The Herbalist (11 page)

‘Go on outside, catch up with my Mary.
She left a while ago to walk Midge home. Keep her company on her way back.’

Sarah turned. James wasn’t there any
more – he was chatting to some lads by the door, and they were elbowing each other over
some joke. You’d think he was dying to get away from her. Sarah fetched a cardigan
from her bedroom; it was lovely and quiet in there. She shut the window. Why did Gracie
have to ruin everything?

As soon as Sarah stepped outside, she was
pulled by the waist to the side of the house, carried to the far ditch and thrown over
it. She only had time to see the moon.
It must be a giant, a mad cruel ogre
,
she thought. But it wasn’t.

Was it a hard life, Aggie, living on the river? Did you not long for the comforts
that other women had? Did you not get lonely? Weren’t you ever scared?

I was a hardy annual; I’d survived
anything the sweet Lord wanted to throw at me. Why so hardy? I’ll tell you why –
now, listen to my advice – drink a drop every day; it’ll keep the memories away. A
drop a day, I used to tell the lads at the bar. That’s right,
at the bar
.
They were not stuffing me into that cubby-hole; I took my drink with the men.

‘Is that right, Ag?’
they’d say.

‘Oh, yes, a drop a day,’
I’d say.

The cheeky yokes always answered back.

‘What doctor gave you that advice,
Ag?’

‘Doctor Me!’ I laughed.
‘Doctor, me hole. Doctor me good.’

I laughed till I cried, pounded my fist on
the counter and roared above the scrawb of the fiddle.

‘You without sin throw the first one!
That’s what Our Lord said to thee,’ I told them.

‘Ah, Aggie, you’ve got it all
wrong again,’ said Ned.

‘Give us a miracle, Aggie, give us a
miracle!’ called Jim.

‘The holiest hoor in old God’s
kingdom!’ added a fella still in short pants.

‘Let it be, lads, let it lie,’
said Seamus.

There was always Seamus to be relied on. Not
a penny on him, but a staff you could spend all night climbing, bless his slick little
smile. That lad in short pants was too raw to be out. A cheeky pup with a big mouth.
Talking Geography. Estuaries. Claimed my river was on its way to the city.

‘It’s our river. Full
stop.’ That’s what I told him. But no, he knew it all.

‘It comes from the mountains and it
goes to the sea.’

I squeezed the back of his skinny neck.
‘That bloody river goes nowhere, it’s always been there, always will be
there, it belongs to the town, and it as soon goes to the sea as a terraced house lifts
its skirts and walks its grey walls off down to Wicklow.’

‘Would you ever shut up,’ said
Jim; ‘wish I’d never let you in.’

‘This is my world, boys, and no one –
I said no one – is ever going to shut old Aggie up.’

It was dark when I left the laughter behind
and headed home. Wobbling away on my heels, clip-clopping like a mare over the flags of
the bridge. I stopped like I always did, and leant on the smooth stone ledge, to have a
squint through the railings at the moon shimmying over my black river. I loved that
river. Couldn’t imagine it ever being anywhere but here, no matter what anyone
said. A cold hand gripped my arm.

‘Would you like me to throw you in,
Mollie? Do you think it’s cold?’ I felt bristles on my forehead but
couldn’t see his face; he had lodged himself tight agin me.

‘Not as cold as your hand,
Christy.’

‘I’m not fucking Christy.’
He slapped my mouth.

‘Well, I’m not fucking
Mollie.’ I spat out the blood.

His knee came up. Bone as hard as a hammer.
It knocked the breath from me, collapsed me. He leant over.

‘Fuck you.’ He sounded
winded.

I heard him step, drag, step and drag away
across the bridge. A soldier, I’d bet, with a crippled leg. Taking it all out on
an old whore. That was my lot – not much lonelier than anyone else and well past being
scared of any living thing.

Carmel changed towards me so slowly that I
couldn’t put my finger on when it had started. She just got cooler and cooler,
till she wasn’t really talking, just giving me stiff nods. Then she spoke to me,
as I wiped the counter that Thursday.

