Although The Herbalist is inspired by real events, it is a work of fiction. The story that unfolds, and every character apart from the herbalist, are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
It was an Easter Monday, and it was one of those days. Father couldn’t bear for anyone to breathe the same air as he did, let alone speak. So Mam and I set out for town, leaving him hunched over his cold dinner, jabbing a finger at us by way of goodbye. Charlie had already made himself scarce; he was getting good at that.
I thought we’d never get to the carnival. I had won two free tickets for the Wall of Death in Kelly’s Easter Draw. But Mam wouldn’t take the river path; she insisted on keeping to the road. Said she needed time to make herself look normal. Her eyes were a bit red.
It was hot for April; my feet were swollen by the time we got to Nashes’ Field. I took off my sandals and cooled my heels on the grass. The carnival people were magic, the way they changed everything. Took what was a plain riverside field and turned it into a foreign land of coloured tents and stands, a land buzzing with people.
All were decked out in their Easter finest. They queued for barge trips and lay about on blankets; some lads had their trousers rolled up to dangle their toes in the river. The ground was scattered with tickets and sweet-papers; I kept my eyes peeled for coins. Mam waved hello to lots of people but kept moving in case anyone noticed she’d been crying.
‘Fortunes, fortunes!’ The voice made me turn. A fat woman sat in a shabby armchair with a tray of cards on her lap. An orange scarf was tied around her head, and the sign beside her read CARDS AND PALMS – HAVE YOUR FORTUNE TOLD! She made a big show of shuffling the pack. Mam paid her no heed; walked on as fast as she could. I slowed down, couldn’t help myself.
The gypsy spotted her catch. ‘Come here, young one, come on!’
Mam was far ahead of me. I ventured over. Too late, I recognized the woman as Aggie Reilly, the town you-know-what. I’d never seen a woman of ill repute up close before. Her eyes were grey and friendly, her round face brown, her nose beaky. She looked like a burnt hen. Not quite the face of evil. A bit of a let-down, all in all.
She shuffled cards from one hand to the other and then tapped the pack against the tray. It was lacquered black and showed a golden Eiffel Tower.
‘Choose one, only one now, mind.’
She spread the cards in an arc across the Eiffel Tower. Her nails were ridged with earth. I chose one from the centre. It was soft as cloth. Aggie Reilly snatched it from my hand. Her mouth pursed into a small smile.
‘Let’s see what the future holds. Oh, ghastly, ghastly! I cannot tell thee.’
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘What does the card say, missus?’
A boy’s breath hit my neck. There were three of them, lads that had sneaked up behind me.
‘The worst fate of all,’ Aggie said, leaning forward.
Her bosom bulged from her dress and her dyed hair straggled out from under her scarf. I hated her then. I wanted to walk away, but I stayed. She held up the Queen of Hearts for all to see.
‘What does it mean?’ I asked.
‘Love is coming,’ she said, ‘but not from one of these buckos.’
She jabbed a thumb towards the boys. ‘Cross my palm with sixpence, sweetie, and I’ll tell you more.’
I felt my face heat up. The boys roared with laughter. Pádraig Greaney made the most noise, braying like a donkey.
‘Watch out, lads, love’s coming for pale-face!’ he hooted.
And to think that I’d put my arm around that little snot as he bawled for his mother on our first day of school. The boys held their sides, pretended to collapse with mirth and rolled off across the grass.
Two girls nudged their way in front of me. The Nash sisters – dosed to the high hills with Lily of the Valley. Milkie carried her sunhat, to better show off her long white hair. The skin on her nose and chin was red and peeling. She requested a palm reading, ‘a good one’, she added. Moll pressed her face into her sister’s shoulder and began to giggle. It never took much to set her off.
I edged away from the fortune-telling. I couldn’t see Mam anywhere. Midges bit my scalp, and my neck was burning from the sun. I shouldn’t have put my hair up. The style I’d copied from Modern Woman magazine was falling down. That’s what you get for aping hair-dos you can’t pronounce. Chignon, my bum.
