The Herbalist (33 page)

Would you not have liked a husband, children?

Long past it, but that doesn’t mean I
didn’t want to, or didn’t ever. See that river? Once I crossed that river I
became Aggie. There’s a time in everyone’s life when you leave behind who
you were born to be and become what life makes of you, or you of it. I first crossed
that bridge at twenty-three years of age, and never crossed back to who I was that first
time. And I don’t bloody care to. Why would I? Why would I change anything about
my life, or the way I lived it? I would never swap my cosy barge, where I did as I
pleased when I pleased, for that big house you grew up in. To be shown around town like
a china doll, only to be taken apart within the privacy of your own four walls?

I disremember. I don’t like talking about things like that.

Birdie Chase was slathering on hand cream.
Her rings were piled on the counter beside the usual saucer of cold sausages for
Charlie. Worried the fine lad would starve. She wore two headscarves, one on top of the
other.

‘It’s on the back of the door,
ducky – will you get it yourself, my hands are greasy.’

I did as she asked. The weight of the old
nut-brown coat! I folded it across my arm carefully, as if it was the height of fashion.
It was the only coat she wore. Winter and summer. Rumour had it that she had thousands
of fine coats, robes, costumes and curtains from all her travels when she was younger,
that Birdie could wear a different dress every day for the rest of her life and still
not run out. Yet all we ever saw her wear was the same serviceable wool. It seemed the
only thing Birdie ever changed was her mind and her gold and red headscarves.

‘You’ll let that out, Emily;
I’ve gained around the middle.’

‘I will. I can give you a good
half-inch or do you want to be measured?’

‘No, no, a half-inch will
do.’

I knew she wouldn’t permit me to
measure her; she never did. Birdie hadn’t gained an ounce as far as I could see.
But who was I to argue with a woman who wanted to part with her money? Especially one
who had so much of it. I picked up her jar of hand cream and had a sniff.

‘It’s one of the
herbalist’s. A gift! I didn’t buy it,’ she said. ‘Ah, no, I did.
I bought a few items this week. In truth I was hoping he might have something suitable
for Veronique. She has been suffering terribly, with her chest.’ She thumped her
own as if I didn’t know where chests were situated. ‘I got a letter last
week to say she was
coughing all night and all day – it has her worn
out. She hasn’t opened the shop in over a fortnight, and, knowing Veronique like I
know Veronique, that means it’s serious, much more serious than she’s
letting on.’

‘Maybe it’s to be expected, Miss
Chase – isn’t V getting on a bit?’

‘Not a bit, sure isn’t she my
twin?’ Her face scrunched up.

‘I always forget you’re twins;
it must be because I think of you as being so much younger in years than
Veronique.’

‘Ah, how quick you can be, young
Millie.’ Birdie laughed and gave me a wink.

The only person who had ever called me
Millie was Mam, but somehow I didn’t mind Birdie saying it; it made me feel sad
and warm at the same time. Daft or not, she was a kind woman, one who never meant to
upset. She must’ve been very worried about Veronique, for Birdie didn’t
approve of the herbalist; she called him a corrupt charlatan.

So V hadn’t fallen out with her – she
really was too ill to visit. But why would Birdie go to the herbalist? With her money
she could bring in a doctor from anywhere in the world to cure her twin. Her mattress
was so stuffed with cash that her little nose touched the ceiling when she snored, or so
it was said.

I rubbed a bit of the hand lotion across my
knuckle, recognized the concoction as lard and lavender. ‘Ladies’ Hand
Lotion’: the label was fancier than before, fancier than what was inside. I said
my goodbyes to Miss Chase.

‘Don’t forget your
sausages.’

Birdie waved as I left. She seemed a bit
disappointed; maybe I should have stayed longer, let her tell me how beautiful Mam was
when she was young, how they’d expected great things from her, how I had her eyes,
how I had her hair. All lies, but nice things to hear. But I was too vexed with the
herbalist and his hand-lotion label to stay and listen. It wasn’t his handwriting
on the label; it was a woman’s. And I knew who – Lady Muck, my good friend Sarah.
He had told me he had sacked her, that she couldn’t spell her name if you paid
her.

I popped across to Kelly’s. Let on I was
passing the time of day. I was about to get to the point when Sarah slipped out from
behind the counter.

‘I feel ill. Will you hold the
fort?’ She looked marvellous.

‘I will.’

Dan came in, looking around him.

‘If you’re looking for the
spinster, she’s in the outhouse.’

‘Haven’t you the sharp
tongue?’

When there was no sign of Sarah returning, I
decided to go elsewhere for my information – to go straight to the herbalist himself. I
dropped Birdie’s coat and sausages off home, so I could confront him without
looking too mad in the head.

Charlie was out but Father was there. He was
sitting in Mam’s corner on the súgán stool, staring into a dead fire. He looked
wretched, and I felt sorry for him, but there was no point in talking, never had been.
We never got on, never would. He had stopped throwing his fists around far too late.
There was nothing left to break.

The herbalist was distracted, so distracted
that he let me in. He was in a hurry to get going. Barely noticed what I said about
Sarah and him being in cahoots, and didn’t seem to have the energy to remind me
that I was barred in the day-time. He was packing his boxes and bag. His hands were
shaking.

‘You haven’t even made me a cup
of tea.’

‘You shouldn’t be here – let
yourself out.’

At that he was gone, flying off on his new
motorcycle. It was the blue-black of a horsefly, had big wide ugly wheels, made a racket
and left a cloud of smoke behind it. But my God he loved it – thought he was a warrior
on a steed.

