by Derry O'Dowd
She did not respond to the levity in his tone, but held James’ hand. ‘Your hand is so soft,’ she said quietly, and paused. ‘Where have you been? I thought you might come back to see me again.’
He squeezed her hand, stroking it gently with the other as they talked. The carriage made its slow passage along the river and eventually the long climb to the Mount of Mars, where in olden days druids weaved their magic spells under Parisian skies of azure.
James and Avril lay close together on the grass as Andre walked arm in arm with his two companions, their voices trailing off as they moved further away. James stared at the sunny vista with a distant look in his eyes.
‘Tell me what you are thinking,’ whispered Avril, tickling his ear with a blade of grass.
‘I am lost in dreams.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘what dreams are you lost in?’
He rolled over to face her, their bodies close, almost touching. ‘I am walking in the sunshine through a wonderful valley. I feel happy. The birds are singing from the heart and the fragrance of this place is exquisite. Low hills on either side invite me upwards. I climb a hill, so soft, so yielding. And there, on the peak, I see a glade of flowers. In the centre is a rosebud, so delicious, so alluring. I approach, light as a butterfly. The petals sense me and open wide. I land. Where is it, where is the nectar I need so much to feed on, to suck until the flower is dry?’
Avril took James in her arms and he laid his head on her breast, breathing softly in the quiet stillness of the beautiful afternoon.
9
To stop small creatures eating upon stored clothes and linens
Take a handful of small resin lumps of both frankincense and myrrh. Place these within boxes or other storage where any materials are kept. The precious substances are easily availed of and will keep creatures away thanks to their heady smell and perfume your linens nicely.
Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book
* * *
Paris, 2 January 1741
Dear Father and Mother,
So now our course on man-midwifery has come to an end and I am soon to leave Paris. How quickly the time goes, and how lucky I have been to see the great city don the leaves on her trees like fine dresses and then discard them as if disrobing for bed to sleep as the seasons have passed.
I am so grateful for all your kindnesses of late, and those too of Marguerite’s mother and father. How can I ever repay Thomas Lynch? Without him it would not have been possible to leave home so that I could further my studies with such a sense of freedom from everyday constraints. I will be forever in his debt. As you said, he is a man with a sense of duty as strong as your own.
I have learned much during my time here. The Gregoires, the companion man-midwives, and the midwives themselves of the Hotel Dieu are so dedicated. I can hardly wait to begin my ambition to improve the fate of women and their unborn babies in our own fair country.
You will remember from my last letter that the Gregoires made an introduction for me to William Smyley, the man-midwife in London. He visited the Hotel Dieu a couple of years ago and continues to correspond with father and son. From what he writes, it appears that the midwifery services in London are not developed, a situation somewhat similar to Dublin.
And so now I am off to work with Smyley for six months in London. I hope to discover how I must run a service up to the standard of, or indeed better than his when I return to Dublin but without the good offices of the Gregoires and the Hotel Dieu to call upon. A daunting task lies ahead. Yet an exciting one, I’m sure you’ll agree.
My good friend Andre gave me a special gift to remember my time in Paris. It is a first edition of The Byrthe of Mankynde by Rosslin and translated from the German to English. The book is beautifully bound, a gilt edition that I shall treasure, and I do hope that Andre may come to visit so that I may bring him to Galway to meet you.
From the start, my teachers advised me to diligently write out all my case studies and I accepted their advice. Father, just wait until you read the histories I have collected and written up in the journal you gave me, and with more to come in London. I could publish them as The Journals of a Man-Midwife.
Thank you for your letters with all the family news and events in Galway. Mother, your poor hand must be quite worn out by now, and I would say you are keeping food on the O’Malley table with the purchase of such large quantities of ink! Ah now, I can see your frown; you know well how I love to hear from you. I also hear from Thomas Lynch; he and Marguerite’s mother miss her smiling, bright person most terribly – as do I.
