The Herbalist (4 page)

‘What happened to you?’

‘Bernie and me had to walk all the way
home. Her uncle’s horse was lame and he told us to try and get a lift with someone
else. I’m bushed, that’s all.’

‘Don’t give me that, I’m
not a thick. And I had that dream last night –’

‘Not that dream again.’ Sarah
lifted a glass bottle of clear liquid, uncorked it and sniffed. ‘How much did this
set you back?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Ah, come on now, nothing?’

‘Billy owes me a favour or
two.’

‘Let me come to Billy’s next
time you go. You’ll need me someday; you won’t always be able to make the
journey alone. I won’t tell a soul.’

‘It’s only a few miles up the
road, young lady. I’m not dead yet.’ She stroked the cat on her lap,
whispered into its ear, ‘Isn’t that right, Captain?’

‘Which road is it a few miles
up?’ Sarah jiggled the bottle.

‘Whist. Pour that poitín into the jug
before the smell knocks us out. And pour me a wee dram. Not too much, mind.’

Sarah let a splash fall into a small glass
and handed it over. Mai sipped it and let out a
whoosh
that scared the cat off
her lap.

‘If anyone could see you knocking back
the hard stuff like that –’

‘Stop that kind of talk.’ Mai
frowned. ‘I’m just checking the purity; don’t want my tinctures going
mouldy. And stop standing over me, you lanky lass, lend a hand.’

Sarah put on an apron and sat. She began to
break the sweet violet apart while Mai worked with a copybook and scissors to prepare
some of the tiny labels she liked to paste on to the undersides of all her jars and
bottles. Mai never wrote her name, just the name of the herb – she was modest about her
talents.

‘Bristly babies, aren’t
they?’ Sarah’s fingers were reddening already.

‘You always say that – you’re
just sensitive to sap.’

They lapsed into silence. Mai wasn’t
fond of chatting when they were preparing cures. Once the jam jars were full of violet,
Sarah poured in the mixture of spirit.

‘Sarah,’ said Mai, ‘stop
frowning; do it with love.’

‘Listen to the old
romantic.’

‘Sarah!’ She pointed her
fountain pen in Sarah’s direction.

‘Yes, Mai, with love, Mai.’

‘Or is it, Sarah, that you have no
love left? Is it, Sarah, that you’ve been giving your love all away?’

Mai was imitating the wheedling voice of her
older sister Gracie. She was getting a bit too close to the truth for Sarah’s
comfort.

‘Look at that face! You’re
courting, aren’t you?’

‘Stop that lovey-dovey talk. An old
woman like you.’

‘Who is it? Go on, you can tell
me.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’
She looked at Mai. ‘Well, not yet.’

They both laughed. Custard climbed back on
Mai’s lap as she wrote. His fur was the same colour as her cardigan, so he
appeared to have become part of her. He purred with satisfaction. They both seemed
pleased with themselves.

‘A toast’ – Mai put down her pen
and lifted her empty glass – ‘to Sarah’s young man!’

‘It’s early days,
don’t.’

‘How well I knew. It was the gallons
of water you’ve been bringing up to your room. Is she washing herself or an army
up there? That’s what I was thinking. Then it hit me, Sarah’s soaping
herself to nothing over some young man. So, who is he?’

‘I can’t tell, so don’t
bother your head throwing names at me.’

‘Why ever not, Sarah?’
Mai’s voice became sharp.

‘It’s like you and Poitín Billy
– I just can’t. There are no two ways about it.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How’s it different?’

‘If a girl can’t say who her
beau is, either he isn’t free or she isn’t … and I know you are.’

‘Not free! That’s a shocking
thing to say, and of me! As if I’d do something so awful, so, so out of the
question!’

‘It’s not as out of the question
as all that. I of all people should know – don’t I deliver the
consequences?’

‘You’re a filthy old woman for
thinking that of me. I feel sick; I think I’m going to get sick.’

‘Sit down and stop fussing – I had to
ask. You’ve no one to blame
but your own sweet self. Just spill
the beans and tell me who your fancy man is.’

