by Rose Doyle
'They do sometimes,' I said.
I knew about syphilis. I'd read about it and knew there were many cures and none and, if I was honest, even the thought of it frightened me. If I was to be a doctor then I'd have to get over my fear.
I'd once seen a woman with syphilis. Sarah and I had watched as she was carried, screaming, from a house in the Broadstone when we were about ten years old. She'd been covered in rotting lesions and completely mad in the head. I still saw her sometimes in my dreams.
Ellen Neary hadn't finished what she had to say. 'It's said that suffering girls are smothered in the Lock hospitals, to put them out of their pain,' she said darkly, 'so on Sarah Rooney's own head be it if she goes into that camp.'
Beezy Ryan and I put our stockings and shoes back on when we reached the road into the town. The mood in the narrow, rutted streets was no more cheerful than it had been the day before and we passed rows of thatched cottages and a ruined cathedral without meeting a single friendly face. The only acknowledgement we got was from a gaggle of dirty children with red-rimmed eyes who called names and followed us for a while.
Ellen brought us at last to a wider street where there was a hotel, barber, baker, public house and provision store. It was busy enough, carts and men on horseback and pedestrians for the most part. She brought us straight to the provision store, where the name painted across the window read Cummins & Co., Spirit Grocer and Hardware. The money we'd put together to spend on the nest didn't amount to a great deal but then we didn't need a great deal. Cummins & Co. looked as if it could just about supply our needs. I was keeping my jewellery, and what I could raise on it, for a far rainier day than this one.
'The owner's a Christian woman, but old,' Ellen said, 'she won't turn you away though her son might, if it's one of his bad days. It's the only place in town sells to wrens.' She gave a half- laugh. 'Even then it depends the kind of wren. I'll stay outside, in case I spoil your chances. I'll try for a horsecar to take us back.'
We were hot from the walk and glad of the murky cool of Cummins & Co. A man behind the grocery counter watched silently as we came in.
'Good morning.' I smiled and approached him. Beezy went to examine the saucepans and ware at the other end of the shop.
'It's not a bad morning,' the shopkeeper agreed. He had a round, pink face that extended into a round, pink, bald head. 'Have ye travelled far?' He looked at Beezy.
'From Dublin,' I said, deliberately misunderstanding. If he wanted to know whether we'd come in from the plains then let him ask outright. 'We need provisions and we need candles, some were . . .'
He ignored me, eyes still beadily on Beezy. It was as if he expected the shop to combust about her. I became brisk.
'I'll have sugar and tea to start with. My friend will make a selection from the hardware. We'll need saucepans, a kettle, a looking glass . . .'
'A looking glass!' His eyes, when he swivelled to face me, were dancing in his head. His face colour had deepened to red. 'It's the face of God you and your kind should be looking at, not at your own brazen…'
'What kind am I, Mr Cummins? You are Mr Cummins, I presume?'
'I'm Cornelius Cummins and don't you take that tone with me,' he sniffed and looked at me as if I were a stinking shoe. He was a small man, and not very clean. 'Your airs and graces don't disguise you,' he rocked on his heels, 'the company you keep says it all.' He spat on the floor behind him. The spit sizzled in dust which hadn't been swept for weeks. Months, maybe.
I gave him a look of my own. 'Judge not lest you be judged, Mr Cummins,' I said as I surveyed his shop. His goods were as dusty as his floor. Cummins & Co. were shopkeepers to the poor; the local rich no doubt bought in Dublin, or perhaps Naas. We would be spending more money than the rest of his customers in a week. I took my purse from my pocket.
'I'm here to exchange money for goods, Mr Cummins, nothing more. Nothing less, either.' I put the purse on the counter. The coins made a healthy jingle. 'If my money offends I can take it elsewhere.'
'Where else would…’He stopped too late to hide his greed and alarm.
'I'll get what I need from the army stores, where money is money and business business.' I felt Beezy at my side and jabbed her with my elbow. She stayed where she was.
I put a hand on the purse. It was made of brown velvet, with a handle of plaited silk cords and tassels. It looked opulent on that dusty, wooden counter and Cornelius Cummins' splayed fingers almost touched it as he estimated the money inside.
