Consolation

by Michael Redhill

  “I thought the Fenians were in Boston.”

  “They could be here within days.”

  Hallam skimmed the spoon around the inside of the egg lid. He brought out the bright white disc of albumen with a sucking sound. “But it’s the southern slave owners we’d have to be careful of, isn’t it?” he said. “About the slaves? I grant I’m not completely certain of my American history.” Terrace was still standing beside him, in an almost wifely way. He was occupied with another part of the paper now. “And do they care so much that they’d risk their own lives coming up here to collect them?”

  Terrace closed the front page on the news before folding the paper in four and tucking it under his arm. “Would you sand the rust off your musket to protect an escaped slave, Mr. Hallam? I think we’d need two weeks’ notice just to oil our mechanisms.”

  “I thought they came here because it was a haven.”

  “You can’t be a haven if you share the prison fence, Mr. Hallam. More hot water?”

  “When you have a moment.”

  BISOUS TO THE GIRLS, he’d written in August. Tell them their papa is going to build them a house with green shutters and hiding places. In truth, I haven’t yet found a suitable place for such a home, but I am making my priority getting through this winter. I am still in the rooms I took on Duchess Street, which point toward the late-day sun, so if I am able to get back there before the very end of the day the rooms glow with an orange light, and I imagine you sitting in that very light, which will be on its way to you, while I sleep.

  In his letters, cheeringly written, he’d enclose little scraps of things the girls might find amusing, although enclosures were expensive to send: bits of cigar paper, a raggy strip torn from the top of the Globe with the date on it, as if to reassure them that he had lived through the same days as they. In the privacy of his mind, however, he could not imagine their lives in London. His keepsake box had no power over him. In it, a lock of hair from each of the girls (one a flat bronze, the other black as tar, each smelling faintly of roses) and a tiny daguerreotype of Alice’s face, a round glassen image that sat in his palm like an egg. He’d tilt his hand back and forth to see her eyes flash to life in the changing light, but the sudden illusion of her face brightening could move him to helpless tears. Most of the time, he kept the box closed and hidden. When he could bear it, he took out the least personal of its keepsakes, a sampler sewn by his eldest with the letters of the alphabet and a tiny house stitched in blue thread.

  That he had crossed an ocean to get here, and could trace the route back in his mind (and it was not one memorialized by ocean and the occasional broken horizon, but by motion and illness and the smells of animals, people, and salt — by time), didn’t lead to the conclusion that they were there and he was here. His faith in “home” was shattered; he believed in it the same way he believed in the sun when it was nighttime. And that he had touched those beautiful little bodies, that he had smelled and tasted his wife so many days and nights, these were also anomalies to his senses as he knew them now. Reality was a dirty little city on the verge of either becoming a dirtier, larger city or being returned ignominiously to forest. To be aware that he woke as their day concluded, and that when they rose from their beds he was asleep as if dead, an inconceivable distance from them — nothing mitigated against the sense that they no longer existed. And that his letters, when posted, went flitting bootlessly out between the planets.

  I continue to build up my business, which you will be pleased to hear has attracted some of the custom that was left without a regular chemist when Mr. Allen on Front Street passed away. I had understood that his son would take over the shop, but then I learned this was not so, and through local intelligence was given the impression that Allen Jr. would pursue medicine instead. I overheard a conversation that took place in the Rossin House one week past (I was delivering a box of pills to a young woman who was rooming there and I will tell you it is probably the finest hotel in the city). I later confirmed what I had heard by visiting the shop. I offered my condolences to the young man for his father and told him I was new to the city and wished to open an account (I counterfeited a bile complaint) and the young gentleman confirmed that he was not taking on any new custom, as he was going to leave for Montreal to attend medical school. He recommended me to F.R. Lewis on King Street, or Cockburn Druggists, who are on Yonge Street. I know both businesses, and they are commodiously appointed with every jimb-jamb known to the trade, and therefore it is hardly possible to compete. But is it? Size and inventory are not the only recommendations. I therefore took out an advertisement in the Globe, which fancies itself (and is thereby fancied as) the paper of record. I attach a cutting as illustration, and assure you that its effectiveness has convinced me it will not be the last time I purchase advertising space in this newspaper..

