Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘And has your family any enemies?’ he asked, digesting this.

‘Enemies? No more than most of the burgess houses of Glasgow, sir. Success breeds envy. No, this was apothecary work, maister, and the apothecaries mostly gets on well enough.’ She rose. ‘Now, the kale willny chop itself, and Maidie’s got enough to do. Where did I leave your plaid?’

‘It seems very silly,’ said Alys, avoiding two men with a barrel slung on a pole between them, ‘to take you away from the house just to accompany me a few doors down the street.’

‘Never you fret, mem,’ said Jennet happily, looking about her. ‘The work’ll get done anyway, we were about finished in the kitchen, and it’s not right you should go about on your own now you’re a wedded lady. Is that no that Mall Hamilton that used to work for Lady Kate’s man?’

‘Very likely,’ said Alys, pausing before the apothecary’s door. ‘She dwells just off the High Street, I recall. Do you want to come in with me, Jennet, or would you sooner have an hour’s liberty?’

‘Och, I’ll come in and get a word wi them in the kitchen here, and then I’ll be handy for when you take your leave.’

Alys nodded, and pushed open the door. A string of little bells slung on the inside jingled cheerfully as she stepped into the shop. It was a light place, with a big window to the street rather ostentatiously closed by glass both above and below. Behind the counter, to one side of the door, James Syme was weighing rice into folded papers, surrounded by boxes and bags which all stood open to assist the birth upstairs. Jennet had followed her in and stood inspecting the merchandise critically while she enquired after the Renfrew women.

‘My good-mother’s groaning still,’ said Syme, shaking his head sadly. He was a handsome man rather younger than Gil, with waving golden hair and a pink skin, but had a way of speaking as if he was imparting a valuable secret, even if he discussed the weather, which Alys always found irritating. ‘I fear it’s not going well, that’s a full day and a night since she was taken wi’t and the bairn not come home yet.’

‘Poor woman,’ said Alys with a surge of sympathy. She had never attended a birth, even with Mère Isabelle in Paris, but all she had ever heard — ‘If there’s anything I can do?’

‘We’re doing all we can think of,’ said Syme, slightly offended. ‘If you think you know anything new, you’re welcome to suggest it. Maybe you’d like a word wi some of them?’ He glanced at the linen-swathed jug she carried, then turned away to open the door into the house. A ragged, pain-filled scream reached them, and Syme grimaced. ‘You’ll can find your way by ear, I’ve no doubt.’

Alys knew the house slightly, and knew that most of the ground floor was given over to the shop and various storerooms and workrooms. Leaving Jennet to make her own way out to the kitchen, she went quietly up to the floor above, sparing a thought for the difficulty of getting Meg up the stairs yesterday. Stepping into the hall from the stair she checked, startled to find the two youngest members of the household locked in a furious, whispered argument, so intent on their hostility they did not notice her.

‘- nothing to do wi me, and none of your business either, Robert Renfrew!’ hissed Agnes. ‘So just keep your nose out where it doesny belong, and leave me alone!’

‘You’ve got rid of one of your two lapdogs,’ retorted Robert, ‘you’ll no get rid of me so easy, you sleekit wee jade!’

‘I never! It was nothing to do wi — ’

‘Where’d he get that flask, then? They’re saying it’s no one of his own — ’

Another of those screams issued from the door at the far end of the hall, and Agnes flinched. Robert looked up.

‘What’s she girning for?’ he said contemptuously. ‘You’d think she was deein, the noise she makes.’

‘She’s screaming because it hurts,’ said Agnes fiercely. ‘Get away to a keeking-glass and burst your plooks if you canny be helpful, and keep out of my business, you kale-wirm!’

Robert turned, aiming a skilful kick at his sister’s shins as he did, and caught sight of Alys in the door from the stair.

‘Oh, Mistress Cunningham,’ he said, and bowed politely. ‘Come to wait for news? My good-mother’s in yonder, as you can tell.’

Alys acknowledged this and moved forward, saying only, ‘How are you, Agnes? That was a bad day yesterday.’

‘It was,’ agreed Agnes, tears springing to her eyes. ‘It was — I canny believe it yet.’

‘Strange, that, seeing you planned it,’ said her brother.

‘I never! It was nothing to do wi me!’ Agnes sprang forward like a whirlwind, there was a ringing slap and she was gone, her feet sounding on the stairs to the floor above, leaving her brother staring and nursing his reddening cheek. The spots Agnes had mentioned stood out white against the rising colour. Alys curtsied and turned away hastily.

At the further end of the hall there was a pair of chambers one beyond the other. The outer one was bustling with women heating water over the fire, warming linen, passing an ale-cup round from a small barrel decorated with ribbons and a green garland. A close-stool behind a screen made its presence known. Mistress Hamilton was nearest the door, already flushed with the heat and the strong ale, specially brewed for the event. She greeted Alys with pleasure.

‘Have you come to wait for news, lassie?’ she asked. ‘It’s not going well.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Her mammy’s in a right state of worry for her, and Mally Bowen’s been sent for.’

‘I’d have thought she’d be here from the start,’ said Alys.

‘It was Eppie Campbell they’d engaged,’ explained Mistress Hamilton, ‘for that she’s a friend of Meg’s. But Eppie wished Mally sent for a couple hours since. They’re saying the bairn’s maybe the wrong way round, poor lassie. Here comes Marion Baillie, that’s her minnie, the now.’

Mistress Baillie emerged from the inner room, followed by another of those screams, at which the woman stopped, biting her lips, and put a hand out to steady herself on the court-cupboard she was passing. Alys flinched in sympathy and moved forward, nodding to Nancy Sproull and then to Grace Gordon, and curtsied to the older woman.

‘I’m Alys Mason,’ she explained, ‘from a few doors up. I brought this.’ She held out the little jug she carried. ‘It’s hot water with honey and aquavit and a sprig of thyme.’

‘She drinks any more, she’ll driddle the bairn out,’ remarked Nancy Sproull. ‘Grace was just giving her something and all.’

‘It might put some strength into her,’ Alys said. ‘How is she?’

‘That’s a good receipt.’ Mally Bowen materialized beside them. ‘She’s right weary since I turned the babe. I’ll try her wi some of that the now.’ She took the jug and retreated to the inner room. Mistress Baillie shook her head, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘That’s kind, lass,’ she said. ‘Oh, my poor lassie. It’s no — it’s never — ’

‘It’s hard for you to watch,’ said Alys, putting a hand on her arm. ‘Can I do anything?’

‘I don’t know what’s to do for her. She’s — we’ve got her lying down for now, she’s that weary, and it’s no dropping as it should, even though they turned the bairn — we’ll have her back in the chair shortly, but — ’ The incoherent speech broke off, and Mistress Baillie drew a deep breath and looked at her intently. ‘Did you say you were Alys Mason?’ Alys nodded. ‘Were you no at that gathering yesterday?’ She nodded again, and the other woman looked about them at the bustling room, then put a hand on Alys’s shoulder. ‘Come out here if you will, lass, till I get a word.’