The Herbalist (30 page)

Carmel’s form had improved by the time
she reached the top of the Birminghams’ avenue. It was nice to be away from her
own four walls; she should go places more often. A dour girl took her coat and left her
shivering in the hall. ‘The missus will be with you shortly,’ she said. The
girl looked familiar. It took Carmel a moment to place her – with that dark complexion
and the dramatic widow’s peak, she was a Daly. But which of them had got the job
in the Birminghams’? Oh, yes, Margery.

There was no sign of Grettie. Was Carmel
early? Her answer came from a blue cuckoo. He sprang from his house over her head:
cuckoo, cuckoo
… Lord, would he ever stop? She counted his cries. It was eight
o’clock. She was on time. She sat on the long oak bench. A tall brass lamp stood
like a sentry beside it, casting a pool of honey-coloured light. The walls were newly
painted a clean pale green, no botched wallpaper for Grettie B.

The doctor’s door faced her. It was a
heavy black door, a bit battered-looking and at odds with the white roses in a crystal
vase on the ornate hallstand beside it. It was nice to be here when the place
wasn’t full of patients moaning and sneezing and noticing everything about
everybody else. Carmel had only been twice that she could remember. At least she was
healthy in that way; not everyone could say that. She should count her blessings. The
stairs were steep, and situated to the right of the doctor’s room. The handrail
and balusters were plain, simply painted white. Carmel would have loved to wander up
those stairs. She could imagine the luxury on the second floor: the thick carpets, heavy
drapes, antique heirlooms, the four-poster beds.

A muttering came from beyond the panelled
door at the end of the hall. The living quarters. Carmel got up quickly to check her
face in the mirror behind the roses, but it was impossible to see beyond the blooms.
Their dusky sweetness tickled her nose, made her throat itch. She began to pace. She
noticed a split in the wall beneath the upper section of the stairs, ran her finger
along it and felt a draught. She stepped back. It was a door, flush with the wall
and painted the same green as everywhere else. Grettie B’s
voice came from somewhere and was coming nearer. Carmel had reached the bench by the
time she entered the hallway.

‘Forgive me, Carmel, the silly girl
just told me you were here!’

The inner sanctum was threadbare compared
with the harem of luxury in Carmel’s imagination. Still, it was nice, spare but
very elegant. There was a long table, at which the surly Daly girl sat polishing some
silver cutlery. Her eyebrows were black and furious; she practically glared at Carmel.
It was a bit strange to be polishing on a Sunday. Was Grettie B making her maid work
late just to show off?

She was led to a smaller room; it had the
look of a ladies’ drawing room. Now, this was everything that Carmel had imagined.
The pale yellow floor-length curtains on the bay window, soft furnishings covered in a
cream fabric blushing with rose patterns and trimmed in gold. A low round table was set
for two. Carmel’s heart sank – it was just the two of them. She took a low chair
and was sucked into its softness. Grettie B swished past in her long plum gown. It was
dated but suited the room.

The evening began pleasantly enough. Supper
was cold meats, stuffing and pickled onions, then plum jelly, cream and scones. And
sherry, and a few Irish coffees and then more sherries. The fire was kept topped up with
log after log by the sour-faced girl. All Grettie B had to do was ring a small bell and
she came running. Carmel relaxed in no time; she even shed her cardigan.

‘Oh, dear.’ She had forgotten
the gaping buttons. ‘I must get Emily to let this dress out. The poor motherless
girl. Who would’ve thought that Mo would die so young?’

‘I bet Brian didn’t; bet he
thought he was set up for life.’

‘Poor man.’

‘Nothing poor about him,
Carmel.’

‘Do you remember you wanted to marry
him?’

Carmel couldn’t believe she had spoken
so out of turn – it must be the drink – but she ploughed on. ‘Aren’t you
lucky you didn’t get what you wanted?’

‘Did I? I don’t think so, but
maybe my memory isn’t as good as yours.’ Grettie B topped up Carmel’s
glass.

