The Herbalist (43 page)

The market was quiet: a few stalls, almost
no customers. It was my first day in town since the herbalist was arrested, since the
newspaper article, but the hawkers barely raised their heads as we walked by. The air
was cool. You could feel autumn coming and autumn felt like a good clean thing.

We were the first to arrive at the
courthouse, me and Charlie. It was to be a special sitting, just for me and the
herbalist. We sat on the side steps and waited for the clerk and everyone else to
arrive. The river was misty; it looked soft, romantic even.

‘Maybe everyone has forgotten,’
I said; ‘maybe it’s all blown over.’

‘You should tell it was Rose, not you,
who had those things done to her.’

‘Whist, what are you saying? The
Birminghams would never admit such a thing. And then what would there be against the
herbalist? Who would give evidence?’

‘I want to throttle him.’

We heard a bolt drawing back, the click of a
lock. The door opened. Clerk Roberts let us in with a quiet smile, before setting off
with a duster. Had he heard Charlie? Would he know what he meant?

We stood like fools in the hall. Then Carty,
the solicitor, filled the doorway; lifted my elbow and veered me into a small room. He
left the door open.

‘Well now, Miss Madden.’ He
seemed half asleep. ‘Any questions?’

I was worried about swearing on the bible
and then telling so many lies. But they weren’t really lies, they were the truth.
They were just somebody else’s truth.

‘No, sir.’

Mr Carty stood there, looking up at the
ceiling. It was a high one, cream and dressed in webs. He was famous for daydreaming,
the
side effect, they said, of too much education. People began to
file by outside, talking and laughing.

‘Well, what are you waiting
for?’ He signalled for me to go in.

I had never been in court before. It was a
plain half-moon-shaped room, with high, long windows so the sky could look down on us.
The pews were full of people of all ages, and many were standing at the back wall. So
much for it all blowing over. The whole town must’ve taken the day off. Mr Carty
showed me to a seat to the left of the judge. I felt the women eat up every detail of
me, from the stitching in my hem to the pins in my hair. I kept my eyes on the floor; it
gleamed like treacle. The jury were huddled to my right. Ordinary townsmen, who looked a
bit alarmed to be hearing this particular case. I sat and folded my hands into my lap; I
knew if I looked up that I would see the herbalist, so I didn’t.

The clerk stood. There was a sudden shuffle
as everyone moved forward. He cleared his throat. How much like church it was then – the
way the light hung dusty, the smell of wood polish, the held breath, the sweat.

‘The people of Éire versus Don Vikram
Fernandes!’ roared the clerk.

He sounded ecstatic; as if announcing the
arrival of a Bengalese tiger come to perform daring feats. The whispers began.

I put my hand on a bible, not a special
book, no gilt inscription, no soft leather, just an ordinary-looking dog-eared thing.
Aggie said it was a Protestant bible, so it wouldn’t matter a jot. I crossed my
fingers behind my back anyway and sent a silent wish for strength to the holy virgin
mother. I swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God. I
glanced up then and saw the herbalist. The sun shone down from the window, on him and
his cream suit. His hair was cut close to his head; his skin looked tight across the
bones of his face. He stared me down, his eyes blazing. He was dressed as he was the day
he arrived in our town, but he didn’t look the same.

Sergeant Deegan was first to take the stand.
There wasn’t a sound, not a cough or a sniffle, in the courthouse.

‘The accused did unlawfully use an
instrument on the person of Emily Mary Madden for the purpose of …’

The judge slammed his hammer. ‘Anyone
with any decency will now leave the court.’

There was a mighty long pause and then the
people began to move. One by one they each took one last gawk, their greedy eyes pecking
at my face and body, my unlawful body. It was ten minutes before the benches were
emptied. There was only one woman left. Alone in the middle of the last pew sat Aggie,
solemn as a mourner.

Sergeant Deegan continued, casual as you
like, as if he was reciting his tables, ‘… and did use an instrument on the said
person for the purpose of procuring a miscarriage.’

How did the accused plead? The accused
pleaded not guilty. The burden of proof lay with the prosecution. They’d found all
the proof they needed in a squalid wooden box. It held instruments, bottles containing
liquid, jars containing powders and boxes of pills.

