Consolation

by Michael Redhill

  “Yes,” said Hallam, shaking his empty fist. Ahead of him, Wilcocks turned north on Yonge Street and Hallam began to walk faster, shifting sideways to pass two women coming the opposite way, his greatcoat flapping open like huge black wings. It occurred to him that he might have left the door to the store unlocked, and he wondered if perhaps the women were on their way to the sign of the mortar and would find the shop empty. With his luck he’d have two customers in the same hour and not be there to mark the occasion. Still, he rushed to the corner and around it, the wooden sidewalk planks offering the faint resistance of a sprung dance floor, an extra punch in his step. Wilcocks was further up the street now. He passed Adelaide and continued north, and Hallam followed under the ever-swirling snow, keeping his eyes fastened to the back of the black mantle; there were more people on this stretch of the street, most of them heading south to King, perhaps one of the only features of the city accurately advertised to them back home. As they went by, little bursts of conversation enveloped him, words strung on the air — on the health of an unfortunate relation, the state of the streets, the cost of household articles — the real stuff of daily life. Approaching Richmond Street, Hallam kept his pace steady, lost somewhat in the stray detonations of speech, but then, as if having seen a flash of light out of the corner of his eye, he was brought back to the moment and spun around and walked back two paces, the wind biting at his cheek. A little piece of yellow paper lay crumpled in the impression of a boot: the ticket for an order of Balsam of Peru.

  Hallam stood straight and looked down the street toward the lake. He resumed his walking, going faster now; he clocked Wilcocks crossing Richmond Street and the man almost reached Queen before he finally turned and disappeared into a doorway. It felt unseemly to run, so Hallam lowered his head and tried to make time by walking quickly, his legs pumping like twin pistons. He held the damp ticket tightly in the palm of his hand. He passed Richmond and finally came to the plate window of Cockburn Druggists, where he saw “Mr. Wilcocks” pulling his coat off behind the counter. The inside of the shop was clean and bright, as if the sun had twisted past all celestial obstacles just to find this one little place. Hallam shoved the door open hard and stood glowering silently in the diminishing echo of the bell. His erstwhile customer turned in mid-gesture to look back through the store, and Hallam let the little ball of paper tumble off his palm and onto the floor as if he were rolling a die. “You dropped this,” he said.

  “Ah, excellent,” said the man, who walked casually back through the airy expanse of the shop to pick it up. Hallam stood motionless as the man carefully uncrumpled the paper. “Balsam of Peru,” he said. “For a stubborn cough.”

  “You owe me two shillings.”

  “You mix quickly.”

  “And you tell lies.”

  This brought a pitying smile to the man’s face. “Peter Cockburn,” he said, holding out his hand. “Your surveiller.”

  Hallam did not take the proffered hand but glanced back through the shop, which was in possession of at least four aprons: one for this Peter Cockburn and three for the other men, two behind counters on opposite sides of the well-lit store and an older man who had just then come out of the back. He’d been right in saying that all chemist shops seemed alike, but of course one with light, and busy employees in it, had it over a store with but one worker and a few dim corners.

  “These are my brothers, Adrian and Randolph. And our father.”

  The man at the back of the store was Hallam’s own father’s age. He was drying his hands on a cloth, both of his sleeves rolled up, and looked out over the scene in his shop. The scents of mixing alcohol and carbonized sugar wafted through the space, a smell that spoke of industry. Mr. Cockburn opened the countertop to come through. “What’s the problem?” he said.

  “Your son placed an order in my shop under false pretenses.”

  “Your shop,” said the older man, coming nearer. He glanced at his son.

  “He took over from Lennert,” said Peter Cockburn.

  His father turned his eye on Hallam. For a moment all he did was absently rub the cloth over the back of his hands. Then he passed it to his son. The gesture made Hallam press his lips together.

  “So you’re the tout who’s been placing those ads in the Globe?”

  Hallam blinked a couple of times. “I have been placing ads, yes. So have you.”

  “I don’t make miraculous claims, though, Mr. Hallam. And my education is complete.” He scanned Hallam. “What are you? Fourteen?”