One day I think I am finally starting to feel just a little content and then she visits me in a wisp of startling memory that I can’t quite catch and hold in my hands. It can be a small thing: the dark hair of a girl as she passes by, the colour of a gown, it only takes a moment.
And my breath is snatched away and my heart is stolen all over again. I have come to welcome these occurrences as they make me feel close to her. I just wish I could reach out and take her to me, but it is not to be. I know she’s there, I know she’s near, I just can’t hear her breathing.
Peg writes to tell me of our son, raising merry hell as he pulls things asunder here and there. A clever little one, then, to twist Peg and his carer Carissa O’Flaherty (whom I hear is doing admirably in her tasks, and doting on the boy – high praise indeed to come from Peg!) to his small whims.
I cannot wait to see him again, though I suppose he may be shy of his father. I will hold him and smell his sweet babyish self with joy in my very being. Peg also tells me, Mother, that Daniel loves the spinning top you sent to him, and claps delightedly with his small hands as he watches it turn, all the while asking for more. I am sure he would love another visit from you and Father, when you have the time, as I am to be absent for another while yet.
I must go now to send this letter, and one to my mentor Laurence Stone, who has been in regular contact and says that he awaits my return eagerly.
Love to you, Mother and you, Father, and to Kate. Tell her I will answer her letter at a later date – she is an author of such lengthy missives that it will take me at least a week to set down all the replies needed!
Your son,
James.
The frigid wind blew off the river and shook the bare trees that seemed to huddle around the great cathedral, just a few short steps away from the Hotel Dieu. The vast stones, statues and stained windows of Notre Dame were painted cream by the weak sun that shone through the wintry gloom on this feast day of the Epiphany, when the three wise men made their gifts to the baby that lay in a trough in a meagre stable, with only straw to soften his rest. A gargoyle sneered eternally, half at the heavens, half at humanity, which lay at its feet.
St Denis stood with his head under his arm, serene, flanked by angels and watching from his elevated height as people below scurried forward, cloaks clutched tightly against the wind, on their way to Mass.
Through the heavy wooden doors studded with huge, rust-coloured nails, on down the chill of the church’s main aisle, on through to the sacristy, and with his hair highlighted by the sun that battled entry through the coloured window, motes dancing in the air, a boy unlocked a cupboard and lifted out a gold thurible.
He wore his fine serving robes this day: a red cassock under the bright white surplice with lace at the sleeves and at the knee, where the garment ended. His mother had chided him to keep it clean; she had spent hours washing and then starching it, she told him.
The thurible sat before the boy, its belly fat and its trinity of chains waiting to be lifted lying flat against it. The vessel was ready to be lit, so he got a taper and gently fed the flame to the charcoal waiting inside. He blew on it softly to make sure that it caught. He lifted the thurible by the chains and swung it back and forth to keep the slight ember glowing, and added the incense that gave the scent from the stable so many years ago, frankincense and myrrh.
The boy wondered if the aroma would evoke memories fo
r Jesus, or if, being only a tiny baby at the time, it would make much of a difference at all. He watched as the wisping smoke rose to the heavens.
The priest watched the boy lost in his daydreams and started to ready himself for Mass. He donned the full-length white alb and tied it at his waist with a rope of the same colour to commemorate the bonds of Our Lord in captivity. He placed an amice around his neck and then the red silk chasuble, and he was ready to worship the Saviour.
The faithful crowded close to the altar, the choir began to sing the first hymn that tied the strands of the Mass together, and the priest stood, arms outspread, palms up. He joined his hands and started the ceremony.
Avril and James Quinn both sat quietly in a pew, breathing in the serene nature of their surroundings of the faithful at worship. The sun was coming through the painted glass, bathing the priest in heavenly light for the duration of his task.