'I'll do business with you but not with that harlot.' He kept his eyes on the purse, his neck bulging greasily from his flannel collar. 'She's the kind spreads her evil wherever she goes, contaminating the society of good people . . .'
'Half the money inside here is mine,' I opened it so that he saw the coins and inclined my head in Beezy's direction. 'The rest belongs to Miss Ryan.' I buttoned it shut again. 'But if it offends you it might be best for all concerned if you kept your candles and crockery for more God-fearing customers. Their money is no doubt worth a lot more to you than Miss Ryan's.'
I turned for the door and Beezy turned with me. There was nothing else she could have done. Behind us, Cummins' voice rose to a whine.
'I'm a shopkeeper. I do business with all sorts. I've a family to feed and times are hard. Money is money.' His voice almost broke and he cleared his throat. 'My son will attend to you.'
I went back to the counter. Beezy stayed where she was. 'I agree with you, Mr Cummins, that money is money. And good manners are good manners. I hope your son's are better than your own.'
His eyes, mad with hate, held mine. He would never forget, never forgive. He was very likely a vengeful man too. With a stifled oath he disappeared through a door behind the counter.
'You're your father's daughter, after all,' Beezy said softly as we waited for the son to appear. 'You did well with that fat amadan, I'll give you that.'
'I did,' I agreed.
'Doesn't make you a woman though,' Beezy said.
'No more than spreading your legs to make money from men makes a woman of you.' I meant to shock Beezy Ryan and I did. She was silent for a minute before giving a great screech of laughter.
'We might make a woman of you yet,' she said and for a short while, until the door bell jangled and two women came in, there was peace between us. The women who came in kept a silent, watchful distance.
'What can I get for you?'
The son, when he appeared, was taller than his father but just as fleshy. He had hair too, though not a great deal. It was gingery and there was more in his ears and on his arms than his head.
One of the women behind us spoke in a loud, firm voice. ‘I’ll have my bag of yellow meal, Joseph, if you please.'
'I have it made up for you . . .'
'We've been waiting awhile,' I cut him short, 'so we'll take our turn first, if you don't mind.'
The woman was firmer, and louder. ‘I mind. I mind that you're here at all.'
I turned to look at her, at her yellowed skin and small, black eyes. She came closer to me and raised a bony finger.
'Keep out of this town. Respectable women shouldn't have to stand behind the likes of you to get the necessities for their families. Hunger and starvation are too good for you.'
'I've no intention of starving,' I turned my back to her again, 'and no intention either of spending more time than I need to in this place.'
Joseph Cummins put a bag of Indian yellow meal on the counter. The woman threw down a coin, lifted the bag and with her companion left the shop as if propelled by a gale force wind. She was another Kildare citizen who wouldn't forget.
'She's a good customer.' Joseph Cummins' explanation was almost an apology.
'So might I be,' I said.
I bought eggs, bacon, cheese, tea, sugar, milk and what passed for sweet cake in the Cummins' emporium. The cake was nothing but soda bread with a few sultanas and caraway seeds added and Bess would have left it where it was. I kept a careful count of what
I spent; it came to nine shillings and eightpence-halfpenny. When Beezy added a bottle of whiskey I said nothing. I wasn't going to give the shopkeeper's son the satisfaction of seeing us argue in his shop.
We selected the rest of what we needed and put everything on the counter. Joseph Cummins, doing his sums in a notebook, said nothing until we came to the end.
'We've cups and saucers better than those,' he said then, 'only where ye'll be using them I doubt the style will matter much.'
'Why is that?' I said and he giggled like a girl.
'Ye're unlikely to be receiving society people in a nest on the Curragh. It's all the same what you drink out of in one of those holes in the ground.' He giggled again and bent his head over his figures.
In the darker recesses behind the counter a door opened and a very old woman came through. She stood like a waxwork beside Joseph Cummins as he started to go over his figures with a pencil.
'You seem very familiar with the wren village,' I said, 'have you visited?'
