attentions
of a scrawny girl like Emily. Carmel could advise him on how to let her down easy. The
direct approach was more effective with some people.
She hoped he had found himself somewhere
better to live; she wasn’t going back to that place, and being seen at the market
stall buying potions wasn’t a good idea. People would guess, they would jeer. She
had hid her distaste on entering his premises – his shack, really – but he must have
noticed, because he immediately told her that it was only temporary, that he was looking
for suitable accommodation from which to practise. Come to think of it, the herbalist
could give his remedies to Carmel, on a sale or return basis, and Carmel could sell them
in the shop. They would seem more reputable then. She would suggest it to him:
he’d be delighted. And then she wouldn’t have to leave her own premises to
get cured at all.
She had taken her tonic this evening before
bed; the herbalist said it would take some weeks before it made any difference. Told her
that she was still in recovery and had to mind herself – she enjoyed hearing that. It
made her feel looked after. She asked him for a month’s supply. She wondered if he
knew why.
She didn’t sleep well any more, walked
the house, in and out of every room, checking, tidying, moving things. Sometimes she
heard him crying. The first time she had been sleepwalking. That’s what Dan said.
He had found her here, opening the drawers, pulling out the blankets.
‘Where is he?’ she had said.
‘I hear Samuel crying – he’s crying so softly, where is he?’
Grettie B told her to concentrate on other
things – the business, the garden, the parish, the community – that there was more to
life than babies.
‘Should I give up? You know …
trying?’ Carmel had whispered.
‘What do you mean, give up? Sure that
would be a sin. Hush now; you don’t want Rose to hear such indiscretion, do
you?’
‘God forbid.’
Rose was doing what she always did when her
mother was deep in conversation: standing there, daydreaming, pushing back her cuticles.
She was well used to waiting for her mother. Carmel was sure she was privy to many
indiscretions.
Concentrate on something else. She had
cleared some brambles at the back of the garden, cut back the climbing rose on the shed,
taken a wire brush to the garden gate so she could give it a lick of paint. But she
always ended up in the same place: the back corner of the garden. It was overgrown but
got the most sunlight. She’d find herself sitting on her old childhood stool, her
eyes closed, the warm sun on her face, feeling close to Samuel, the closest to praying
since he had been lost. She kept the soft blanket he had been wrapped in. It smelt of
him yet. If she sat there and held the blanket to her, she too felt still-born,
suspended, almost at peace.
Theresa Feeney had been in the shop earlier,
her brood with her as usual. She had been a few years ahead of Carmel in school, and,
though she had been harassed by life, she was always good-natured. Her eldest daughter,
Tessie, was carrying the latest addition to the family. Mrs Feeney rubbed its tiny chin
and looked towards Carmel, expecting the usual congratulations. Carmel gave her best
smile.
‘Is that your grandchild?’
‘It’s my new baby, you know it
is.’
‘You’re at the age to be a
granny, not a mammy.’
Carmel left the bewildered woman and ran
into the back. She felt a meanness rising up in her, pure hatred for the stupid fat
bitch at the counter. She knew it was wrong – that Theresa Feeney couldn’t help
having all those babies – but it wasn’t fair, and until she calmed down Carmel
almost wanted to kill her. She had locked the shop when the Feeneys left, and just sat
at the counter looking at her hands: they were shaking.
As she rocked, she wondered what was
happening to her?Throwing spite at an exhausted mother? The chair
rocked noiselessly as Carmel stole into a fretful sleep.
When she woke,
of a scrawny girl like Emily. Carmel could advise him on how to let her down easy. The
direct approach was more effective with some people.
She hoped he had found himself somewhere
better to live; she wasn’t going back to that place, and being seen at the market
stall buying potions wasn’t a good idea. People would guess, they would jeer. She
had hid her distaste on entering his premises – his shack, really – but he must have
noticed, because he immediately told her that it was only temporary, that he was looking
for suitable accommodation from which to practise. Come to think of it, the herbalist
could give his remedies to Carmel, on a sale or return basis, and Carmel could sell them
in the shop. They would seem more reputable then. She would suggest it to him:
he’d be delighted. And then she wouldn’t have to leave her own premises to
get cured at all.
She had taken her tonic this evening before
bed; the herbalist said it would take some weeks before it made any difference. Told her
that she was still in recovery and had to mind herself – she enjoyed hearing that. It
made her feel looked after. She asked him for a month’s supply. She wondered if he
knew why.
She didn’t sleep well any more, walked
the house, in and out of every room, checking, tidying, moving things. Sometimes she
heard him crying. The first time she had been sleepwalking. That’s what Dan said.
He had found her here, opening the drawers, pulling out the blankets.
‘Where is he?’ she had said.
‘I hear Samuel crying – he’s crying so softly, where is he?’
Grettie B told her to concentrate on other
things – the business, the garden, the parish, the community – that there was more to
life than babies.
‘Should I give up? You know …
trying?’ Carmel had whispered.
‘What do you mean, give up? Sure that
would be a sin. Hush now; you don’t want Rose to hear such indiscretion, do
you?’
‘God forbid.’
Rose was doing what she always did when her
mother was deep in conversation: standing there, daydreaming, pushing back her cuticles.
She was well used to waiting for her mother. Carmel was sure she was privy to many
indiscretions.
Concentrate on something else. She had
cleared some brambles at the back of the garden, cut back the climbing rose on the shed,
taken a wire brush to the garden gate so she could give it a lick of paint. But she
always ended up in the same place: the back corner of the garden. It was overgrown but
got the most sunlight. She’d find herself sitting on her old childhood stool, her
eyes closed, the warm sun on her face, feeling close to Samuel, the closest to praying
since he had been lost. She kept the soft blanket he had been wrapped in. It smelt of
him yet. If she sat there and held the blanket to her, she too felt still-born,
suspended, almost at peace.
Theresa Feeney had been in the shop earlier,
her brood with her as usual. She had been a few years ahead of Carmel in school, and,
though she had been harassed by life, she was always good-natured. Her eldest daughter,
Tessie, was carrying the latest addition to the family. Mrs Feeney rubbed its tiny chin
and looked towards Carmel, expecting the usual congratulations. Carmel gave her best
smile.
‘Is that your grandchild?’
‘It’s my new baby, you know it
is.’
‘You’re at the age to be a
granny, not a mammy.’
Carmel left the bewildered woman and ran
into the back. She felt a meanness rising up in her, pure hatred for the stupid fat
bitch at the counter. She knew it was wrong – that Theresa Feeney couldn’t help
having all those babies – but it wasn’t fair, and until she calmed down Carmel
almost wanted to kill her. She had locked the shop when the Feeneys left, and just sat
at the counter looking at her hands: they were shaking.
As she rocked, she wondered what was
happening to her?Throwing spite at an exhausted mother? The chair
rocked noiselessly as Carmel stole into a fretful sleep.
When she woke,
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