‘Yes, wasn’t that when the
coolness set in between you and Maureen? You were very close, even for cousins.
Remember? You had your eye on Brian –’

‘It was the other way
round!’

‘You had to look out for Mo that day,
and you had set up a date with Brian so you brought her along, remember? And he fell in
love with her on the spot.’

‘That’s not what happened at
all! The only one I had my eye on was Doctor Birmingham. Do you think I’d choose a
travelling salesman over a doctor?’

‘They were just men then, and we were
just women.’

‘You weren’t a woman; you were a
child of ten!’

‘I know, but children see and hear
things.’

Carmel knew she should stop, but she
couldn’t. Grettie B’s face was a sight. It was almost fascinating to watch
her contain her rage.

‘How would you have known what was
going on either way? You were such a long time on the shelf yourself, Carmel; you
didn’t know one end of a man from another.’

‘Excuse me. I was fussy!’

‘Do you mean I wasn’t?’
Grettie B leant forward to reveal a splendid powdered bosom.

‘No, I don’t mean that at all.
You were very pretty, Grettie, almost as lovely as Rose. And you were very fussy – you
could’ve had your pick of the men in this town.’

‘Almost as lovely? Well, you were a
nice-looking girl too, Carmel.’ She tapped her spoon off her cup. ‘But may I
be honest? That weight does you no favours. You’re too small-boned to carry extra
baby weight.’

‘Maybe I want to carry it? Maybe I
don’t want to lose my baby weight?’ Her hand trembled as she set down her
glass.

‘You know, Carmel, losing that child
might’ve been for the best – have you ever considered that? Not everyone is able
for motherhood. Not everyone has the … stamina.’

Silence. Tinkle. Sherry.

‘How could you?’

Carmel lost interest in the conversation –
or in correcting Grettie’s
versions of everything; she just
wanted to go home to her husband. But Grettie B wasn’t finished.

‘We – well, myself and the doctor – we
often wondered what was going on with you, Carmel. You know, you weren’t exactly
interested in men, then you went and married a kid like Dan. We wondered was it because
your mother wanted someone to edge old Finbar out. We wondered …’

What? Wondered what? Don’t ask.

‘You know’ – Grettie forced a
laugh – ‘we wondered if you liked men at all, or were you one of those
inverts?’

‘An invert.’

‘Isn’t that funny? Doctor B
thinking that about you! Isn’t it silly?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Laugh, you must laugh.

Carmel laughed. Her throat was dry. A whole
reel of film unwound on to the floor. The back of Sarah’s neck, warm and brown
like an egg. And that girl, that girl when she was twelve. But nobody knew about those
things, those nothings. She felt herself redden. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t
be. She liked that part of being married. She liked Dan’s body.

She was being punished for something she had
said earlier, but she couldn’t remember exactly what.

‘I must go now. Dan will worry if
I’m late.’

Carmel began to put on her cardigan. Her
elbow got stuck.

‘Will he?’

‘Yes, he will, Grettie. Dan loves me,
and I love him.’

Oh, no, not tears.

Grettie rose up, leant towards Carmel and
wrapped her arms around her. Carmel’s nose began to run; she wiped it with the
back of her hand. Grettie hugged her tightly. Carmel sniffled.

‘I’ve upset you – I’m
sorry.’ Grettie handed her a napkin from the supper platter. ‘Carmel,
I’m sorry, I’ve been an old meanie.’

Grettie walked over to the fireplace; she
hoisted up her dress to warm her legs.

‘Carmel, if I’ve been a bit
catty, it’s because I feel so wretched myself. I’m in a dreadful
situation.’

‘I’d no idea.’

‘Yes, I’ve been caught short. I
don’t want to worry Doctor Birmingham, but, frankly, I need a small loan to tide
me over. I had to pawn something of value and I need it back.’

‘Oh.’

‘We’re friends, aren’t we?
We’ve been friends a long time?’

‘A long time, Grettie.’

‘I’ve never asked you for
anything before …’

‘Oh, you mean me?’

‘I’ve never –’

‘But I don’t have any
money.’

