The Herbalist (39 page)

Sarah ate every ginger nut in the tin. If
the herbalist didn’t come back soon, she was going to miss the train.

It was growing cooler and darker; the six
o’clock to Dublin had left without her. There was only one sod in the fuel basket.
She couldn’t even light the stove. Sarah took her winter coat out of her suitcase,
moved to the armchair by the front window and pulled the coat over her. She wasn’t
going to use the stretcher bed – she dreaded to think who had been up on it. She felt
drained. What if the herbalist never came back? What would she do then? What
could
she do then? Her mouth was dry, her feet and hands were chilled.

She sat there for what seemed like hours,
but she didn’t know how much time had passed – there was no clock. The herbalist
wore a watch, a gold one. She thought of the bed and the fancy bedspread in the other
room, but she couldn’t bear the idea of lying in it either. She couldn’t get
the box under the bed out of her head. One day, she knew, the child in her belly would
have to come out, but she didn’t quite believe it ever would.

Sarah woke with a crick in her neck. It
took a second to realize where she was. The morning light showed up all the strands of
hair that clung to her coat; she shrugged it off and stood to stretch her aching legs.
She shouldn’t have eaten all the biscuits the night before;
she
was weak with hunger. She glimpsed through the curtains to check the road outside. All
quiet.

There was no sign that the herbalist had
been back. She didn’t think he could have come in and left again. Maybe he had
gone on one of his trips to Dublin. In that case he had purposely lied about being back
in an hour – which meant he had no intention of ever paying her what he owed. He would
get some shock when he walked in and saw Sarah sitting in his armchair. He’d have
to pay up then, wouldn’t he?

She guessed it was mid-morning, but, if so,
why was the road still so quiet? Finally, after what seemed like hours, a funeral came
along. It was a huge procession, slow-moving. A person of some consequence, if the
crowds were anything to go by, or the pomp. It was almost beautiful: the hazy blue sky,
the black horses with the huge plumes, the shining hearse with the closed velvet
curtains, the top hat on the undertaker with his straight back. She eased forward to see
the chief mourners, to see if she could work out who had died.

Mrs Birmingham and the Doctor were first in
line behind the hearse. There was no sign of Rose. Mrs Birmingham wore a veil over her
face and held a black hankie to her nose. The mourners spread out as they passed, almost
touching the window of the herbalist’s house. Sarah couldn’t bear it any
longer: she slipped out of the front door and put her hand to the elbow of the nearest
woman. It was old Nora.

‘Excuse me,’ she said,
‘but whose funeral is this?’

‘It’s Miss Rose Birmingham, the
poor girl.’

‘I don’t understand. What
happened to her?’

A look of recognition crossed the
woman’s face; she shook off Sarah’s hand.

‘Go back to where you came from,
adulteress.’

Sarah returned to the herbalist’s
house. What had happened to Rose? She couldn’t imagine her lying in that hearse.
She was so young. Perhaps that was what was keeping the herbalist. Perhaps he was at the
funeral paying his respects. In that case it would be some time until he returned. She
might as well make herself comfortable.
It would seem crass now to
demand money from him, but she had no choice, and if she had to tell him her predicament
she would.

What was she thinking? There would be no
need to tell him anything; he would be quite well informed by the time he returned.

She moved away from the window, sat down and
pulled her coat around her again. She was nervous that Carmel might turn up. She thought
her capable of anything. She might very well report her and have her carted off to the
laundry. The important thing was to stay calm and get her money from the herbalist. Just
wait it out for now and refuse to leave without her wages. He had plenty to spare: just
look at the brand-new motorbike he was flying around in.

If the worst came to the worst, Sarah could
hop on the motorbike and make her escape. That made her smile. She could put Dan on the
back.

Would he come?

She felt a pain in her heart. No, he
wouldn’t have the guts. She wished it were different, but it wasn’t.

Did she love him?

No. She had wanted him. And she had wanted
to love him. But she didn’t.

You’re too soft, Sarah. You’re too soft. If loving him can save your
skin, love him.

She didn’t know what to do. She just
needed to get away. She shouldn’t have asked the woman about the funeral. Now
everyone would know where she was.

Emily knocked at the door before noon, her
eyes red-rimmed and as mad as ever. Carmel was surprised that she felt glad to see her.
How strange it was that, of all people, Emily would be the only one she could bear? She
had always been queasy around the girl’s neediness, but at least with her Carmel
didn’t have to keep up appearances.

‘I’ve come from the
funeral.’

Emily rambled on. She was jittery, waved her
hands this way and that. Carmel brought her into the back and put a bit of rum in the
tea and biscuits on a plate. Once there, Emily’s expression changed. She became
still.

‘You didn’t go to Rose’s
funeral?’

‘I couldn’t face the whole town
like that.’