The carnival people were setting up the main attraction: Daredevil Stanley and his Blonde Bombshell. A motorcycle revved inside a large tent. You could almost taste the petrol. Tanned men in white vests were laying down boards. They were making the ramp to the Wall of Death. The wall was huge, a sky-high wooden stand creaking against the sun. There was already a queue at the bottom of the rickety stairs, with Mam near it, nattering away to Birdie Chase. They were holding each other’s elbows, as if they were about to start a two-step. Birdie’s lardy upper arms would put you off your supper. It was odd to see her out of the shop; she seldom left the premises since her fall. She wore a faded sequinned number with no sleeves and had wound a white ribbon round the crook of her walking stick.
As I watched, I noticed how thin Mam had become. She used to look like Maureen O’Sullivan, but that day she didn’t look like anyone, not even herself. She still pinned her hair away from her forehead, and it still fell in dark kinks to her shoulders, but her face was pinched and her collarbones stood out. We’d left in such a hurry that she hadn’t changed out of her yellow housedress. It had been washed so many times it was almost see-through. I felt ashamed of her, and then felt ashamed for feeling that way about my own mother.
I called out, and Mam turned and waved. I ran over and hugged her tight around the waist. She smiled and took my hand. I was dying to tell her that love was coming for me. She liked that kind of talk. But she would have killed me for speaking to Aggie. The thing was, only for the likes of Aggie, our family would have had no one to look down on at all.
A man marched by with a speaker, calling out the same thing over and over again: ‘Stanley, a man who dices with death for a living. With death, I tell you! With death! The speed, the danger …’
Mam swung my hand and started to sing softly: ‘He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease, that daring young man on the flying trapeze.’ She didn’t like what the man was saying about death, but she joined the queue anyway. She had to, she’d promised, and Mam always kept her promises. When our turn came, we began to climb towards the top. We had to go real slow: there were a lot of people behind us and in front. Like cattle in their best clothes. The stairs wobbled. There were gaps in the steps, and you could see the ground way down underneath. Every now and again a girl would let out a screech. Mam kept humming the trapeze song. We reached the top. The wall came up to my chest. I looked down on the circle beneath us: the grass was worn away from motorbike wheels. So Stanley had performed already and survived. I had a memory then, a quick one: I was in my father’s arms, and mine were tight around his neck; his face felt clean and fresh shaven. He was telling me it was all right, that he had me safe and sound. I was very young and I was proud to be with him.
‘I wonder if this is safe,’ Mam said.
Probably not, I thought, seeing as it’s called the Wall of Death, but I didn’t say anything. Some young lads started to lean forward, trying to make the wall shake and wobble. Suddenly they stopped and stared into the ring. We looked down.
The Blonde Bombshell was wiggling into the centre. She did a turn and stretched her arm out in different directions to signal the imminent arrival and feats of the Daredevil. She wore a blood-red corset with green fringes on the chest and belly. Her legs looked like they’d been steeped in tea; long and fat, they ended in the highest heels I’d ever seen. Mae West, and well past her best. The lads gave Tarzan cries and started to jump up and down, trying to make the wall shake again. Mam grabbed my arm so tight I nearly yelped.
‘Oh, Lord,’ she said. ‘Blondie must be sixty if she’s a day. If she’s any sign of things to come, this display won’t be up to much. Let’s sneak off.’
Mam didn’t like showing what she was really afraid of. She always pretended it was something else. I could’ve cried. As we turned to make our way down the stairs, I got a glimpse of Daredevil Stanley strutting out with his motorcycle. He was tucked into a very snug outfit. A child piped up: ‘You can see his nobbly bits!’
Mam yanked me and I followed her down, step by lethal step. We had to get down before the show started or we’d be mincemeat. That’s what Mam said.
Though we’d barely arrived at the carnival, she was too tired to see the singers and too broke to afford a ticket for the Arabian Magician, with his flowing black robes and seven child assistants. So we strolled along the riverside to find a nice spot where she could rest. When we found one, I rolled around on the long grass to make it nice and flat for her. She laughed, and then she lay back and closed her eyes.
‘I hope this grass isn’t damp,’ she murmured after a while.
‘Do you think it’s all right to go home yet?’ I asked.
‘Not yet.’
She looked sad, and I was sorry for reminding her of home. She soon fell asleep. Her cheek was getting pink from the sun. I pulled some of the flattened grass up till her face was in the shade. I didn’t fall asleep, but I lay there as if I was, liking the idea of Mam and me dozing in the long grass while everyone else buzzed around – a world unto ourselves. Special people who didn’t need to talk much to know they liked each other.