  “I’m thirty,” he said, inflating his age by three years. The man’s devious son was not yet twenty-seven. Of that, Hallam was sure. The elder Cockburn could have no objection to him on the basis of age.

  “You’re not a day over twenty-five, son, and you’ll not make it to twenty-six beating your chest like a fool. This is a place where people actually work to make their livings.” He snapped the little ticket out of his son’s hand, accidentally ripping it in two. He took the other half more gently and held the two parts together. “You told him you had an infection?”

  “A bad cough,” said Peter.

  His father returned his attention to Hallam. “Balsam of Peru?”

  “It’s often effective,” said Hallam, looking back and forth between Cockburn and his sons. The other two men had not moved at all, standing either in fear or at the ready, four more fists. Cockburn put one half of the ticket neatly on top of the other and held out the two portions to Hallam without saying anything. “Elecampane is overprescribed,” said Hallam.

  “Close your mouth. I know elecampane is overprescribed. Are you going to teach me to mix gripe water as well?”

  “Excuse me.”

  The bell then rang again and an elderly lady came in and nodded in the direction of Adrian Cockburn. She went by the clutch of three men standing frozen at the mouth of the store, and passed a glance at them. Mr. Cockburn and his son nodded politely at her. If she had any awareness that she’d interrupted a disagreement, she showed none of it.

  For Hallam, the disruption was much welcome; he imagined his dressing-down might have gone on until a natural break occurred, such as nightfall. The elder Cockburn followed the woman to the counter, gesturing for Adrian to retreat. He would take care of this loyal customer; he would show his eager colleague how to run a shop.

  “Mrs. Hastings has been coming here for years,” Cockburn said over his shoulder. “She has ongoing laryngeal complaints.” Mrs. Hastings turned at the sound of her name. She was a stout woman who, Hallam could only imagine, had a great deal more complaints than laryngeal.

  “We’ll prepare a fresh batch of Mrs. Hastings’s inhalation, boys. This bottle is already two days old — into the trash with it.” Mrs. Hastings smiled regally, as if a maître d’ had just ordered a bottle of the best champagne sent to her table.

  Adrian and the youngest brother, Randolph, snapped into action, and Hallam felt he could do nothing but stand there like an animal in a snare while three of the Cockburns busied themselves with making their livelihood. In the meantime, his original tormentor remained within arm’s length of him, should he feel the need to sock him in the eye.

  Adrian Cockburn handed Randolph a slip of paper on which he’d written the order; the latter brought down the bottles of the necessary compounds, assembled them on the countertop, and weighed ingredients before putting them into a base of sugar water.

  “Inhalation of benzoin,” said Peter quietly, in a tone of voice that might have been more appropriate for Prepare to die.

  “I know that,” murmured Hallam.

  Mrs. Hastings took note of him then and looked at him steadily. Through a crack in Hallam’s coat she noted the off-color apron still tied on. “Are you taking on a new boy?” she said.

  “Perhaps,” said the elder Cockburn. “If he passes my test. Mr. Hallam?” Hallam’s eyes moved dully from the old woman to Mr. Cockburn. “Unguentum benzoini. Describe three applications, two topical and one as a basis for anothe
r compound.”

  “Perhaps I will come back at another time. Sir.”

  Mrs. Hastings tilted her head at him with mock surprise. “The Cockburns are the leading chemists in the city, young man! Don’t turn your nose up at an opportunity. Why, mark how well fed these boys are. You look like you could use what they’ve supped on.”

  “Cracked skin,” said Hallam.

  “Where?” said Cockburn.

  “Usually the nipples. Fissures of the fundament.”

  “Mrs. Hastings has heard of the anus, Mr. Hallam.”

  “She is before one right now,” whispered Peter in Hallam’s direction.

  Hallam stepped back out of range of Peter Cockburn’s arm, the heat building under his coat. He had the urge to start shouting.

  “That is one use, Mr. Hallam. What of one admixture?”

  “That means how would you mix it,” said Peter.

  “I don’t know,” Hallam said. “I don’t recall.”