‘He’s not my fancy
man!’

‘Not a fancy man, then, your …’
Mai scrunched up her face as if to think of a name. ‘Your pal? Your comrade
–’

‘Please stop. I can’t tell yet,
but I’ll tell soon.’

‘You’d better, Sarah, believe
me, secrets aren’t good. And what’s more your lad should be proud of you,
beauty and brains in one, he should be shouting it from the rooftops.’

Sarah began to fix the lids on to the jars.
She held one up.

‘I love when they are like this, so
pretty. The green leaves and the tiny purple petals.’

‘Don’t be tormenting me with
your soft talk. If you want to change the subject, pick the weather.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Sarah
pretended to tip a hat.

‘Make sure the lids are
tight.’

‘Are these tinctures all for old
piss-the-bed up on the hill?’

‘Leave be – the poor lonely colonel
doesn’t have long; he deserves comfort the same as the next man. That reminds me,
fetch me a few jars of comfrey cream from the back of the press.’

Sarah got up, opened the press, took down
six small jars and set them on the table.

‘The poor lonely colonel
indeed!’ she said as she sat down. ‘How lonely can he be with everyone and
anyone traipsing up to see him? Strange-looking characters, they say, of every seed and
creed.’

‘That’s not you talking, Sarah –
who told you that?’

‘Bernie.’

‘Tell Bernie she’s sounding like
an old woman already – she should have more charity.’

‘You’re very
forgiving.’

‘Why wouldn’t I be? Give and so
you shall receive.’

‘And what would you need to receive
forgiveness for, Mai? Have you ever even hurt a fly?’

Sarah was surprised when Mai didn’t
respond. She looked up.

‘Mai?’

Her aunt was wiping her eyes.

‘Did I say something?’

‘Nothing, you said nothing.’

They worked in silence for a while, with
Sarah glancing over at her aunt every few seconds. Mai stood up and began to sweep some
fallen leaves. Suddenly she moved behind Sarah and tapped her.

‘So! Is it Paddy Murphy?’
Mai’s sudden liveliness seemed forced.

‘Don’t be mad.’

‘His cousin Tom?’

‘Leave me be.’

‘It’s not James Kelly, is
it?’

‘Stop.’

‘It had better not be, it had better
not.’

The back door opened and Master Kelly strode
in. Sarah froze. Had he heard?

‘Evening, Mai. My God, it smells like
a brewery in here.’

He looked around, but there was nothing
suspicious to be seen. Sarah had the bottle under her apron, clamped between her knees.
She only hoped it didn’t slip. Mai glanced over and looked relieved.

‘Cup of tea? Sorry I can’t offer
you anything stronger, Finbar.’

‘A cup of tea is strong enough.
Imagine if the headmaster were to be seen indulging!’

He smoothed his sleeve across the table and
cleared the remains of the herb on to the floor.

‘Well,’ he said,
‘isn’t this a cosy set-up?’

Sarah tried not to stare at his hands; they
had always fascinated her. The skin on Master Kelly’s fingers and palms was
discoloured. When they were infants learning their letters, he told them it was from
picking too many blackberries; when they became older, he said it was from a fire, but
didn’t tell them how it had happened. Said it was a painful memory. Mai reckoned
that if it was a painful memory, he was mightily attached to it, for she had offered him
a lotion that would improve the appearance, even at this late stage, but he’d
refused.

Sarah was dying to excuse herself, but the
bottle of poitín was nestling between her knees, so she had to stay and listen to the
Master inquire about the colonel’s Tropical Disease. Tropical, my eye.
Bernie said the dogs on the street knew it was syphilis. Mai seemed
to be enjoying the conversation; it was hard to tell sometimes whether she was fond of
Master Kelly or not. They both had firm opinions and liked to exchange them. Mai had
known his family well. He liked to hear about them and she liked to talk about them,
especially his mother.

Sarah was afraid the bottle was about to
slip to the floor. Just in time Master Kelly did something unusual and asked Mai to go
for a stroll around her beautiful garden for a chat. As he followed Mai out, he turned
and gave Sarah a wink. He had never done that before.