As the music swelled around them, James looked to Avril, quiet beside him in contemplation or worship, he could not tell. He looked to the faithful singing their hearts out for God. He looked to one of the serving boys and thought of his own son at home. James hoped that Marguerite would forgive him for treating the boy with such disinterest and blame at the start, in the cold, endless days after her death.
He needed her to forgive him, and as he sat he put his elbows on his knees and bent his head as a supplicant while he whispered his own prayers to her.
‘Forgive me for Daniel. Forgive me for needing you so much that I was lost after you had gone and could not mind anyone let alone myself. Forgive me for a hundred other things, Marguerite, for I know you can see into my heart where they all lay.’
James Quinn looked up again and saw the crucifix where Jesus had given His life for the faithful, and thought of Marguerite who had given her life for her son. She had died on her own cross of agonies and he bent his head again with the thought and beseeched her for clemency.
Avril sat in her own reverie. Her bright hair was hidden from view and her body cloaked with a mantua. She turned her head and looked at James as he sat in prayer. She badly wanted to hold his hand, lying there warm and welcoming as his head was bent in concentration, she wanted to push the hair back from his forehead for him.
Kyrie eleison, Christie eleison, Kyrie eleison. Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy.
James thought the Greek verse discordant alongside the flowing Latin of the rest of the Mass, but joined Avril as she knelt for the incantation. The priest continued his dramatic performance for the Lord, treading the altar, dominating the large space in his capacity as God’s representative on earth, holding the souls of the faithful in his hands as they bowed their heads behind him, ready to redeem or damn them for all eternity.
As the Mass continued, the choir singing, the priest’s voice droning now, then grave and then joyful, Avril and James sat again and she regarded him. She knew she was a sinner. But then did Jesus not help Mary Magdalene, the Fallen Woman, just as James Quinn had helped her?
She hoped that she had given something back to him and a sigh escaped from her lips as the cries of ‘Hosanna’ echoed around their heads.
The boy entered the Mass from the back of the altar, holding the thurible reverently, flanked by the boat server, the holder of the silver incense container. The priest took the thurible from him and ladled more incense with a small spoon into its waiting mouth. He grasped the chains firmly and turned the instrument, clinking as he swung it towards the Blessed Sacrament three times, twice towards the crucifix and once to the altar, all the while intoning, praying, as the pungent aroma danced and skipped down the aisles and sat by the faithful.
‘Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi; Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. Misere nobis; Have mercy on us. Dona nocis pacem; Grant us peace.’
Avril bent her head and stifled a sob. The Mass was nearly ended, so too her time with James Quinn. He was leaving soon and she had asked to meet him here with her one last time. She wanted to tell him something, but was still unsure if she should, or hold her peace.
She prayed to the Blessed Virgin, ‘Dear Lady, may your tears cleanse my soul. Forgive me. Help me to make my decision. Bless and mind James.’ She felt a sliver of peace pierce her heart and knew that she would say nothing.
The Mass over, the boy cleaned out the remains of the charcoal and incense, sprinkling what was left over the earth from which roses would bloom in the garden at the back of the cathedral. He brushed the ashes from his hands, heeding his mother’s words and keeping his robes clean, before heading back inside to his task of readying the thurible for the next ceremony.
Out of the boy’s sight, a single ember smoked as James and Avril walked by. They stood outside the gates of the garden. She looked at the back of the glorious building, buttresses like petticoats peeking out from under a fine lady’s voluminous skirts.
James took her face in his hands, gently, and looked into her eyes.
‘If only,’ she said, breath catching as a sob climbed its way up her throat, unbidden.
‘I wish,’ he started to reply and looked away.
‘How can we?’ she asked, and her voice sounded petulant to her own ears so she turned her head away from his hands.
He took her chin softly and turned her to face him again, finger raised and poised to touch the groove that ran from the bottom of her nose to the top of her lip as he had done before. ‘Shush.’
She caught his finger mid-air, ‘Please, James! Do not touch me there for I cannot bear it. I do not want to forget, I want to remember how it was.’ She let his finger go and swayed for a moment, and he held out his hand to steady her.