An important doctor took the stand and gave
his medical opinion. He had snow-white hair, a bulbous nose and a bow tie. He said there
were eighty-six medicines on the accused’s premises, some poisonous, but most of a
type that he ‘couldn’t determine’. There was also the matter of a
speculum whose blades had been made from two shoehorns. The good doctor told the jury
that this instrument would be effective in opening the womb. ‘To let the light in,
so to speak, gentlemen.’ There was laughter in the court.

There was also a probing instrument, a rod.
In the doctor’s opinion no other instrument would be necessary. In the
doctor’s opinion, there would be death in one out of four cases.

‘Excellent evidence, thank you again
for travelling, Doctor Morgan,’ said the judge.

Charlie was leaning against the wall at the
back of the courtroom, and he had begun to weep.

The judge turned to the herbalist.

‘Do you know Miss Madden?’

He nodded.

‘Can you identify her for the
record?’

He lifted his hand and pointed at me,
holding his arm out longer than need be. I thought of the hula girl and the snake hiding
under his crisp white shirt, of the way he banished his demons, of the way
he’d kissed my skin. He said something, but I couldn’t
hear. I felt my legs begin to shake and couldn’t stop them.

‘Let the record show that the accused
identified Miss Emily Madden.

‘Miss Madden will now give
testimony.’

And I had to say it all over again, the
things he’d done to Rose. How many times she went to him, where he touched her,
the instruments he used. Had they no shame, asking such questions? Words like that
coming out of a girl’s mouth in a room full of men. Telling me to speak up when I
faltered, when I thought – how could he? How could he be this thing? Where was the other
man, the one who had called me Cleopatra?

‘And who was the father of the
child?’

I almost told the truth but stopped just in
time. If I mentioned Doctor Birmingham, my case – Rose’s case – would be thrown
out. So I said different, said a name they would have no trouble with. I raised my arm
and pointed at the stranger.

‘It was the herbalist; it was he that
ruined me.’

I could feel the herbalist’s anger; I
could almost hear him hiss from across the room. I hung my head. This to me seemed the
most shameful part, but I don’t know why. I was cross-examined by the
herbalist’s barrister, Mr Butler.

‘Didn’t you tell anyone about
the trouble you were in?’

‘No.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘Mam is dead.’

‘Were you keeping company?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did you go to a proper
doctor?’

‘No, sir.’

‘How long has this man been carrying
on with you?’

‘Since the beginning of the summer,
sir.’

‘Why did you let him?’

‘He said that we would travel away
together, sir, he said that we would marry.’

‘And you believed him?’ The
barrister smirked.

‘Of course, sir, why wouldn’t
I?’

I could see what he was thinking, that I was
a half-wit.

‘This man made a fool of you. Did you
ask him to do an operation?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘But you let him?’

‘What else could I do?’

‘Could you not confide in your
priest?’

‘Are you mad? What country do you live
in?’

‘What?’ Mr Butler leant in –
he’d long lashes, like a girl’s.

‘I didn’t confide in anyone,
sir,’ I said, ‘because I was very foolish.’

He seemed happy with that. By then I just
wanted to go home.

The jury were back in a matter of minutes.
Guilty, they said.

‘Eight years’ hard
labour,’ said the judge, ‘for the crime of procuring Miss Emily Madden, a
woman not being a common prostitute of known immoral character, to have unlawful carnal
connection, and for eight counts of using instruments to procure miscarriage.’

Agnes Marian Reilly, known common
prostitute, of known immoral character, clapped till she was removed from the court.

I felt shame heat my cheeks as I left the
courtroom, but at least I felt something. Not like Rose.

The square was full of people when I went
outside. There was a hush when they saw me, even amongst the children, who stood elbow
to elbow on the wall by the river. Every hawker was still, arms crossed on their chests
at their stalls.

I stood on the step of the courthouse. Old
women in black shawls and young women in headscarves seemed to surround me. I’d
known them all since I was a child, and they all knew me. Their eyes glittered with
hatred. The silence was broken by an awful sound. The women’s mouths gaped, and
they squawked over and over again, louder and louder. They wanted something. What were
they saying? Spit dressed their chins as they moved closer, and closer. What were they
saying? I could almost smell the meat between their teeth.