Something about Master Kelly was beginning
to unnerve Sarah. She had been in awe of him as a child. He was courteous to the girls
in the class, especially quick thinkers like Sarah. The boys, she felt sorry for the
boys, even James. How would the Master react when James revealed that he and Sarah were
walking out? Would he call her a fine girl then? Well, she’d find out soon –
Jamsie couldn’t put it off for ever.

Sarah leant out the window to scoop a jug of
water from the barrel. Mai and Master Kelly were sitting on the low wall. He was talking
nine to the dozen, and Mai seemed thrilled. Sarah poured the water into a bowl; the sap
had turned her fingers pink. In fact they looked just like the Master’s. She was
glad to soap them back to normal.

Mam was up the stepladder, painting the
kitchen ceiling. She kept giving me jobs to do: fetch this, wipe down that. If Charlie
thought he had it hard in the foundry, he was wrong: he wouldn’t have lasted five
minutes under Mam’s watch. For weeks now she had been spring cleaning, like
someone was coming. Then she started going on how it was a terrible pity about Birdie
and Veronique falling out, said she might get Seamus to take her over to
Veronique’s shop in his trap, just to have a word, see if she could persuade her
to make up with her sister, try to make peace. Father interrupted from his chair, said
Mam wouldn’t know what peace was if it jumped up and bit her ‘on the
bum-bum-bum’. She shouted that he only stuttered when it suited him, that perhaps
‘that man’ was right, and my father was putting it all on, the whole thing,
that perhaps he should go into show business. When Mam mentioned ‘that man’,
it was time to leave the kitchen, so I did.

I swung on the rope that was tied to the oak
and tried not to hear what they were saying indoors. Mam raced out, took my hand and
dragged me through the gate with her. I knew better than to ask where we were going.
Lately she had taken to wandering the roads after a flare-up – no coat, no money, just
roaming about till it was dark. She let go of my hand, untied her head rag, flung it
over the hedge and marched along with her arms crossed. I prayed we’d end up in
town, and not walking in circles like the last time. After around twenty minutes she
took a lipstick out of her pocket, smeared a bit on her finger and rubbed it over her
mouth. Her face and hair were spattered with cream paint. The lipstick made her seem
even paler; she looked a fright.

‘Do I look all right?’

‘Lovely. Really lovely. Like a
beautiful –’

‘That’s enough,
Emily.’

She veered down the slip towards the river
walk, and I followed. Now that we were going into town, I was dying to ask – could we
nip into the market and see if the famous herbal man was there? But I didn’t say
anything. It made my mother a bit agitated if I sounded too interested in someone. I
don’t know why, just the way she was.

It seemed the herbalist had been an instant
hit. Some beautiful lady had tried to buy him out of face cream; she’d had skin
like milk, hair like ebony and jewels in her ears like an Egyptian queen. Of course the
rest of them couldn’t buy enough after that. They swarmed him. There wasn’t
a bottle or jar left by midday. He was the talk of the place. Tessie Feeney said he was
an ugly man; Milkie Nash said he was divine, and her mother slapped her for
blasphemy.

In the days that followed his potions worked
a treat: warts, veins and dandruff disappeared overnight. The people wondered where he
was lodging. And, more importantly, would he be back? Some said he had sold so much that
he was already sailing home to buy a temple. I heard that from Birdie Chase. It got me
worried: maybe I’d missed my chance to get a look at him. Mind you, Birdie was no
expert: she hadn’t seen him either, too short to see over the crowd around his
stall and too achy to wait it out.

Birdie was Mam’s friend, but she was
too old to be making any plans with. You’d be afraid to say, ‘Will we go to
the pictures next week, Birdie?’ in case the thrill killed her. Last time she went
to a performance in the town hall, in her eagerness to grab a front-row seat – it had to
be the front for the Chases – she got giddy, fell sideways and hurt her hip. So now she
was on a stick and couldn’t walk out to The Farm. That’s what she called our
place. ‘Never mind the decay, it still has a luscious air to it.’
That’s what Birdie said.