. He told me she was found dead in her own bed after a brief illness.
‘But she wasn’t even sick,’ he cried; ‘she wasn’t even sick!’
He wouldn’t let me fix him anything; he went around the house opening doors and slamming them. He was beside himself. He said that he had been waiting up for Rose all night, that she was his desperate friend, that the parlour had been prepared for her. He stopped short of getting down on his knees and howling.
I went back up to my bedroom to dress. I lifted my pillow and looked at the envelope I had taken from Rose’s jacket the night before. I eased the envelope open without tearing it and took out the letter. I knew I shouldn’t, and at the same time I really knew I should. I thought of Rose’s knees, of her never, ever being out of her mother’s company. I thought of her parents in that room where her body was laid out, the way they’d said nothing to me or to each other. And the way they’d lied. The way they had already told everyone that she’d died at home after a short illness. Why would they do that when there could be a raving lunatic out there, ready to kill again?
The envelope was barely wet. Rose can’t have been there long. The hair on the top of her head had been flat and darkened. Had I come along in the middle of something? It was my duty to find out.
Ah, I was codding no one – I opened the poor dead girl’s letter because I was a nosy cow.
Dear Mother,
The baby’s gone. I’m sorry. It’s what you wanted but not what I wanted. I would’ve loved that baby. And all the rooms in our house that are so empty. It would’ve only taken up a small space. Now it’s taking up no space at all.
I have to go. I know someone kind and he’s going to mind me. I’ve got to go, because if I don’t leave another baby will come and we’ll all be hurt all over again. As long as I live in that house, babies will keep coming. Are you putting your hands over your ears now, Mother? Please listen this time. I’m not lying.
I don’t think you know what it was like, what was really done. If you’d known, you wouldn’t have made me do it, I know that. You thought it was all flowers and tinctures, isn’t that right? A spoon of something. If you knew the truth, you’d know why I have to leave now. I’m not going because I don’t love you. That’s why I want you to know these things, and when I’ve gone away, you can tell people and they can stop it happening to another girl, even a bad one, because no one deserves to have their baby hurt out of them, no one.
He always offered me syrup in a small glass first. It was dark and bitter. I got sick afterwards, into a bucket that he kept there. He made me remove my underclothes. He examined me, with his hands. Do you know what I mean? I cried so much it vexed him. Then he picked up a long instrument and forced it into my private parts. He did this every time.
You said to him, ‘My little girl is in trouble, help her,’ and you paid him. And now there is no baby for me. Maybe there never will be again. God forgive us, Mother.
I don’t want you to worry: I’m safe now. No more of that for me, don’t ever worry.
Love,
Rose
He did that. The herbalist did that. Nothing they don’t ask for. That was what he said. And who gave Rose a baby? I ran down and said out straight to Charlie: ‘Did you get Rose in trouble, did you?’
He was crying so much I couldn’t make out what he said. I felt awful for distressing him when I did finally make it out. He had kissed her once, on the hand. He loved her; he was helping her to escape. Yes, she was in some trouble, but it was another man who had got her in it, someone she couldn’t stand up against, someone who’d locked her under the stairs. That wouldn’t have made sense to most people, but it made horrible sense to me.
56
Sarah had almost dozed off. The chair was well stuffed and her feet rested comfortably on her suitcase. She leant forward and peeped through the crack in the curtains. Young girls were gathered around the pump outside. One with fair hair to her waist worked the handle; it took all her strength to push it down and release the water. Her feet left the ground every time the handle rose up again. Her two friends held their dusty toes under the gushing water and squealed with pleasure. Sarah smiled. A dark stout woman appeared and the children quietened as she passed. The woman was marching towards the herbalist’s house. Sarah moved back from the window and listened to the footsteps approach. Even though she knew it was coming, the knock gave her a fright. She sank back into the soft chair and closed her eyes. She felt the woman waiting on the other side, waiting and listening for any sign of life. ‘He’s not there, missus,’ a girl shouted. ‘He’s gone off on his motorbike.’ Sarah heard the woman walk away. The children began squealing again.
