The Herbalist Read online

  Niamh Boyce

  THE HERBALIST

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Three years later …

  For my daughter, Rosie

  He just appeared one morning and set up shop in the market square. It was drizzling. Everything was either a shade of brown or a shade of grey. He was the lightest thing there, the one they called the black doctor. He wore a pale suit, a straw hat and waved his arms like a conductor. The men spat about dark crafts and foreign notions, but the women loved him. Oh, the rubs, potions, tinctures and lotions he had. Unguents, even.

  I went to the market the first chance I got. Craned my neck, trying to see past the headscarves, but all I saw was a glimpse of a bottle held high, and the gold-ringed fingers that gripped it. The women crowded around his stall. God, but they’d no sense at all, clucking like hens.

  One at a time, ladies, one at a time.

  He sounded hoarse, not young. ‘Oh, isn’t he lovely,’ some girl whispered. I nudged my way forward till I got a poke in the back. I turned. It was Mam. She dragged me away by the collar. What did I think I was doing, gaping at some heathen hawker? Gaping indeed: I hadn’t even set eyes on the man.

  I couldn’t get the herbalist out of my head after that. The slightest mention of him made me giddy. I think some part of me believed Aggie. For she had told my fortune at the carnival, the day before the herbalist came to town. And she had sworn that love was coming.

  1

  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.

  2

  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 d
ue 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.’