  So you see, I am now a local impresario. Shameful, I know, but there are few enough mouths to pass word around in, and I will admit that competition is strong.

  I am sorry I have nothing else to tell you. My life is that of a clock-dove. I wake and drink tea, eat a bowl of gruel, potter up to my shop, and polish bottles. December is near and I cruelly wish a harsh winter on the populace, so that they may bring themselves with their aches and catarrhs to J. Hallam, Apothecary. An unfortunate derivative of these healing professions is that we cannot survive without the bad luck of the sick and dying. Less their misfortune, ours follows. So wish me a terrible winter, my darling, and know that I think of you constantly and of the girls, who I know are doubly loved by their mother, doing the loving of two. I enclose an amusing drawing I made of the corner of my room, where the light disappears last in the evening.

  (As I write this, a fine rain has begun to fall, and I suspect that by morning it will be snow.)

  J.

  And he had sealed up this letter as if he were drawing a curtain on a cherished view, and prepared his evening drug.

  TWO

  BILE PILLS AND forest lozenges, Saugeen oil, Pastor Levi’s Emetic, Doctor Jamieson’s Palsy Rub (in powder as well as in liquid form), bowel stimulant, Queen’s Liniment, pyramids of red-and-yellow boxes, clean jars with clear liquids within, the labels only slightly faded in the window-sun, a scale perfectly balanced with a one-ounce weight in each pan. Perhaps a voice will say, Where are we? and another answer, You are in Hallam Chemist, under the sign of the mortar, where there is something for every ill.

  This was the motto — Something for every ill — under which his father and before him his grandfather had conducted business in England. It grated on Hallam that Lewis, the chemist at King Street near Bay Street, had already adorned the space over his door with this motto, one he’d clearly stolen from their family. Hallam had even gone in to the old apothecary and glanced about admiringly, and when Lewis had asked him what ailed him, Hallam wanted to say, Your gall, but instead told him he was only looking around, and this he did a few moments more before beating a quick retreat back to the sidewalk. Above his own door Hallam had placed a little painted sign that had cost him three bob, and it said, Enter Ailing, Leave Hale. A little dramatic, perhaps, but a motto.

  He was not clearing his costs, even with the advertisement, but at least his stocking fees were nominal owing to the fact that when his father had purchased the store from the previous chemist — a Mr. Lennert — the shop came with its stock intact. Hallam even wore Lennert’s apron, with its slight discoloration under the arms, since his father had made certain to purchase the small supply of linen as well. Two other aprons hung on little hooks in the back room, one small enough for a boy. To imagine a business healthy enough to require the services of a full-time delivery boy was beyond dreaming.

  He didn’t get to know his few customers well at all. Sometimes he’d recognize a face but could not be certain if he’d seen it in his store or just out in the streets. Despite this, he made it a habit (taught to him by his father) to greet everyone who came into the shop as if they’d seen each other only yesterd
ay. And to ask after their health and their family in the knowing way of someone who would naturally know to ask. How is your dear mother handling the wet air? Because, of course, everyone’s dear mother was struggling with the wet air. But the effort was exhausting. He was no better off than a traveling salesman hawking unctions from a wooden cart, a piebald donkey nervously waiting to move on before someone got wise and laid a beating on him or his master. People seemed to materialize in the store, drift through, lay a coin on the counter for something they might as well get there than go elsewhere, and that would be the last of them. Hallam became more aggressive in his newspaper advertisements, stating there was “no need to go anywhere else,” and referring to himself as a “master apothecary late of England, where the most recent physics are currently taught.”

  “What unique approach would you take for a persistent catarrh?” asked a man one December morning. It was bright and cold outside, and the man had brought a swirl of snow in behind him. His voice was clear.