‘Of course you don’t.’
Grettie pursed her lips.

‘I really don’t.’

‘No, really, forget about it, Carmel.
I’m embarrassed to have asked.’

She didn’t look embarrassed; she
looked disappointed.

‘Can I ask what –’

‘A private matter.’

Carmel tried to stand. She wobbled.

‘Grettie, I think I’m
drunk.’

‘Sit down and let’s get you
drunker.’

Each week Sarah would decide not to go to
the herbalist’s. She didn’t want to go. She never, ever, wanted to. Yet,
each Sunday after dinner, when faced with an afternoon of Dan and Carmel, she rose,
washed her face and left. Carmel had been sorry-looking since trying to smack her, but
there was no sign of an apology, just an extra helping of chicken breast at dinner.

The herbalist looked dreadful and was very
quiet. The place was spotless, but it stank of alcohol. He must’ve had a late
night. He waved her towards the desk in the corner; the bottles were in a box on
top.

‘I wrote a list for you.’

He handed her a page: ten foot rubs, ten
back oils, and so forth. Sarah looked at the box of unmarked potions.

‘How will I know which is
which?’

‘Just have an old sniff; you know
yourself by now. I’ll be out in a bit.’

With that he closed the door of his bedroom.
It was a quiet afternoon, and she took her time. It was a gentle quietness, not edgy
like in the shop, where you knew it could be broken at any minute. People would call,
but not till later. They’d play poker, old maid, rummy, twenty-five. Drink tea.
Some had a tipple, port, brandy – respectable drinks. Sarah hoped Aggie wouldn’t
come today. She knew Aggie was of the opinion that she had swiped the job in
Kelly’s from under Emily’s nose. Made it obvious that she thought it was too
smooth a replacement, that Sarah was too clever for her own good, not as soft as Emily.
She had said as much at the last game of cards.

‘Emily would’ve given her right
arm to be here having the crack. Whereas Miss Sarah’ – Aggie raised her voice so
Sarah wouldn’t miss a word – ‘I don’t know why she comes at all.
Sitting up so straight, saying nothing, taking it all in.’

The herbalist seemed to have gone to sleep;
there wasn’t a sound from the room. She put the kettle on the stove and hoped that
maybe by the time it boiled a visitor would have arrived to play a round of rummy with
her. Maybe John the Jobber, Seamus or even Lizzie. She didn’t want to leave
without talking to the herbalist; he still hadn’t paid her a penny. He must have
the money: his business was thriving, and now he had this place. Sarah wanted to be well
out of the town before she started showing; she needed to get the boat and fast. Mai had
written to Sarah again. She said she had appealed again to her sister Margaret in
London, implied that Sarah had married badly, was having a baby and needed a safe place
to live temporarily.
Please believe or pretend to believe
was the prayer that
Sarah repeated to herself when she thought of her aunt Margaret reading that letter. She
hadn’t seen her since she was twelve years of age.

How quickly a room can change character as
one person, then another, walks into it. Within an hour the herbalist was up and
chatting to his first caller, a large man unknown to Sarah. Then Lizzie came, and after
a while Ned the road sweep arrived, looking sheepish. Young Michael Ryan soon followed.
There were more, later, that she couldn’t rightly remember. Things became bleary
and fun and not real, and the herbalist’s kitchen transformed into a party palace.
And she was pealing with laughter – even sour old Lizzie was warm to her; they held each
other’s arms and laughed with their heads back at something outrageous Lizzie had
said. Sarah had shocked her by replying back in kind and everyone roared, and there was
singing. Some sort of nursery-rhyme song they all chanted and chanted; the table was
pushed back and they pranced around the room, mobbing against the wall. She felt dizzy,
unbalanced. Realized that someone had slipped something stronger than orange into her
orange. She must vomit, she must get the alcohol out of her system.

She fumbled towards the outhouse. By the
door a woman was moving in the shadows, moving her hips in a slow, circular motion.
Someone was pressed against her – another woman. They stopped embracing and looked at
Sarah, mouths wet and slack.