Carmel was all set to wash when the knock came, someone banging on the shop door. Well, whoever it was could knock away. It was a bank holiday and after hours and people should know better. Thank God the back door was bolted. Grettie B would think nothing of barging through it, yodelling her hellos and gabbing away, while Carmel was stooped half naked trying to soap herself behind a towel. She emptied the kettle into the basin and dropped a muslin pouch of dried lavender into the steaming water.
The knocking got louder. Someone who wasn’t giving up – a straggler from the carnival maybe? Carmel sighed, rebuttoned her smock dress and carried the basin into the kitchen, out of sight of visitors. She moved slowly; customer or no customer, she wasn’t going to rush and slip, not in her condition. She put down the basin and patted her arms dry with a towel. Then she pulled her hair back, put on her spectacles and went to open the shop door.
When she eased back the bolt, it was neither Grettie nor a straggler. It was her brother, Finbar.
‘Hello, Carmel.’
‘Finbar!’
She wanted to hug him, but he’d always hated ‘gushing’. Besides, he was carrying a large cardboard box.
‘It’s wonderful to see you, Finbar. Come in, come in.’
She locked the door behind him.
‘Come into the back. How’ve you been? How’s James? How –’
‘Ah, one question at a time, woman.’
He sounded gruff, but he smiled.
She wanted to say how much she had missed him, ask had he got her letters. But knew better: Finbar would interpret that as a rebuke for not having visited her in so long.
He followed her into the living room and set the box on the sofa. He turned then and gave her a peck on the cheek. His skin smelt of Pear’s Soap. He was impeccably attired, as ever.
He looked around the dim room, frowning at the closed curtains. He went over, pulled them open and sighed when, instead of the garden, he got a view of their new kitchen extension. He didn’t say anything; Finbar would be loath to acknowledge any of Dan’s handiwork. Instead he concentrated on his own reflection, licked a finger and tamed his fringe. He hadn’t changed much since she last saw him, at the reading of the will.
‘You’re looking very well.’
‘As are you. I see the child must be due soon?’
‘I think it’s a boy,’ she said, smoothing her smock.
So he’d received that letter at least. It would be so nice to share her joy with one of her own. Finbar glanced away from where her hand rested on her swollen belly. Carmel thought she detected a faint shudder. She folded her arms in front of her stomach and adjusted her expectations accordingly. How quickly it came back to her, the code she had developed long ago for dealing with her difficult brother, for staying in his affections.
‘How’s James – did he pass his exams?’ she said.
‘Long ago, Carmel. And why wouldn’t he? What kind of headmaster would I be if my own son were a dunce?’
‘Of course, I knew he’d do well – how’s he spending his Easter Monday?’
‘James can take care of himself. He’s not a child.’
He didn’t offer any further information on his son, and he didn’t ask after Dan. No surprise there. He looked around the room a bit more and then his gaze landed on the box he had brought with him.
‘What’s in it?’ she said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The box?’
He went over, sliced the tape with his thumbnail and flipped back the lids. Carmel looked in. It was full of books.
What had she expected? Flowers? A christening gown?
‘Books?’
‘Banned books,’ he corrected; ‘a friend in Customs supplies a select few, people who wouldn’t let them fall into the wrong hands.’
‘Oh, Finbar, thank you!’
She threw her arms out towards him.
‘Carmel, will you stop?’ He sidestepped away. ‘Now you can give old Birdie Chase a run for her money, eh? Though why she rents banned books is beyond me; it’s not like she needs the income.’
So he had got all her news and he had been thinking about her – that was something at least.
‘You never said how you found out what Birdie was up to. Or were you one of her customers, Carmel?’
‘Stop it! Of course not. Seamus Devoy was delivering the papers one day and mentioned Birdie’s under-the-counter game – as he called it – in passing. As if it were common knowledge. He knew by me I hadn’t a notion what he was talking about. “Renting the filthy books,” he said, with a big leer on him. He said she had loads of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. He thought it was great gas.’
‘Well, make sure you’re more discreet than Birdie, won’t you?’
‘Oh, you’ve no worries on that score.’
Carmel lifted books out of the box. Some were dog-eared already. Tender is the Night, Bird Alone, Hollywood Cemetery, As I Lay Dying.
‘Is Lady Chatterley’s Lover in here?’
