The Herbalist (10 page)

‘You love them old weeds,’ I
said.

He got in a huff. Snapped that common
didn’t mean useless.

‘There’s often good in bad and
bad in good. Poison in the root, medicine in the flower – like you perhaps,’ he
said, softening.

‘Yes, but too much of a good thing
will kill you?’ I said.

‘No, not you.’

I hadn’t the faintest notion what we
were talking about. He handed me a cup of sugary black tea and lay up on the bed. I took
some work out of my bag and unpicked threads from the seams of Birdie Chase’s
dress. We could hear all the sounds of the square. A horse and trap clattering, children
playing swing rope and chanting, ‘Call for the doctor, call for the nurse, call
for the lady with the alligator purse
…’ I snipped a thread with the tip of
my scissors and thought,
Isn’t this lovely – don’t I have a good life
now? Between my new job and my own mending work, I’ll soon be able to buy a
few yards of fabric and make a brand-new dress of my own. I won’t know myself
then.

There were three sharp knocks on the door. I
jumped, but the herbalist just smiled.

‘I’ve some business to attend
to,’ he said, nodding at me.

The nod meant
feck off
. I gathered
my things and let myself out, curious to see who was calling on him. I turned to tell
the herbalist that there was no one at the door, but he just waved me away with a flick
of his hand, like you would a fly.

I was going mad in the head from eating
rabbits. You’d think on Sunday we’d stretch to one of the old hens. As soon
as the dishes were done, I made my escape. Mam was in a strange mood: she hadn’t
said a word to me, bar calling out ‘Don’t you dare go far’ as I was
climbing the stairs. Sure how far could I go in that direction? I went to my room and
had a grand time lying on my bed totting up my earnings. I kept track of my few
customers in a copybook. There was Birdie Chase, Carmel Holohan, Mrs Daly, the Moriarty
sisters, Mary Burke and her mother. I was hoping that the list would get longer and that
I’d get to do some real sewing, perhaps for Mrs B’s daughter Rose. She wore
something different almost every day. Beautifully tailored dresses from Dublin. She got
a Jean Harlow white fur for her sixteenth birthday.

For now it was mostly zips. People hated
doing zips. I loved them; loved sewing. Would hem a handkerchief just to keep my hands
busy, for the pleasure of making rows of neat, even stitches. I was only earning
pennies, but in a matter of weeks there might be enough. The problem was, though, that
once I’d mended something it was usually mended for good. So my main source of
income was Birdie – or Lady Chatterley, as Carmel had taken to calling her. As long as
she kept discovering clothes that needed renovating, my dream dress remained a
possibility. I never called Birdie by her new nickname. If she knew that I knew, and
that the whole town knew, she sold filthy banned books, Birdie would be mortified.

‘Emily!’ Mam called.
‘Emily, come down to the parlour if you please.’

If you please? Why was she talking like
that? I went downstairs to see what she was carrying on about. And who should be there,
plumb on the sofa of the ‘parlour’, but only Doctor Birmingham. He had never
crossed our threshold before. Not one of our family calamities had ever been great
enough to warrant summoning the gracious Doctor B. Not when our father went missing, not
when Mam wrung the neck of every single chicken. This must be shocking serious.

‘You’ve been consorting with the
peddler.’ The doctor spoke to me but looked at Mam.

How could he know? Doctor B would never be
caught mucking around the square on market days – he’d rather be caught picking
his nose. Mam gave him a pinched smile and then walked out of the room, closing the door
behind her, real gently. Doctor B seemed to relax then; leant back and let his fat legs
fall open. I could see the lump between them. The seams were stretched to breaking. He
laid a hand on each knee and cocked his head to the side.

‘I came for Grettie’s sake,
blood being thicker than water and all that, you know yourself. But of course you
don’t. You don’t know anything, you’re only a girl. A slip of a
thing.’

What family connection was he yammering on
about, with the big grey bollocks on him eyeing me from beneath his trousers? I’d
swear it moved. He cleared his throat. I was going to be sick.