  “Your wife?” said Hallam.

  “A good friend,” said the man.

  “I trust he’s tried Irish moss.”

  “To no effect.”

  “And elecampane? In pure extract?”

  “He has had the tincture as well.”

  Hallam nodded thoughtfully. If he were to develop a reputation for curing stubborn illnesses, his business would take root much faster. He brought down a small phial from high up on a shelf behind him. It was a rarely used compound that the previous owner had probably never opened. The cork was hard and dry. “I brought this from England directly. I doubt you will find any shop in town carrying it. Do you know it?” He held the small container out toward the man.

  “Balsamum Peruvianum.”

  “Balsam of Peru,” said Hallam. “From Central America. Commonly used to dress ulcers, but of late I’ve found it very effective on stubborn mucosa. I’ll make your friend a syrup. You can pick it up around suppertime.”

  The man nodded, his eyebrows raised in admiration. “Balsam of Peru,” he said.

  “I’ll take down your name.”

  “Wilcocks,” said the man, drifting away a little, staring down into the glass cases. Hallam wrote the name down on an order ticket. “I’ve never heard of Balsam of Peru.”

  “Why would you have? It’s rarely enough used as an astringent, but its application as a respiratory aid is brand-new.”

  “It must be,” said the man. He was staring intently into the cases, running his hand along the topglass.

  “Is there something else?”

  “No,” said the man. “I used to come here when it was Mr. Lennert’s store. It looks the same.”

  “I imagine it would. You’ve seen one apothecary, you’ve seen them all. Although of course they are not all equal.” He was making idle conversation while trying to figure out his fee. It would have to be reasonable, but too reasonable and the man might doubt the value of the syrup. Hallam was certain that the decoction would work, but it was the first time that week he’d been called on to mix anything.

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Mr. Lennert.”

  “Oh, no,” Hallam said. “We purchased the shop while still in England. We exchanged letters.”

  “It’s a pity what happened.”

  “Yes,” said Hallam. Two shillings for a week’s dose was reasonable. A pity?

  “You must own the building now.”

  Hallam glanced up, oddly certain that someone else had entered, but it was still only the two of them. Why would the man have asked such an impertinent question? Hallam nodded, although in case of fact he did not own the building. It was none of the man’s business. With one shop each to carry back in Camden Town and Clapham, Hallam senior and junior had agreed it was wise not to carry more paper on bricks, especially when they would need funds to get through the mild spring and summer seasons, when people had less need of apothecaries.

  “I thought I recognized some of this stock.” The man displayed an amused face.

  “As I say, there’s little enough to distinguish between stores like mine. It’s the expertise that is different.” He stood now, his hands flat on the glass countertop. Mr. Lennert’s pill tile was to his left, a piece of white and blue porcelain with a dip in the middle from many years of use. It had the faded insignia of a griffin in it and Hallam imagined it might have come from home, wherever Lennert’s home would have been. He’d seen such an insignia on German products. He wished his father had presented him with his own tile on leaving home; he’d anticipated a gift like that, but instead his father had pressed two ten-pound notes into his hand at the docks in Thamesport.

  The man was drifting away now toward the back, looking down into the top of the cabinets. His hand trailed behind him in a showy way, and he drew it in to stomach level and stared at his fingertips. He made a turn of the room, coming down beside the opposite counter, his back to Hallam. He appeared to be trying to remember something, or bring the right words to mind. What if Lennert had owed someone money, such as this Mr. Wilcocks? They hadn’t asked Lennert what his reasons were for relocating to Buffalo: they seemed clear (why stay in Toronto when you could live in Buffalo?). And his reputation was sterling. But it seemed to Hallam that this Wilcocks could be a debt collector, or an unhappy supplier. For all he knew, this man could have more claim on the inventory than he did. And then Hallam saw something very interesting. With a precise gesture of an index finger (capped with a perfectly formed white nail), Wilcocks pushed a box of gripe water back into place on the top of its pyramid at the end of the horseshoe counter.