‘Ah, Carmel, how would I know? I wouldn’t lower myself to read that lot.’
‘I know you wouldn’t. You’re very good to bring them at all.’
‘Make sure you get cash up front. Give no credit.’
‘Don’t worry your head about the finances.’
‘I’m telling you, Carmel – give no credit.’
‘And I’m telling you, Finbar – you’ve no need to worry.’
‘Your letters give me cause to.’
‘I know, I know, I just worry, that’s all.’
She felt guilty. She shouldn’t have said anything, imposing her troubles on him. The shop would probably have done better under Finbar. He had a knack for business, an eye for opportunity. Well, it hadn’t been her decision.
‘Come into the kitchen. I’ve a nice bit of ham.’
‘I’ve eaten,’ he said.
They stood there, momentarily silent. It felt like he was waiting for something, but she couldn’t think what.
‘You know, you look well, Carmel, and happy.’
‘I am happy.’
Finbar laughed. ‘Daniel Holohan won’t be happy, not when he sees these books. Maybe we should run our scheme by the man of the house?’
How slippery Finbar was – that much hadn’t changed. He knew she wouldn’t tell Dan, knew it would be their secret.
He closed the box and hoisted it high. His face reddened with the strain.
‘Where will we hide the evidence, half-sister dearest?’
She hated it when he called her that.
‘In the extension, through the door behind you – there’s a long white cupboard. I’ll show you.’
He followed her through the door. She opened the cupboard and cleared the rags and polish from the lowest shelf. Her belly made her awkward and slow. When she was done, Finbar eased the box into place and closed the cupboard.
‘You won’t be stuck for reading material now, Carmel!’
‘Between the shop and the baby, there won’t be much time for reading.’
‘You’ll want to be careful not to get worn out. Remember poor Nancy, how frazzled she got trying to manage everything, what it did to her temper?’
‘I’m not my mother.’
‘Of course, you’re very different women, Carmel. You, most likely, are well prepared and have help arranged – some local girl?’
‘We don’t want everyone in the town knowing our business.’
Finbar’s face lit up. ‘Do you know, I have just the person. She’s of good character but not local to you – an old pupil of mine.’
‘I don’t know, Finbar – girls can be trouble.’
‘Sarah’s far from a girl – very pleasant, and very reasonable, if a touch on the plain side.’
‘Well, I could probably do with a hand. I’ll talk to Dan.’
‘As if Dan ever made a decision in his life.’
‘Now, Fin.’
‘That’s settled, then. I’ll send her on when the time comes. Just drop me a note.’
He walked back into the shop. Carmel followed. He went behind the counter and ran his hands across its surface.
‘That’ll be in four weeks, Finbar. Imagine, four weeks and I’ll be a mother!’
Carmel went to grasp her miraculous medal, but it wasn’t there. Could the chain have snapped and fallen into the basin? She’d have to look later.
Finbar took the stack of ledgers from the shelf behind him. He selected the most recent one and started leafing through it. Without looking up, he waved his hand at her. Carmel took off her glasses and gave them to him.
She looked at the top of his head as he studied the ledger. It was like he had never left. Why had he come now, after two years of no word? Dan said there was always a motive with Finbar. Carmel didn’t like it when Dan spoke like that, but he was right. She had adored Finbar since she was a child, but she wasn’t blind. She knew how he felt about her.
Finbar had always drawn attention to his status, refusing to call his stepmother by anything other than her first name. That hadn’t gone down well. Carmel’s mother hated her name, thought it was common. Maybe that was why Nancy took to Dan. He always called her Mrs Kelly and treated her with the upmost respect. And when it came to the end, Dan was the only one who could tolerate her fevered notions. He would sit by her sickbed, letting her ramble on and on long after everyone else had grown tired listening. Such a contrast to Finbar, whose visits felt like assessments to calculate how long she had left and exactly when he could step in and take over.
During her lifetime Nancy treated both children like her own. After she died, however, it was a different matter. At the reading of the will they discovered that Carmel, not Finbar, had inherited the shop. Finbar went white, and stood up and sat down again several times. His hands shook. When Mr Carr, the solicitor, finished reading, he looked over his glasses at Finbar and said quietly that of course Finbar could challenge the terms of his stepmother’s will, that many would consider it most irregular to leave a business to a daughter when they had a son.