‘Are you feeling quite well, Avril? You look pale.’ His concern was nearly her undoing.
‘Just a little dizzy. I will be fine in a moment. I always am.’ she knew then, as her shoulders straightened, that she would forge on alone. After all, she had been doing it for years. Newly resolved, she smiled up at him through the tears in her eyes.
‘Go now, James. God be with you.’ And she raised her hand in farewell and turned away before he could see the tears freely coursing down her cheeks. As she walked she laid her hand over her stomach and breathed deeply to try to dispel the weeping that threatened to overwhelm her.
The boy put the thurible back in the cupboard, locked it and patted the door of it behind him, satisfaction filling his belly at the thought that he had completed his task admirably.
The priest stood alone in the quiet of the echoing church, breathing in the atmosphere. He closed the missal and kissed it reverently where the gold cross shone bright on its cover. His eyes fell to the pew where Avril had sat. He looked on for a moment and then turned and walked away.
10
To still a vomit
The mithridate is often difficult to procure, given its long list of ingredients, and some of these are hard to lay hold of, such as opium, storax, agaric, spinkenard and costus. Instead, to still and stay a sickening stomach, drink of a pint of mint water, slowly. To make this, boil two handfuls of mint leaves in fresh water, leave to cool and pour out.
Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book
* * *
LONDON, 1741
‘So how do you like your calling now, James?’ asked William Smyley.
The night was pitch-black and James was exhausted and cold beyond belief in the freezing January air. He only had time to drop his bags and greet his host when word came that they were needed. He followed Smyley on a borrowed horse to a house where a woman had been labouring for three days. She was exhausted and near the end.
William and James had done all they could in such a hopeless situation.
James leaned down and patted his mount on the neck. ‘I was well warned by the Gregoires in Paris, that man-midwives are called too late in many cases, sir,’ he replied.
‘Now James, my name is William, not sir. Come and I will show you to your room and we will speak over breakfast.’
&
nbsp; The next morning, the smell of baking bread woke James, and it took him a few moments to realise where he was. He dressed and washed hurriedly and made his way downstairs.
‘Good morning, you must be James,’ smiled a prettily plump woman as she took his hand. ‘I am Eupham, William’s wife. I am sorry I was not here to show you around myself last night but I was out with my charity work. At any rate, William says you were kept busy. Please, sit and eat,’ she gestured to the table.
Once he was seated, her chatter continued. ‘William is still asleep, so we can get to know each other a little before talk of medicine takes over.’
He smiled, taken with her and her friendly welcome.
‘The Good Lord has not seen fit to grant us the grace of children, so William spends his time helping mothers and their babies. Have you a wife and children, James?’
‘Sadly, most terribly, my own love died giving birth to our son, Daniel,’ his face told the tale far better than any thousands of words.
Eupham put her hand over her heart and held the other out to James, a small pink thing on the snowy white tablecloth. ‘I am so sorry. Was it long ago?’
James shook his head, recovered himself. ‘Daniel is in his second year now. I don’t see him as often as I should, but he is well minded at home. As for Marguerite, my heart, it will take me all my life to get over her passing.’
He cleared his throat. ‘But tell me why you came to London from Scotland,’ he smiled at Eupham once more.
‘Now, James,’ said William Smyley, finally roused from his bed, ‘you may have things to do and people to see, but Eupham and I would like to bring you to the New Spring Gardens, Vauxhall, next Saturday for a special event to entice people to buy a yearly ticket. As such, I hear that all kind of things have been laid on to make people part with their money, so even though it is out of season we should have a good day there. It is not so far from us here at New Court, Pall Mall, being near the Lambeth Palace. Though if Eupham had her way she may take you off to the shops at the Royal Exchange, eh my dear?’ he winked at James as his wife batted at him affectionately with her hand.