I didn’t let myself out; I had a good
root around. The black surgery notebook was on the table. He was usually so careful with
it, usually carried it in his pocket. Smudged on the left-hand corner of every written
page were the clouds of his thumb prints. I kissed them.

He had it all written down, every pound,
shilling and pence, paid
and owed. Every patient had a page, where
their name, address and complaints were listed – lumbago, nerves or blood, take your
pick. There were people I didn’t think even knew the herbalist. People too
upstanding even to speak of him let alone to him. Sergeant Deegan for one, and Mr Joe
Nash for another. His writing slanted to the right, which meant, according to Aggie,
that he took after his mother; if it went to the left, it’s the father.

His script was neat. Some words were
underlined. Like ‘next visit’. There was always a ‘next visit’.
A lot of women in the town suffered from their nerves. Catty Dolan was one of them. She
must suffer terrible, the poor thing. Had been in near eight times in the past few
weeks. And Miss Annie Brady, nine times she’d been. I got to wondering were they
all in love with him? It was a bit expensive for love, at one and six a go.

The pages went back to January, to names I
didn’t recognize. What town was he operating from back then? He wasn’t here.
It was all written in a smooth, calm hand. Nerves. Bronchitis. Skin trouble.
Examination. Stomach. Blood and Nerves. A leg ulcer. Examination. Blood and Nerves.
Nerves. Nerves. Nerves. All those women, all those nerves. Not so many lately – was his
star fading? Or was he just too good at his job?

And the most recent entry, in shaky writing,
was Miss Rose Birmingham: ‘Examination. Paid 1/6’. There were brown marks on
that page; they looked like dried blood. The ink was smudged and a line ran under the
entry, a scratched, scraggly wave. Sparks of ink had flown from the nib of his pen to
collect and dry in the central fold between the pages. No address, no further details.
No ‘next visit’.

I shut the notebook and put it back where
I’d found it. What ailed Rose? Why did it upset me? And not in a jealous way, but
in an afraid way, an afraid-for-Rose way. I checked under his bed, wanting to look in
the shoebox for the photograph he had snatched out of my hands. I wanted to see if there
was something written on the back that would tell me who he really was. Instead I found
a wooden box. It was full of implements. A strange-looking collection, things that made
my stomach turn. A syringe. A bulb with a nozzle. Two
shoehorns
screwed together. A piece of stiff wire. A rod with a dark stain on one end. It was the
sight of the rod that made me run for the back door and vomit.

Carmel walked briskly up the road to Doctor
B’s house. It was a dull morning; the rain was a soft mist, and there
weren’t many people out and about. Carmel had a five-pound note in her purse for
Grettie. Only it wasn’t just a five-pound note – it was a perambulator, it was
stuffed toys for her baby boy. It was a loan, not a gift, she had to make sure Grettie
understood that. Birdie was sweeping the path in front of her shop. Seamus was painting
the Nashes’ window-frames. Carmel waved across the road at them but kept going;
she didn’t want to delay.

You never knew who had trouble and who
didn’t. Grettie of all people, and everyone had thought she had done so well for
herself and that Rose was a saint. It was true what they said: street angel, house
devil. It had all been revealed the other night in Carmel’s kitchen, when Grettie
kept her up till the early hours, pouring out her troubles.

Rose had her father wrapped around her
little finger. He bought her anything her heart desired – jewellery, perfumes, trinkets,
expensive clothes, a whole new wardrobe. He’d hired someone to paint her portrait,
for God’s sake, when she was only eleven. And all she wanted was more, more, more.
Doctor B kept his wife on a tight budget, yet lavished money on their daughter. And was
Rose grateful? No, she was not. She was the opposite to grateful. Nowadays she hardly
spoke, and when she did she said awful things. ‘Obscenities,’ Grettie said.
Carmel was dying to know what the obscenities were, but Grettie wouldn’t say.

There was ivy twisting around the
Birminghams’ heavy iron gates. They would want to get it cut back. They had the
hired help, hadn’t they? This time Carmel didn’t wait to be admitted. The
surgery was packed anyway. She walked on through to the living quarters without asking
whether she could or couldn’t. Grettie was
in her drawing room,
swathed in a green kimono, her face all puffed out from crying. It really was a terrible
sight. She lounged on one of the big chairs by the fire, which was smouldering – the
room was smoky.

‘You’d need to get that chimney
cleaned.’

‘Albie slammed the door; that always
draws smoke into the room. He did it on purpose, the devil.’

It wasn’t like Grettie to be calling
the doctor by his first name. Things were worse than they’d seemed. Carmel pulled
a stool over to where she was sitting.

‘I have that money for you,’ she
whispered.

‘Oh, thank God.’ The tears that
were welling up flowed over.

‘But I’ll need it back in a
month, Grettie.’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘I’ve drawn up a
docket.’

Grettie took the paper from her, read it.
Carmel had set out the amount of the loan and the repayment date.

‘You really are a shopkeeper,
Carmel.’

‘It’s money I can’t afford
to lose; you must know that.’

‘Of course, of course.’

Grettie called out for Rose, who appeared in
seconds. Evidently she had been waiting in the dining room. Rose smiled at Carmel. She
looked wan. Her skin was always pale, but today it was practically translucent. Carmel
could see the blue veins in her neck. She was dressed beautifully, as usual. Today she
wore a white brocade dress, with gold buttons down the front. The grip pinning her hair
back was ruby. Only the best for Daddy’s girl. You never really knew, did you?