Carmel was too dazed to respond. Dan rose to his feet and said the only thing that was highly irregular was a solicitor drawing up a will and then encouraging somebody to challenge it. That shut Mr Carr up. Carmel had been proud of her husband at that moment – how quickly he had responded, how calmly he had spoken.
Finbar went over to her when the solicitor left.
‘Thank you, Carmel.’
He put his hand on her shoulder.
‘I didn’t know, I swear.’
‘No, I said thanks and I meant it. You’ve saved me from a life-time of weighing ounces of sugar and listening to woman-talk. Your husband is more suited to that kind of thing. My time will be better spent providing the next generation with an education.’
He left the office, and she hadn’t seen him since.
Whatever he had said, Carmel knew Finbar had been devastated. He had wanted the shop. From the minute she had married Dan Holohan, Finbar arrived every Saturday afternoon to check the accounts. When Dan told him there was no need, Finbar said, ‘You work for me.’ They were barely seen in the same room after that. Grettie B said it was a common state of affairs: ‘You can’t have two bulls in the one field, Carmel.’ Common or not, it hurt. They were a small family but a family all the same. Finbar and his son, James, were all she had in the way of blood relatives.
Now here he was, leaning over her counter as if he had never left, checking accounts that were really none of his concern. The poor man, he must really miss the place. She didn’t want to lose touch with him again.
Finbar slapped the ledger shut and smiled as he handed over her glasses.
‘You’re after going very quiet, Carmel – were you away with the fairies or what?’
‘Just wondering, will you visit more often now?’
‘I’ve every intention of it,’ he said, placing his hand over hers.
That wasn’t like Finbar; maybe he was softening with age.
‘Would you like to see the baby’s bedroom? It won’t take a minute – come on.’
He followed her up the stairs, stepping on her hem and sighing at how slowly she moved. She opened the door of the bedroom and let him walk in ahead of her.
‘Isn’t the room lovely and bright now? Do you recall how dark it was?’
‘Of course I recall how dark it was, isn’t it mine? Or was. Looks the same as ever to me.’
Carmel bit her lip, didn’t point out the brand-new rocking chair where she would nurse her baby and rock him off to sleep, or the soft quilted pillow she had made in a fit of craftiness. She rubbed the side of her thumb: it was still sore from the needle. Finbar went over to the mantelpiece, picked up the old tin monkey and flicked its cymbals. He kept flicking as he spoke: the sound was tinny, small and horrible. Carmel felt uncomfortably warm. Perhaps she should open the window.
‘You’ve unblocked the fireplace,’ said Finbar. ‘Don’t you remember the young blackbirds every June? Flying down the chimney and ruining the walls? How we crouched under the bed with our hands clamped to our ears?’
He came nearer.
‘What monkeys?’ said Carmel.
‘What are you blabbing about? I said birds. Blackbirds.’
Finbar placed a cool palm on her forehead. Suddenly the soapy smell from his skin was sickening.
‘You look flushed; you should rest, Carmel.’
Downstairs, she sat at the kitchen table and Finbar set a glass of water in front of her. He watched as she sipped.
‘I may go,’ he said.
There was sweat on his top lip.
‘At least have a drink of something before you leave?’
‘I don’t have time. I’m calling to the Sergeant’s for a quick cup of tea before I head home.’
He made his way through the shop, and Carmel followed.
‘She can come as soon as you want,’ he said as he unbolted the door.
‘Who?’
‘Sarah.’
‘Oh, that. We’ll see, we’ll see.’
‘Goodbye, Carmel, no need to come out.’
The door slammed shut.
‘Goodbye, Finbar,’ she whispered.
Carmel told herself that her brother’s reappearance was a good thing. Look at all he had brought with him? A stock of books that might bring in a few bob and a woman to help when the baby came. All these things, they were good things, weren’t they? Yet all she wanted to do was lie down. She felt like she could sleep for years.
Sarah was hiding out in her bedroom, settling herself before she went down to face Mai. She couldn’t stop thinking about that morning, about the risk she and James had taken and how awful it had all turned out. She was tired of seeing him in secret. James said that his father wouldn’t approve. Claimed the well-respected gentleman raised terror under his own roof. God knows what he’d do – he’d flay them. Sarah wasn’t sure about that: Master Kelly was especially nice to her, and a frequent visitor to their home. She wasn’t so sure that he’d object to them walking out together. It was the lying that bothered her most. It didn’t seem to bother James; he almost relished it. It had been his idea to meet up in the town when Sarah mentioned that she was getting a lift to the market with Bernie O’Neill and her uncle Pat.