‘I’m sorry to say, Emily, that
we won’t be needing you any more.’

Her neck was red in patches, like she had
been stung. My mouth went dry. I knew it was my great friendship with the herbalist, but
she wasn’t going to say that, not outright. Now if they’d said
‘Don’t see him’, I couldn’t have obliged them but I
could’ve pretended to, and then we’d all have been happy. Isn’t that
the way things usually went around here? And she was all about the herbalist herself,
swanking in when she heard his voice, sweet as apple drops, wanting a quiet word. Mad
for him. They all were.

‘I haven’t done wrong, Mrs
Holohan.’

‘I’ve been told
otherwise.’ She handed me my mending bag.

‘By who?’ I clutched it to my
chest.

‘Never you mind.’

The door was held open and I had to go
through it. I went down the alley for a cry. How easy it happened. A snap of the fingers
and I was gone, for consorting with a man she would’ve given her right arm to
consort with.

The market was a poor affair when I arrived
in the square. The hawkers were packing their traps, rolling up their sheets of shoes
and clothes. The whole place smelt of chicken shite and straw. The herbalist wiped rain
off a brown bottle with a small cloth in a really slow way, as if it gave him great
pleasure.

‘Soporific, Emily,’ he said;
‘today it’s been soporific.’

That’s how he liked to talk, the
swankier the better. That he made any sense was the least of his interests.

‘It’s all in the first
impression,’ he’d say, and smooth his lapels with his ringed fingers.

He was the only person who’d liked the
first impression he’d got of me. I tried to recall if I’d been in any way
spectacular that afternoon but I hadn’t, I was just my plain self standing behind
the counter, eyes agog.

The herbalist showed an interest in me. It
was hard to credit it, but it was the truth. I didn’t think then
I lost my job
over you.
I didn’t see it like that at all.

‘No work today?’

‘Not ever no more. Have you a cure for
that?’

‘Come, I’ll put a smile on your
face, milady.’

I helped him carry his cases back to the
shed. He had fixed a bolt on it; he set great store on the value of his potions.

I was starving when I got home. I let
myself in the back door; there was no one around. The breakfast things were still on the
table. My father’s egg cup, Charlie’s half-drunk tea, a slice of toast with
one bite taken out of it, Mam’s frilled-edge porridge bowl, and the pot of honey
beside it. Father was probably out, and most likely Mam was lying down. I cut some soda
bread, piled it with gooseberry jam and poured a glass of milk. The letterbox clattered,
probably the second post. I went into the hall to fetch it.

Mam lay on her stomach, her face to the
side, her arms under her like a sleeping child. Her eyes were open and she didn’t
look at all surprised to be there like that.

I took Charlie’s bike, cycled to town
and found my father in his local. I couldn’t get his attention. The lad beside him
nudged him and my father turned around, his expression loose from drink.

‘Mam’s dead.’ He looked at
me like he couldn’t hear. ‘Mam’s dead – she collapsed in the
hall.’

He didn’t answer; just put his old
head on the bar. The man beside him patted his back. Word spread: this poor man’s
just lost his wife, give him a whiskey. There seemed no movement on anyone; no one
seemed to think it was their place to offer any assistance. I stood there for a moment,
wondering what to do next.

I left the River Inn and cycled on to Father
Higgins’s house. His stuck-up housekeeper, Mrs Ball, offered me a brandy. She put
the drink on the table in front of me.

‘Knock it back, you’re shivering
– it will warm you up.’

That’s when I realized I
shouldn’t have left Mam alone like that. What had got into me? She should be
wrapped up snug. I jumped up and left without waiting for the priest; he could follow,
he knew where we lived.

They eventually found Charlie, walking some
young one down the river. Rita Brennan. By the time he came in, Doctor Birmingham had
arrived and was in the front hall with Mam. I was sitting in Father’s fireside
chair; there were people everywhere, talking and making themselves tea. She’d had
cancer, they were all saying, cancer had been killing my mother. But how did they know,
how did they know anything? Charlie walked over and put his arms around me.