Someone scooped me up and carried me back into
the courthouse. It was Garda Molloy. He shut the door. I put my hands on the wood. Their
chanting buzzed my palms. What were they saying? A stout short man smiled at me, patted
my back.

‘Better stay here till they settle
down.’

The voice was the judge’s. I
hadn’t recognized him without his white wig. He was let out and there was a break
in the shouting. We heard the motorcar take him away. The herbalist was being brought
down the corridor towards us. Sergeant Deegan guided him by the elbow; he was
handcuffed.

‘Maybe we should wait, boys,’
Deegan said.

‘Wait, my arse,’ was
Molloy’s answer; ‘let him face the music.’

I felt the herbalist move from behind me, to
beside me and then past me. I kept my eyes closed. I sensed nothing, no message. There
was no last word between us, just the sound of the door being unbolted. I looked at him,
but he didn’t look back. I felt a river breeze and heard the crowd begin to bay.
This time I knew what they were saying. ‘Hang him. Hang him.’ The
women’s voices soared above the men’s. The guard shut the door behind the
sergeant and the herbalist. I stepped foward.

‘Don’t follow him. You’ll
be killed,’ Molloy whispered. ‘They’ll have him hung, drawn and
quartered.’

At first I could hear Sergeant Deegan
shouting at the crowd to get back, then I couldn’t hear his voice any more, just a
roaring like at an All-Ireland football match. ‘Hang him. Hang him.’ And
then there was a deathly quiet. I fainted.

I came to with Charlie rubbing my hand. We
were on Aggie’s barge. She was lying on her settle with her old black shawl tucked
around her. Men were singing out in the street. There was the sound of glass breaking,
and a big cheer.

‘We showed him,’ he said.

‘Showed who?’

‘Him, we showed him and all like him.
We showed him for what he was. A trickster. A savage. A killer. You should’ve seen
it, Em: farmers brought pitchforks topped with lit turf, and we drove him
and the sergeant all the way to the station house. We smeared him
with tar. Saw what he really was without the white suit, without the flash smiles – he
was a cloven-hoofed devil.’

‘It’s beneath you, Charlie, to
be acting like that.’

‘It was for Rose.’

‘It was for you.’

Charlie dropped my hand, and went out to
join the other boys.

‘I’m afraid, Aggie. Can I stay
here tonight?’

‘You can’t. I’m of no use
to you, not any more.’

Aggie looked terrible; she was shivering and
part of her hairline was clotted with blood. She must’ve been at the drink, for
she kept rambling. Said she’d seen an omen, a red-haired woman the spit of
herself. That she was soon for the next world. I knelt beside her, promised I’d be
back in the morning. She clasped my hand and gave it a squeeze. I smelt gin off her
breath.

I made my way out into the night. Young lads
with lanterns and lit pitchforks sang in the square: ‘He’d fly through the
air with the greatest of ease, that daring young man on his flying trapeze.’ There
was an older crowd on the steps of the town hall.

‘Mind the thatch!’ one of them
shouted to the boys.

That made me afraid – what if they set light
to a house and one thing led to another and the whole town was burnt in their beds? It
didn’t feel safe. Charlie came over, a bottle of stout in his hand.

‘I want to go home,
Charlie.’

‘Come on, come on, then.’ He
linked my arm and we began to walk.

A pebble hit me on the back of the neck.
Charlie was gone in a second, his coat thrown off. Would he ever learn? He lambasted the
boy he thought had hit me, while others circled. I couldn’t see, didn’t want
to. I leant against the wall, melted into the shadow of the town hall – the brick was so
cold. I wasn’t worried about Charlie, he could hold his own.

I was worried about tomorrow. Was I to live
like a shunned sow, like the Carver sisters in their flour-bag dresses, eating only from
the land, and living like animals? I began to make my way home;
there
was no sign of Charlie coming. I felt like all the windows of the houses were eyes
narrowing at me as I passed. Kelly’s shop was in darkness.