  Mrs. Hastings’s eyes flew wide. “Rack your mind, boy! These Cockburns will have another candidate in your apron before you know it!” She separated herself from the counter and came over, wobbling, to stand beside Peter Cockburn. “Make something up,” she stage-whispered to Hallam. “Say something.”

  Peter leaned in as well. Hallam smelled mint on his breath. “Surely a master apothecary late of England such as yourself,” he said loud enough for everyone in the shop to hear, “would know something about the most modern uses for such a physic?”

  Hallam took one step back and shouted, “BENZOIN OINTMENT!” The barracking ended suddenly. He trained his eyes on Mrs. Hastings. “It may be applied in a thin layer to a cracked anus!” he said loudly. “But beware you don’t lather it on or you’ll find it worse than the disease.” He faced the counter and continued speaking loudly as he backed out of the store. “And benzoin vapor is indicated more for the pharyngeal mucosa than the laryngeal. It is absorbed into the mucosa readily and quickly. An inhalation of thyme with a bit of magnesium added would be much more effective.” He reached the door.

  Mr. Cockburn called to him, “I can block supplies to your fine establishment with a single handwritten note.”

  These are apothecaries! thought Hallam. “You are a powerful man, I can see, Mr. Cockburn.”

  “You’ll be selling talc and baking soda if I care to make it so.”

  “But I import from England. Are you in charge of the harbor as well?”

  From his outburst, Mrs. Hastings had laid a protective hand over her heart. “Who is this man?”

  Cockburn came out from behind the counter and held a hand up to her, indicating he would take care of everything. “This is Mr. Lennert’s replacement.”

  “Poor Mr. Lennert!”

  “Yes,” said Cockburn, and continued toward the door. Hallam did not like the expression on his face. And there was that Poor Mr. Lennert again — what had he and his father stumbled into? He braced himself for what he was certain would be an embarrassing and perhaps painful end to the encounter, but Cockburn passed him and simply pushed the door open. Hallam hesitated for a moment, but then squared his shoulders and went out, back into the cold weather. Cockburn stuck his head out slightly. “I don’t think you got the job, Mr. Hallam,” he said, and pulled the door shut before Hallam could wedge in a retort. Instead he watched the proprietor of one of the city’s most established druggists walk confidently back to his counter and talk in what he imagined would have been the soothing tone he used for all his best customers. Hallam felt the eyes of the man’s three sons on him, and their stares were like a weight, something with the power to push him down. He walked a few feet south, taking in deep draughts of air, until he was out of their sight, then reached out with his hand to steady himself against a wall of brick directly south of the store. What a brotherhood is this! he thought wonderingly, and shook his head. He looked under his outstretched arm to be sure no one was coming for seconds and remained in that position. He was feeling pain in his ribs, and presently it got worse; it seemed quite sudden, as if a vice had been winched tight on his chest. My God, he thought, an infarction? but there was no pain in his arms or along his jaw, he was just unable to breathe. His eyes began to water and he pushed his head back, stretching his neck, fighting for air. Through the smudge of his sight he saw Yonge Street in front of him, and the buildings appeared altered, as if reflected in a slick of black ice: they seemed huge and glassy, carved from crystal.

  They loomed black and red and silver, and he closed his eyes and collapsed against the wall, his hand cradling his side.

  He thought he would die, but then he was on the street again, he was walking south, he was fifteen feet from where the attack had happened, and yet he walked calmly and the air passed through him, cold and metallic, as if he were immaterial.

  THREE

  WINTER DRAGGED ON. Christmas and New Year’s in the city had seemed sick with tragedy: men and women freezing in the cold; bleary fires burning in the bad parts of town. Hallam stayed at home, or shuddered in the store, alone it always seemed, and dreamed of another life. February would pass in a smear of despair. Hooded men (or were they women?) pushed on to their business, stopping only as briefly as their tasks demanded; even nodding a friendly greeting could cause people to stop too long in the screeching wind and cold. Sometimes a voice could be heard to say to an unseen hearer, “Nothing like it!” or something along those lines, and what little comfort this gave was in the suggestion that maybe they would never see another winter like this.