  “How long were you with Mr. Lennert?” he asked the gentleman, who now made slowly for the door.

  “Some time.”

  Hallam kept pace with the man, coming down behind the counter on the other side of the store from him. “His apothecary was satisfactory?”

  “It was excellent.”

  “I have your ticket, Mr. Wilcocks.” Hallam held out the little slip of paper and Wilcocks took it without looking at it. “Have your friend come around five. What name will he give me?”

  A flicker in the man’s eyes. “He’s too ill to come. I’ll have to pick it up for him.”

  “It’s my responsibility to ensure the patient understands the dosage. And counterreactions can be very dangerous. I should have to tell him what compounds to avoid while on the medication.”

  “I see,” said the man.

  “I’ll go to him then. Just let me write down the address.” Hallam returned with purpose to his position behind the counter and brought out a pencil. “Is he nearby, or should I hire a trap? I’ll have to add the cost of travel if I can’t walk it.”

  “Why don’t I see how he is, then?” said Wilcocks. “I don’t want you to go to the trouble if he’s improved.” The man nodded, then held the ticket up in the air between himself and Hallam, as if it were proof of something. “I will see him later today, and I’ll ask him if he’s well enough, and if he isn’t, I’ll come with the directions.”

  “You are something of a good friend,” said Hallam. “Fine then. I’ll wait to hear from one of you. His name? Should he come in?”

  “Peter,” said the man. “Peter Burns.”

  Hallam came forward and shook Wilcocks’s hand. “I’ll see one or the other of you then.”

  “Yes,” said Wilcocks, and he bent down to put his hat on — half bowing, half retreating — pushing his head into the empty bowl of the hat as if an invisible force prevented him from lifting it any higher than chest level. It allowed him to hide his face.

  HALLAM TURNED BACK into the shop, to exchange one lungful of air with another, and then strode back behind the counter, as if a wind were coming and he had to lay his hands on anything not stuck down. He watched Mr. Wilcocks’s form in the right-hand display window as he started off to the west, and he wondered idly if the man’s presence had somehow changed something, like a dash too much of salt in a pla
in soup. But of course the interior of the shop was the same as it had been all that morning, and the previous night, and all of the week and month before: generally empty, a shrine of old burnished oak shelves and labeled bottles. Hallam counted to five, then snatched his coat off the back of the tall chair behind the pill counter and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Wilcocks was in front of him, proceeding at an easy pace toward Yonge Street, and Hallam followed him. In the street and on the sidewalk, the marks of different species of traffic were imprinted in the snow: on the sidewalk, bootprints had made a series of gray lines into which shadows fell; there, in the street, wheel ruts and hoofprints dug up the dirt beneath, mixing it in to make a hard beige slurry. By day’s end it was a more uniform brown. Snow, thought Hallam, is the only weather that makes stillness seem busy.

  “Dinner already?” said Mr. Boyers from his doorway. He owned a thriving hardware business, with two shops in town, a wise business to grow on in just about anyplace, but best of all in a new one. There was no season for two-inch iron floor spikes, nor wire, nor bolts. The man was useful to everyone at all times. Better to sell hardware, or sugar, or raw cloth, or just about anything that a healthy populace goes out of an afternoon to pick up a little of, for who doesn’t need a patch for his pants? A gill of sugar for his wife’s tart? Or a screw to hold together the chair he sits in, attired in those new pants, while waiting for the rudely healthy English Rose to place the slice of still-steaming pie in front of him? No wonder Boyers was fat. He was a drunk too, and by three in the afternoon smelled of two if not three little jars of whiskey. If he managed to snare Hallam in conversation, it could take the better part of an hour to escape.

  “Someone forgot his change,” Hallam said, holding up a closed fist to preempt his neighbor.

  “Off with you then, Honest Tom. Drop in for tea if you like.” A toothy smile.