‘Come here like a good girl so I can
talk to you properly.’ His voice had gone hoarse. ‘Come on,
closer.’

He raised his hand out towards me. I
didn’t know what he was going to do and I never got the chance to find out,
because right at that moment a scream came out of my mouth. And then I near ran through
the door to get away from him.

Mam was just sitting there in the kitchen,
at the head of the table; it was set all fancy, with the white and gold teapot. She
brushed past me and went into the parlour. The front door slammed. She was back out
again in seconds.

‘What did you do to the poor
man?’ she said. ‘He’s after running past me without so much as a word.
What will he think of us at all?’

She sat down at the table.

‘Who on earth is going to help me
now?’ she cried.

‘I’m so sorry, but he gave me
the heebie-jeebies, and I thought …’ I rubbed her shoulder.

What had I thought? What was Mam thinking?
Why couldn’t she talk to me herself? There was always a man being called in to
deal with me: it used to be my father, then it was the priest, now it was the doctor.
Who next, the plumber?

She shook off my hand and began to clear
away the nice crockery and put out the ordinary plates. The silence over tea was hell.
Charlie was in a world of his own. The only sounds were our forks and
knives, and the odd cough from my father. He didn’t ask what was wrong:
he’d no curiosity when it came to goings-on under his own roof. We were eating
lettuce and tomatoes with cold potatoes; they were waxy, and felt like marbles in my
stomach.

I was miserable for making Mam miserable,
and for making her call the doctor and bringing her strife – she hated strife. And how
dare Doctor B call the herbalist a peddler? How dare he? I hoped Doctor B wasn’t
coming back. Fancy doctor man or not, I didn’t care – something wasn’t
right. But I’d never be forgiven for scaring him off, and for having done
something to have him called here in the first place. And I only befriending a poor
stranger.
Consorting.
What a horrible word. And the big fat mouth on him and he
saying it.

Mam started to choke – held her hand over
her mouth. Father stood up, like that was enough of a help. Just stood there gawking at
her. When her hand came down, her face was flushed. Then she started laughing. It was an
age before she calmed down, and we just waited in silence as she wiped the tears
away.

‘The face on poor Doctor Birmingham
and he springing out of here like someone had shot him up the arse. Oh, Emily, what am I
going to do with you at all?’

She looked sad again when we were doing the
dishes after the tea. ‘You know I love you,’ she said. I knew that. She said
that it was coming time for me to leave, leave the house and go somewhere if I was to
have a chance of anything better.

But where was a girl like me to go?

Mam never mentioned consorting of any sort
again. She also never asked me why I had screamed that afternoon. I suppose she put it
down to me being daft.

Sarah woke at daybreak and heard Mai
pottering around. She wrapped a blanket around her and tiptoed into the room. The kettle
was steaming and Mai was sitting on the stool, waving a slice of bread over the fire.
She was shivering. Daylight had crawled halfway across the floor.

‘What has you up at cock crow,
Mai?’

‘I’m only home – was in Phil
Green’s. They sent for me after midnight; I didn’t want to wake
you.’

‘You should’ve – they’re a
tough lot. I would’ve come, no bother.’

‘Well, I’m fine, and all’s
well – a boy, 8 pounds 10 ounces. And they actually paid me.’

‘I thought Phil wasn’t due till
June? Aren’t they only wed since Halloween?’

‘It was an early delivery. I
don’t know who the father is, but it’s not the string of a thing she
married.’

‘I pity the men.’

‘I do too. I pity them all. Phil
looked terrified but she was quick. “It’s come terrible early, hasn’t
it, Mai?” “Indeed it has,” said I, looking at the fat-faced leanbh;
“the poor craythur is lucky to be alive.”’

‘How could she?’

‘What choice did she have?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Ah, the innocence of
youth.’