His head shot up. 'I have not.' He looked more than ever like his father when his face reddened. 'No God-fearing man would be caught in or near that place. You owe me four pounds and four shillings.'
'We owe you three pounds and nineteen shillings,' Beezy said.
'Three pounds and nineteen shillings,' I echoed. I didn't for a minute doubt Beezy was right. Beezy didn't make mistakes about money.
Joseph Cummins looked from one to the other of us. 'Ye're very good at the arithmetic,' he sneered. 'But I've it written down here and four pounds and four shillings is what you owe me.'
Beezy leaned across the counter. 'You're mistaken.' She took the notebook from his hand and stepped smartly out of his reach. 'The big saucepan is two shillings, not six,' she went briskly down the columns of figures, 'and the provisions come to something over nine shillings, not ten. You'll find that accounts for the extra five shillings.' She laid the notebook on the counter. 'It's easy enough to make a mistake with sums,' she shrugged, 'if you're not careful.'
Joseph Cummins' hand was shaking when he picked the notebook. He said nothing for a minute or two, breathing heavily as he studied his figures, rapping the counter with his free hand.
'I know my sums . . .' he began.
'Give it to me.' Without warning the old woman held out an arthritic hand. Her eyes, holding mine, were bright as a bird's as Joseph Cummins passed her the notebook. She gave me a small nod and began to quickly scan the figures. It was a bare half- minute before she said, 'Take three pounds and nineteen shillings, Joseph,' and began wrapping a cup in newspaper. 'It's what they owe.' She looked from me to Beezy. 'Ye're paying dear enough at that price too.'
Joseph Cummins picked up and threw down the notebook. 'I did my sums,' he shouted, 'they were…'
'Wrong,' said the old woman, 'you were wrong, Joseph.' To me she said, 'My grandson didn't take time enough to do things right.'
She held out her crooked hand and I put the money into it. She pocketed it and then, together with myself and Beezy, packed everything into a couple of empty candle boxes. Everything but the bottle of whiskey. For this she refused to give us paper, or wrapping of any kind. Beezy, without a word, slipped it into her long skirt pocket. It was where it would have ended up anyway, where it would remain until emptied.
'I'm against the drink,' said the old woman, 'it's the divil's own work and I've seen it destroy too many in my own and other families around here. I'd not have served it to a woman.' Her bird's eyes held mine again. 'Keep away from it. You'll survive everything but the drink.'
'You're right,' I said. The woman nodded and gave Beezy a hard look.
'May God and His Mother look after you,' she said, 'may They look after the both of you.'
Ellen Neary was sitting on a stone block, waiting, when we came out of the shop with the two boxes. She complained about the time we'd taken and said the few carmen about had either ignored or been surly to her.
'The fellow from yesterday's down the street a bit,' she pointed, 'I'd say he'll do the journey if you ask him, Allie, rather than me.' She eyed the parasol. 'He's sure to remember you.'
I left her and Beezy with the boxes and went looking for the carman. He wasn't so friendly as the day before but he agreed to take us.
'Times are bad,' he echoed the shopkeeper's son, 'and business is business. But don't come to me again. I'll be getting myself a name.'
'As a friend to the wrens?'
'That's it. Your friends aren't popular in this town. You'd not have been served in Cummins if it wasn't for the old woman holding the power there . . .'
There was a scream, followed by a roared obscenity. I spun in time to see a thickset man lash with his boot at Ellen Neary, who was on the ground in the middle of the street. Beezy, still standing outside the shop with our purchases, saw what was happening at the same time as I did. We started running towards Ellen together. Beezy had a saucepan in her hand.
'Don't cross my path again, whore, and don't come into this town again either. Stay outside on the plains with the beasts of the fields, where you belong.' A hobnailed boot caught and tore at the arm Ellen had thrown protectively about her head. 'We don't want your kind of filth on our streets.'
I reached them just as Beezy did. Ellen's arm was pumping red blood. I could see the marks of the man's boot on the back of her dress too. She would have more than an injured arm.
Beezy raised the saucepan above her head as the man moved back to position his next kick.