‘Charlie,’ I said. ‘Mam
–’

‘I know, they told me. I’m going
to the undertaker’s, I won’t be long. Will you be all right here?’

‘Don’t you want to see
her?’ I pointed towards the shut hall door.

‘No, not yet. Not like that. Rita will
give you a hand.’

Rita stepped forward and hugged me as
Charlie left. She had been in my class but we weren’t friends, weren’t
anything. She was just a nice girl who had never seemed to notice me. And here she was
holding my hand.

‘I’ll help you now,
Emily.’

‘Help me what?’

‘Feed the people, of
course.’

Someone had already cleared the table of the
breakfast dishes. Rita was a great help, rallied other women to bring food, handed out
the sandwiches, cigarettes and booze. There was a great ruckus as Mick Murphy and John
Dunne carried the bed down the stairs and manoeuvred it into the parlour. Mick came into
the kitchen and nodded at two women, who stood up. I got up too, but Rita put her hand
on my arm. ‘They’ll lay her out,’ she said. ‘They know what to
do.’

I wanted everyone to go away then. They were
jostling against each other, eating and drinking and talking. Had they all forgotten why
they were here? I wanted to scream. Rita gave me a sherry with a wink that should have
annoyed me, but it didn’t.

I opened the door of the parlour, and I went
in to see Mam. The praying had started. The mourners crowded in behind me till I was at
Mam’s feet.

And still no sign of my father, not a
word.

The next night, the boys took it upon
themselves to arrive home. Jack and Peter. Grown men now, and like strangers, awkward in
how they embraced me. Stayed for one decade of the rosary and went off to drink the town
dry with Charlie in tow. No matter that Charlie was a Pioneer and had never touched a
drop before. They looked like cowboys, swaggering down the lane with their black
handsome heads cocked high and purposeful, all decked out in suits got from God knows
where.

‘We’ll do right by Mam –
we’ll give her the send-off she deserves.’

I’d visions of them coming in drunk
and laying whiskey glasses on her belly. She looked calm, respectable – blank of who
she’d been. I’d no picture to prove she’d ever been any different
except for the one in my head. Her swinging me around the garden, her hair flying out
behind her. Brown-skinned, plump and full of life. ‘Hold on tight, Millie –
you’re in for a ride.’

I’d forgotten she called me Millie.
Till I told her to stop. I knew she loved me. Loved Charlie better, but no matter. Loved
like she sowed seeds. One for the pigeon, one for the crow, one to rot and one to
grow.

Carmel and Dan arrived late on the second
night. Gave their sympathies. ‘You’re very good to come,’ I said to
them, just like I’d said to everyone. I wore the miserable dress that had caused
such a ruckus. They didn’t stay long.

Birdie gave me a big hug. Her face was
blotchy and she kept blowing her nose. Said maybe it was a blessing that poor
Maureen’s heart gave out so sudden, that it had saved her from a terrible death.
Cancer was cruel. Cruel the way it could drag out for so long. Birdie
had witnessed her own mother’s demise and you know what, she wouldn’t wish
it on her worst enemy. She knew it was a poor comfort, but Maureen had been spared, and
I had been spared seeing her in such pain that I’d have ended up praying for her
last breath to come. She kept stroking my hair, looking at me like her own heart would
break. How does a heart give out? How could my mother’s heart stop beating and I
not even know? Where was I, what was I doing when it beat for the last time? Was I
strolling into Kelly’s shop, thinking I had a job? Was I crying in the alley
beside it? Or was I rushing into the herbalist’s shed, thinking about nothing but
him and letting my mother down? I was so glad when Mrs B bustled in. Birdie’s
kindness was too much for me, made me think things I couldn’t bear to think.

Mrs B wore a veiled black hat that looked
like an upturned bucket and was dragging Rose and Doctor B behind her. The doctor shook
my father’s hand and nodded at the rest of us. Young Rose stepped forward, pale
and blonde in her dark outfit. She didn’t say anything; just smiled a sad smile.
She kissed me, and her hair smelt like candy-floss. I rubbed my cheek afterwards and
sure enough there was lipstick on my knuckle.