Sarah realized then that she was starving. All she’d eaten for breakfast was a biscuit. She went to the cupboard. The deep shelves were full, but not with food. They were crammed with jars. Some contained dried matter and were labelled – ‘Speedwell’, ‘Red Clover’, ‘Eyebright’, ‘Sage’ – but most weren’t. The unlabelled jars were packed with tablets, some large and brown, others small and white. Sarah uncorked a tall slim bottle that looked like it might be a tincture. It smelt of nothing she recognized. It smelt wrong. She put it back. There were hunks of beeswax on the bottom shelf, sitting alongside bottles of rose water, lavender water, witch hazel and a dozen small jars. She unscrewed the lid of one of them, dabbed her finger into a white cream and rubbed it on the back of her hand. It melted into her skin. She massaged a dollop into her hands. It felt wonderful. Sarah turned the jar upside down, saw a tab and read the familiar round handwriting: ‘Comfrey’. It was Mai’s cream, the one the colonel loved so much that he had her make it for him in batches. He obviously loved it so much that he was selling it on. She remembered Mai’s ‘Sarah … do it with love.’ Sarah took the jars, opened her suitcase and packed them away.
Never mind waiting for him to come back. If the herbalist had any money here, she would find it herself. A two-roomed house wouldn’t take long to search.
She checked the cupboard first, in behind the bottles and jars, and then the various tins over the mantelpiece. They contained sugar, tea leaves, dried herbs and biscuits. She looked under the narrow stretcher bed he had shoved against the wall – nothing. She searched beneath the seat of the armchair by the window, in the turf basket by the fire, under the table, the school-desk. She found no money.
She didn’t fancy going back into the room he slept in, but there was nowhere left. She went into his room and lifted the mattress. Nothing there. Under the pillow she found an envelope. A picture fell out, a tattered photo of a mother and child. She didn’t care who they were. She put the picture back in the envelope and returned it to where she’d found it. She looked in his jug and basin. Still nothing. She got down on her knees, lifted the heavy fringed bed-cover and looked under the bed. She tugged out a box from underneath.
The last time Sarah had seen tools like these was in a doctor’s bag. Once, when Mai was attending a breech delivery, the woman’s husband had panicked and sent for the doctor. He arrived with a huge black case that he plonked on a sideboard by the window and yanked open. The instruments inside glinted as he prepared to go into action. But before he could do anything the baby slipped out on to the bed – Mai had turned it with her hands. The husband brought the doctor into the kitchen for a drink while the mother nursed her child. Mai took her time tidying up the room. As she waited, Sarah stared into the doctor’s open case, fascinated that he needed all those tools when her aunt could birth a child with her bare hands.
Unlike the instruments in the doctor’s bag, those in the herbalist’s box were worn and dull. He had other bits and pieces in there too. It all looked very shab
by. She pulled the lid down on the box and shoved it back under the bed with her foot. Was the herbalist moonlighting delivering children? Who in their right mind would let him near them? It didn’t make sense.
There was nowhere else to search. Sarah would have to wait till he came back. He owed her almost twelve shillings and she needed every penny. She also needed a drink of water and something to eat. She left the herbalist’s bedroom and closed the door behind her.
She grabbed the biscuit tin from the mantelpiece and went over to the back window, daring to pull the curtains slightly open. The sun shone in as if it were the middle of summer instead of nearly autumn. She spotted Aggie’s boat moored just up the river. Aggie moved around a lot. Afraid someone might evict her if she ever stayed too long in the one part of the river.
Sarah ate every ginger nut in the tin. If the herbalist didn’t come back soon, she was going to miss the train.
It was growing cooler and darker; the six o’clock to Dublin had left without her. There was only one sod in the fuel basket. She couldn’t even light the stove. Sarah took her winter coat out of her suitcase, moved to the armchair by the front window and pulled the coat over her. She wasn’t going to use the stretcher bed – she dreaded to think who had been up on it. She felt drained. What if the herbalist never came back? What would she do then? What could she do then? Her mouth was dry, her feet and hands were chilled.
She sat there for what seemed like hours, but she didn’t know how much time had passed – there was no clock. The herbalist wore a watch, a gold one. She thought of the bed and the fancy bedspread in the other room, but she couldn’t bear the idea of lying in it either. She couldn’t get the box under the bed out of her head. One day, she knew, the child in her belly would have to come out, but she didn’t quite believe it ever would.