‘Now, don’t be offended, Mrs
Holohan, but there’s more going on than you and your husband’s troubles.
Terrible things. You should’ve gone, for Rose’s sake. The whole town showed
up. They came in droves. We were elbow to elbow behind the hearse. You should’ve
seen the feathered plumes and the young girls carrying white flowers. The horses kicked
up so much dust that the chief mourners had to hold handkerchiefs over their mouths. Mrs
B’s suit was destroyed.’

‘It’s not over yet
surely?’ Who was Emily to reprimand Carmel for anything?

‘I slipped from the procession before
it got to the church. Didn’t want to hear the service. It’s all
lies.’

Emily poured more rum into her mug.

‘All lies? Whatever do you
mean?’

‘Passed away peacefully in the bosom
of her family, pah!’

‘Emily, stop!’

‘I saw her with my own eyes. She died
by the river, the poor
creature, with blood all over her skirt.
That’s why I left the funeral and paid my respects at the place where she really
passed.’

‘Where was that?’

The girl was mad.

‘I told you already, by the river.
When I closed my eyes to say a prayer, I could almost see her walking down the river
path the night she died, wearing her blue serge suit, thinking she was on her way to
somewhere better.’

‘What are you saying, girl?
You’re talking nonsense.’

‘Do I have to spell it out? I found
Rose the night she died. I went to the doctor’s house to tell her family. The maid
locked me under the stairs to keep me out of the way. And when I went into the parlour,
they already had her there – laid out. Someone had brought her home. At first I thought
she’d been set upon by a mad man, but I was wrong. Rose wasn’t sick at all –
she died by the river after losing a child and the parents wanted to hush it
up.’

Carmel couldn’t believe her ears. Had
Emily finally gone cracked?

‘Who else did you tell this
to?’

‘No one but Charlie. And now you. Sure
who’d believe the likes of me against moneyed people?’

‘To say such a shabby thing about Rose
of all people, Rose who never kept company in her short life with any boy, let alone
…’

‘I have proof. A letter Rose wrote.
And her name was in the herbalist’s surgery book too. Hers is the last
entry.’

‘The herbalist?’

‘I know, it’s hard to believe
that it was my fine man who did the deed, my fine man who gave her such an awful time.
The rumours are true. He gets rid of children from the bellies of unfortunate
women.’

Emily started to cry then.

Carmel was stunned into silence. She sat and
mulled over what Emily had said. Rumours. The herbalist could get rid of an unwanted
baby.

‘Have you gone to him with
this?’

‘His door is shut to me, but I
won’t give up.’

‘Can I see this letter?’

‘Don’t you believe me, Mrs
Holohan?’

‘I do but …’

‘Well, then, you don’t need to
see it, do you? Besides it’s personal, shameful. Rose has been through
enough.’

‘But she’s dead.’

‘You’re hard.’

Emily stood up, and walked past her to
leave.

‘I have to be,’ Carmel said.

The shop bell clattered as the door shut.
Carmel was talking to no one but herself again.

I sat on the bench in the cold tiled hall,
waiting for my turn with the good Doctor. It was straight back to work for Doctor B.
Wasn’t he a right Trojan? Wasn’t he a cold one? That Carmel was a cold
woman; hadn’t a jot of feeling for Rose. ‘Show me the letter,’ she had
ordered, as if I would. Rose deserved to keep some dignity in the end. Carmel was all
about herself, not even going to the funeral. I know it wasn’t a great time for
her, what with Sarah and Dan falling in love and leaving her to run the shop on her own.
She was always complaining about either one or the other of them. You’d think it
would be a relief to have both of them gone.

Maybe older women lacked feeling. I watched
Mrs B at the funeral: she was weeping delicately. But I knew the real Mrs B. I knew the
woman who had sent her daughter to hell and kept her there. And I knew the real Doctor
B. The two of them shuffling in all their glory behind the glossy beast that carried
Rose to her place of eternal rest. Did they care? How could they walk straight if they
cared?

I knew the real herbalist too, the one who
hurt and took, hurt and took, and could laugh and party and live the good life. Who
wanted a car, who wanted gold, who said first impressions were all that mattered. I knew
all this. And I was the kind of girl that no one listened to, or believed if they
did.

Charlie wanted to kill. Charlie cared. I
didn’t show him the letter; I was afraid he would go out and catch the herbalist –
God knows what he would have done to him. So I didn’t tell Charlie the full truth
of the matter. I’d think about all that later. For now, I was in Doctor B’s
surgery and I was next in line, and this time I wasn’t going to be shoved under
the stairs.

When he popped his head out and saw me, he
froze. I walked by him into the surgery. I didn’t have the kind of money seeing
him
cost and I didn’t care. He tapped his pen, and I told him
how I had found his daughter, that I knew she had bled to death. I told him I knew he
had hurt her. I was still talking when he interrupted me. He smiled. Had he heard a word
I’d said? What he said next made me understand that he had.

‘You’re a very disturbed young
lady. It’ll be no bother having you committed.’

I got out of there as fast as my legs could
carry me. I was out of my depth. I needed help. I hadn’t thought it through
properly. I had forgotten who they were, and I had forgotten who I was.