  Every day of those impossibly cold weeks there were boys out skating on the ice of Lake Ontario, taunting those who could see them with their easy capering, as if they were immune to the shattering cold. But immunity was not reality. On New Year’s Day they’d discovered two young boys in ragged clothing, frozen to death by Beard’s Wharf (had they thought it possible to stow away until the opening of navigation four months hence?), and Hallam’s gloomy reaction was that they had been lucky not to have to continue. His thoughts surprised him — why else would he have chosen his field, if not to give aid, succor those in need? But what life is it to freeze? he thought. To imagine that passage in the frigid hold of a vessel you are not welcome on will take away your suffering? The cold hurts for only moments anyway, and then it coddles you and you sleep. If you must die, why not freeze?

  Out of a morbid sense of obligation (sympathy, perhaps, for those who saw hope in a ship), Hallam trudged out to the boys’ funeral in Potter’s Field, the last stop for unclaimed bodies. If the tragedy had happened on any other day but New Year’s or Christmas, the funeral wouldn’t have excited the imagination of the working populace the way this one did. The Globe reported that the boys died on the first, and the funeral was held on the second, in the great unkempt field at Yonge and Bloor, just feet from the houses in Yorkville. A small group converged on the place, wandering in as if just happening by the site of the burial. The air felt as hard as something solid against their faces; the two graves were among the last ones dug in early December in anticipation of occupants through the winter months. They had the bodies wrapped in cloth and tipped them into the holes once the chaplain had commended their souls in general terms (their religions were unknown). And so they entered time, a conveyance more reliable than boats.

  Hallam trundled out with the crowd of forty-or-so fellow citizens, his eyes tearing with the wind. What true sadness was there in that frosted field? he wondered. It seemed to him the emotion in the graveyard was like the one you sometimes encountered at hangings. The pleasure of being permitted to go on with one’s day after such a thing.

  THE DEATH OF these boys was not the only evidence of a rift in the natural order. In January, there was much excitement about a man the police were interested in, a gentleman who’d begun appearing on King Street once or twice a week in the evening, dressed as if for the theater in a greatcoat, top hat, cane, and glistering spats. On the nights of his appearances, he stopped under a streetlamp and pulled from t
he inside of his sleeve a sheaf of letters, which he would then read from. Out of the other sleeve, he drew a handkerchief and performed mysterious gestures in the air, like a prestidigitator, in the direction of a window across the way. What he was doing was not illegal of course, but in a winter month when there were few arrests but for drunkenness and disorderly behavior, he was certainly of interest. The amount of attention he attracted was manifest in the way that people who lived on the south side of King Street, nearest his location, would put out their lamps early, in the hope that he would not stay away for fear of being watched.

  One night near the end of the month, a small group of men gathered on the southeast corner of Yonge and King streets, in front of Eastwell, Woodall & Co.’s School Book Store, and watched as the gentleman made his way to his regular spot. When he got out his handkerchief, they rushed him in a body. He was fast and made for York Street, where the gaslamps ended and he could take cover in darkness. The following week, a second group hid itself at Simcoe and Bolton streets, and the two groups leapt on him as he turned north into the darkness.

  Once brought to the police station, the gentleman’s hat and coat were removed and it was revealed to the surprise of everyone that he was a she, a girl of no more than twenty years. She was charged with appearing in public dressed in an attire not of her sex, a misdemeanor that had been freighted with meaning for twenty years in Toronto, ever since W.L. Mackenzie had evaded capture in Oakville by disguising himself in the stolen garments of Mrs. John F. Rogers. Of the young woman’s motives, however, or the meaning of her actions, nothing could be concluded, since she refused to speak. By the time she was arrested, the local papers had been following the adventure for nearly three weeks and expressed their dissatisfaction over the abrogation of the court’s responsibility in uncovering the meaning of her behavior. At least to Hallam and his comrades in Jewell & Clow’s restaurant it seemed that the poor woman had simply gone mad, perhaps from grief. She kept her own counsel in front of the magistrate, a silent unhappy figure. They also searched the rooms on the south side of the street, looking for the object of the young woman’s signals. But no one ever claimed any relation to her: the girl had been supplicant to a ghost.