'If you so much as lift your boot once more I'll flatten your head into your body.' She might have been remarking on the weather, her voice was so calm. The man stopped in mid-kick and spun to stare at her. His face was disbelieving.
'I should have known. Her kind of animal travels always in a pack. I'll kill you . . .'
He took a step towards Beezy. His mouth was rimmed with white spittle and he clenched and unclenched a pair of thick veined hands. Beezy, who was taller than he was, didn't move and didn't lower the saucepan.
A small crowd had gathered: men and women and a few children. They stood in a silent semi-circle. When a dog among them barked a child hushed it.
'You'll have to kill me too,' my voice was high and twittering. I cleared my throat and would have tried again but for the blazing look Beezy Ryan gave me. I stepped around the man and bent to help Ellen.
He didn't turn as I lifted and helped her to where our purchases sat piled. None of his fellow citizens came to help. I sat Ellen on one of the boxes, where she could lean against the shop front. She was cold and shaking, her freckles a ginger rash in a whey-coloured face. The arm was in a bad way. A large sliver of flesh, ripped by the hobnails from the flexor muscle of the forearm, hung in a bloody pulp. Her back and ribs would be another story, one which would have to wait until we got back to the village. For now, I tore the frill from the end of my petticoat and bound the torn flesh tightly back into its place. Ellen Neary didn't complain. She didn't even flinch. Her blood destroyed my dress and I cursed the vanity which had made me wear it.
While I was doing this Beezy delivered herself of a tongue- lashing to the bully-boy.
'Lay a hand on me and I'll have you in court,' her voice carried in the hushed street. 'I've as many rights as the next citizen and I'll exercise them. There's two of us, apart from the wounded woman herself, who're witness to what you did.'
'It'd be the word of a band of whores against that of a church going citizen.' He was sneering but less sure of himself. 'There's not a judge in the land would believe you, never mind listen to you.' He was bluffing and knew it, a man realising the consequences of an outburst of bullying rage.
'Oh, we'll be listened to all right,' Beezy said, 'and the word will go round. You'll make a name for yourself as the church going citizen taken to court by three bushwomen.'
'May God strike you dead,' the man roared, 'I'd do it myself but I wouldn't have you on my conscience.' He shook a fist in the air. 'God will have His vengeance on you, and on your
kind.'
Beezy gave a short laugh. 'I've never known God be too generous with His kindness so His vengeance will be no great thing.' She lowered the saucepan. 'Go home, little man, and say your prayers.'
She'd almost reached where I knelt bandaging Ellen Neary when the man made a frenzied rush and stood in front of her. His voice was low and thick but I heard every word he said.
'I don't forget things so keep an eye to your back from now on, madam, wherever you go . . .' He rubbed the spittle from his mouth with a sleeve. 'Not even the black of the night will protect you, nor the nest you lie in.'
'You're a brave man,' Beezy said, 'brave with your fists and feet against the weak, brave under the cover of darkness too it seems.' She leaned closer to him. 'You'd best keep out of my way because I'm not afraid of curses and cowardly curs the likes of you.'
'You'll remember you said that.' The man turned abruptly and pushed his way through the crowd, which dispersed, some of them looking disappointed.
Our carman had to be persuaded all over again to drive us. I paid him one shilling and sixpence, which was again double the usual fare, but he wouldn't have taken us otherwise.
In the village I used salt water and iodine on Ellen Neary's arm and bound it with gauze. I gave her laudanum for the pain.
'It'll mend,' I said, 'but you'll have a scar.' I wasn't as sure as I sounded about it mending.
'I suppose it will.' Ellen gave a small grin and closed her eyes. 'It's only the good die young.'
Half a dozen women, including Clara Hyland and Nance Reilly, helped us build our nest. It was finished and furnished
before dusk fell. It was warm, just big enough for the three of us and James, and strong enough to last the summer. There was no nest numbered eleven in the village so we gave ourselves that number.
That night's band of hunting women were leaving the village as we lay to sleep for the night.
'We might as well be dead as far as the rest of the world is concerned,' said Sarah.
'We'd be better off if that was true,' Beezy said, 'but the world has no intention of leaving us alone. More's the pity.'