Later that morning Willy the Post knocked on
the back window. Mai opened the window and took the envelope. The postman stood peering
in, as was his habit. Mai took her time fidgeting with the letter before sighing
‘Ah, think I’ll read it later’ and placing it in the pocket of her
apron. That was her habit. Willy rarely took a scrap of news from Mai’s house.
Sarah thought it was uncharitable
of her aunt; the old man loved news
of any sort and considered it his vocation to spread it.

‘Well, hope it’s good,’ he
said, as he loped away.

It was a note from Finbar: Sarah was to
start in Kelly’s shop the coming Saturday. There would be six weeks’
trial.

‘Trial sounds about right,’ said
Sarah.

‘No, no, listen to me now.’ Mai
made her sit down and began to talk.

Sarah felt bad for her cheekiness when she
saw how hard Mai was trying. She carried on about what a busy town it was, and how many
interesting people Sarah was bound to meet. What a wonderful opportunity, to work in a
shop! She remembered when Finbar’s mother had run the place, and what a gentle
person Frances had been. She reminisced until she wasn’t really talking to Sarah
any more, till she was talking to herself. ‘You always remember the ones that die
young the best. She loved flowers. Her watercolours were all over the shop. Maybe
you’ll see them when you go there, or maybe not, that was a long time ago.’
Then she began to talk about a party. Mai, who’d never had a party in her
life.

‘I want to have a nice supper for you,
a send-off.’

She retrieved her big black handbag from the
trunk under the stairs, sat in her armchair and began to ease her feet into her best
shoes.

‘Thursday evening.’

‘What about it?’ asked
Sarah.

‘That’s when I’ll tell
them to come, for your send-off.’

‘Tell who?’

‘Why, everyone.’ At that Mai
left the house.

That Thursday, Sarah walked in on the
preparations. There was steam everywhere. The scent of cinnamon, roast chicken and burnt
sugar filled the air.

‘What are you doing?’

‘A few neighbours, a drop of sherry,
no big fuss,’ Mai sang as she pierced the roast chicken breast.

The skin crackled and broke under her fork.
There were beads of sweat on her upper lip. Her tight bun had feathered askew.

‘This is too much, Mai,’ Sarah
said.

‘I want to send you off in
style.’

And she did. The table laden to breaking,
teacup towers, apple tarts, rock buns, a Victoria sponge with jam
and
cream.
The best cloth, white linen, shiny shamrocks embroidered on each corner – finally good
enough to eat off, now that Sarah was leaving. A fine spread to celebrate her new
position.

There wasn’t a neighbour that
didn’t come. By ten the party was in full swing, and Sarah sat with her cousin
Mary and Bernie and the other girls on the bench in the kitchen. The Flanagan boys
played a reel, her lemonade was warm and flat, and all she could think was
Is James
ever going to ask me to dance at all?
The tune went faster and faster, like the
fiddle was fighting the box accordion. They were all trying to outdo each other. So many
musicians, there was almost no one left to clap. Feet stamped, the people called for a
waltz, a waltz. A chance for couples to take to the floor. Was he ever going to ask
her?

It was late, pitch black.

‘Dampen that fire, I’m
sweltered,’ Boom-Bellied Johnny roared.

Aunt Gracie leant in the doorway, arms
crossed high and a steely eye on who went where, and who did what. Mai was knocking back
the rum and giving the Charleston a go. She declared her knees weren’t up to the
job any more, and all the old men laughed and laughed. She gripped the beads around her
neck and spun them instead. Sarah could almost see how Mai might’ve been when she
was young, her cheeks pink, her skin glowing and her eyes full of devilment.

Finally, James walked over to where Sarah
was sitting and asked her to dance. His mouth was fixed in a smile that was more
determined than kind. Maybe it was her imagination. Everyone seemed a little strange to
Sarah tonight. Perhaps it was because she was leaving them all. James and Sarah danced
into the centre of the floor – his hands were sweating and she was afraid of slipping
from his grip, of hitting the wall of old ones. She wanted to talk to him,
to see what he thought of her leaving, and how often he planned to
visit her or if he planned to visit at all. Gracie tugged at her sleeve. James let go of
her hand.