The second they arrived, Sarah spotted James leaning against the door of the town hall.
Bernie elbowed Sarah. ‘I wonder who that fine man is waiting for?’
‘Leave the poor girl alone,’ said Pat, as he helped them down from the trap; ‘she’s only mad about him.’
So much for their secret. Sarah walked towards James, and Bernie followed at her heels. James tipped his cap and told Bernie that Sarah wouldn’t need a lift back, that he would see her home safely. He linked his arm with hers and they strolled off, leaving poor Bernie gawping.
They sauntered around the market. He looked handsome, manly, and proud to be seen with her. She never knew where she stood: sometimes he would walk past without so much as a hello, other times he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He had tormented Sarah when she was young. Pulled her plaits, threw stones, called her a ‘long string of a thing’. And then he changed, went sulky, silent. And then, later, there were gifts, bars of chocolate, sachets of lavender, ribbons, a comb. And then, on and off, they began to keep company. And now this, walking around together in public, almost daring someone they knew to catch them. Maybe it was a good sign, maybe he was ready to tell Master Kelly the truth.
Sarah had worn a peacock-blue shawl with a gold fringe. And earrings: a pair of green glass-droplets a grateful mother had given her aunt. All sorts of things were bestowed on Mai; her bedroom was like a magpie’s nest, for few had money to pay, and you couldn’t shove a baby back in, as Mai said herself. Sarah felt very grand indeed as she and James walked past farmers selling pigs, chickens, eggs. Stalls selling clothes, shoes, blankets, bed irons. There was even a Shetland pony on offer. Droves of men in dusty suits smoked and bartered by the walls of the huge town hall. James told her that dances and theatrical shows were held there on a regular basis. He said it in a way that implied they might be going soon, together.
Under the town hall clock, a dark man was arranging brown glass jars and bottles of medicines, herbal tonics. His cream suit was slightly loose, sagging at the shoulders, as if it had belonged to a bigger man or maybe he himself had been broader once. Sarah uncorked a short bottle and inhaled. What was it? The hawker watched closely: he had thick lashes and narrow eyes; sniffs of grey edged his forelocks. There was something droopy but alert about his expression. His mouth was wide; an old scar scored a pale line through his bottom lip. James nudged her; he wanted to move on, away from the man who was staring so hard. She read the label: fortification tonic. She smelt it again.
‘Ah, borage.’
‘You know herbs?’ asked the man.
‘My aunt knows – she’s a midwife.’
‘An old wife, with tales, superstitions and lies?’
‘No. Not lies.’
He stroked his chin and smiled, waved her closer, as if to whisper a secret. His breath held a hint of peppermint and tobacco. There were rings on his fingers. He wanted a favour; it was his first day in the town, everyone was looking but no one was biting. Sarah wasn’t sure; she was no actress. James changed his mind about leaving: she should do it, he said; it would be amusing. He talked like that, amusing. So she did.
It came so easy, pretending to be someone else. Exactly who she was pretending to be, she couldn’t say. She stood to her full height, straightened her back and squared her shoulders, like Mai was always nagging her to, waited till there were a couple of women at the stall and inquired after the skin cream in a louder voice than she would normally use. She could feel all eyes on her; it was strange but she didn’t feel embarrassed or shy at all. How could she, when she wasn’t herself, or maybe was more herself than she knew? Within seconds they were buying. She tarried a while, complimenting a lady on her child, praising the dark man’s potions to anyone that cared to listen. No one noticed as Sarah dropped the jar into her pocket without paying. She hadn’t a bob, and it would ruin the charade to give it back.
The women were pushing forward with enough force to topple the table. They were picking up bottles, trying to match the labels with their ailments. Some had forgotten their spectacles; all had forgotten about Sarah or, as the herbalist had called her, the lovely lady. She slipped through the crowd towards James. He was vexed and didn’t hide it.
‘Not amusing, then?’ Sarah asked.
