The Herbalist by Niamh Boyce

lonely soul,’
someone muttered.
    ‘Her name was Maureen,’ I said
softly.
    I was facing the body, looking at her hands.
Beads were woventhrough the fingers, which were so thick and pale
they didn’t look like hers. Hers were brown from the garden.
    There was consternation by the door behind
me. Doctor Birmingham was taking his leave, and signalling as such to Mrs B, who was
chatting with Mrs Daly and didn’t look like she was going anywhere soon.
    ‘I’ll follow you in a while,
Albie,’ she whispered louder than most people shout.
    He had no choice, with all gawking at him.
Off he went with Rose in tow. The poor girl was blushing. Someone said to me then, some
old drinking friend of my father’s, ‘It’s up to you now, young Emily;
it’s up to you to keep things going.’
    Keep what going – Charlie and my father? A
half-arsed yard? I looked at Mam’s death-bed: I was almost seventeen years of age
and it felt like mine. The herbalist was moving near me, I could feel him. Then, his
hand on my shoulder. The heat off him. I looked up. He handed me a holy card with a
piece of fabric stuck to it. A relic of St Thérèse, the Little Flower. I smiled, despite
myself; it was a piece of blue serge I’d left in his place. I didn’t say a
word. I was only thinking, God forgive me,
Now he’s seen where I live.
I
felt ashamed, like something that I’d hid could be hid no more. I was
heart-sore.
    I took a break from my vigil and went into
the kitchen for a drink of water. Three of the women had gathered together around the
table, greedy beady-eyed birdies – Mrs B, Mrs Daly and Mrs Nash having a real good root
through Mam’s box of photographs. I went over and stood there. I put out my hand,
but they didn’t even notice. Mam liked photos. She didn’t have a fancy album
or any album, just a small cigar box that she liked to keep to herself, which was fine
because no one besides me was interested in pictures, and none had been taken since I
was born.
    ‘That’s you, Grettie! In a
swimming costume!’ said Mrs Daly. ‘You certainly didn’t look like that
in school!’
    ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, get that out of
there this minute,’ squealed – yes, squealed – Mrs B.
    The stuck-up biddy mauled Mam’s photo
and tried to cram it into her pocket.
    ‘That’s stealing,’ I
said.
    Mrs B didn’t have the decency to look
embarrassed, but she handed over the photograph all the same. They sobered up a bit
then, started munching on the fruit cake. I lifted the box from the table and left the
room. I wanted air. I’d heard people say that before and never known what
they’d meant, but I did then.
    I found the photo that had caused the
shrieks. It was taken on a rocky beach, and a group of seven were wearing dark
old-fashioned swimming costumes. Four men, two women and a girl. They seemed to be
mostly in their twenties, a bit old to be dressed so friskily. The men’s costumes
were black vests and shorts; the women wore belted tunics that were edged in white at
the neckline and ended above the knee. They seemed to have some sort of bloomers
underneath, but still it was all very indecent, to be half dressed in mixed company and
probably wet from the sea to boot. They looked kind of ordinary all the same, like there
was nothing to be fussed about. A couple sat on the sand, four perched on a rock, and a
man stood behind, leaning down. He had his hand on the girl’s shoulders. She was
the only one not wearing a cloche swimming hat; she was reaching back so her hand lay on
his forearm. The standing man was striking and somewhat familiar. He had black hair and
muscled shoulders. His face was flushed and very handsome. Though he was older than the
other men, he made them look old, all fuddy duddy in their duds.
    Which one was Mrs B? I was searching from
face to face, trying to find her, when I suddenly locked on a pair of eyes: Mam’s.
How had I not seen her? She was the girl reaching back towards the man with the muscles,
but she