He didn’t answer, just dug his hands into his pockets and started off in the direction of the main road. She had no choice but to follow him. He was fuming. Sarah knew what ailed him: she had been admired by others and he didn’t like it. She humoured him till he smiled at her again. After a few minutes he seemed to have recovered. As they strolled along, side by side, they talked about the road being quiet, wondered when a trap would pass in their direction. She took the face cream from her pocket, twisted the lid. She wanted to try some on the back of her hand. James snatched it, threw it into the nearest ditch and grabbed her head to pull her close for a kiss. Sarah struggled free and ran.
How dare he? To treat her like that, so roughly and commonly and at the side of the road where anyone could see. Yet she wasn’t good enough to announce to his father. She wasn’t going to speak to him, at least not until he apologized and maybe not even then. And who was James codding that his father didn’t know what he was up to? Mr Kelly knew everything that went on in the parish. James was fooling himself. And he was fooling himself if he thought their first proper kiss would be snatched at the side of the road.
They walked in silence. It was too early for traps returning from the market. She glanced at the sulky boy behind her and kept wondering how she had mistaken him for a man. Her anger gave her the energy to keep going. It was taking hours. Mai would be worried: Sarah had told her Bernie’s uncle would have them back by two. What would she say to her at all?
They parted without a sorry or goodbye. James should’ve said something then. He had looked like he wanted to. Sarah wondered how anyone could be so stubborn.
There wasn’t a sound from the house as Sarah eased open the back door. She stood for a second, and, when there was no familiar call from the kitchen, she crept upstairs to wash her face. That’s when she noticed the blood on her earlobe, and the tear. The earring must’ve caught as she pulled James’s hands from her face. Some beau he was. She unhooked the jewellery and wiped it clean before she put it away. She brushed her hair forward to conceal it. Looked at herself in the mirror and didn’t like what she saw: a cover-up, a liar. Mai would see it too – Sarah knew she would.
When she went down, the kitchen was sweltering. A pan of water bubbled on the fire. Mai was in her favourite chair at the head of the table: her eyes were closed but she wasn’t asleep. Captain Custard was curled purring on her lap. The table was covered with jam jars. A basket of violets was set at her feet. Mai prayed any time or anywhere. Sarah gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. Her aunt smiled and opened her eyes.
‘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.
Birdie could afford to be big-hearted – she owned nearly every house on her terrace and she had stacks of cash. I often wondered why Mam and Birdie were so pally. We weren’t exactly Birdie’s kind of people. She had two Protestant ladies up for sherry all the time. Miss Murray and Miss Hawkins were single and afflicted with flat shoes, thin voices and no men on the horizon as far as the eye could travel. They played bridge and talked about theatre, the reds and how great things had been when they’d better use of their legs. They were Birdie’s kind of people. She had probably adopted Mam as a charitable case.
Birdie’s twin sister Veronique had lived with her until she went and bought an identical shop in a town a few miles away. Veronique used to drive a motorcar and visit every week. Then they fell out. It was shortly after Birdie’s fall. Maybe the two were connected. You never knew: old people could be terrible odd.
Months passed and there was no sign of Veronique. Birdie fibbed to save her pride – said she was ill and couldn’t visit often. According to Mam she didn’t visit at all. They must’ve had a bruiser. Twins shared the one soul, so they’d have to make up if they fancied having a good time for eternity. I’d often heard Birdie telling Mam that riches in this life didn’t matter; it was the reward in the next life that counted. The next-life rule definitely didn’t apply to Birdie; anyone who wore yellow stockings like she did wasn’t waiting for the next life to have fun.
Anyway, whatever Birdie said, our house wasn’t a farm house, it was a shambles. We weren’t respectable. Father was well shook, and nobody knew this, but around January Mam began to drink too. It wasn’t as simple as that – there were good times as well – but you get the gist: dinnertime, the spuds boiled dry, the bottom of the pan burning and her holding out her skirt, singing, ‘Dance with me, daddy, dance with me.’ By tea-time, she’d be asleep or hunched on the stool crying over some well-aimed insult from my father’s mouth. Mam called them his fits of eloquence; she could be very sarcastic. But I think she preferred them to his other fits.
‘Lush.’
‘I’ve never darkened the door of a public house.’
‘How-how-how I ask you, Maureen, is that a virtue? Not doing something you can’t do anyway. Now, now, if you didn’t drink this house dry, you’d have something to boast about. So-so-so you would.’