Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘Mistress!’ It was Nan’s voice, urgent. ‘He’s next door. In the physic garden.’

She turned and ran to the foot of the Renfrews’ garden. There was a gate, much like the Morisons’ gate, but little used. She wrestled with its latch, struggled to drag it through the mud, squeezed through into the garden, past a barrel standing just inside the fence.

‘John?’ she called. ‘Where’s John? Come to Mammy Alys!’

No answer.

‘He’s yonder, mem, I can see him,’ said Nan, her head just visible. She put an arm over the fence to point up the slope. ‘Yonder, beyond the peas or whatever that is.’

The red tunic was visible, through the dried stems on the trellis. Not peas, surely, something more medicinal. She hurried up the path, past the midden. The Renfrews had been poisoning rats, there was a little heap of the creatures with a dead crow next them. Briefly aware of relief that John had not found that, she went on. In Kate’s garden there were voices, which must be Mysie and Nancy returning.

‘The men haveny seen him, my leddy.’

‘We’ve found him. He’s next door in the physic garden.’

‘Our Lady save us, what will he be at? There’s all sorts there he could put in his mouth!’

‘What’s he eating?’

She rounded the trellis, and the same question hit her like a flung stone. John sat on the ground, beaming up at her, his mouth smeared with fragments of something, brighter red than his little woollen tunic. He held out his hand, showing more crushed berries.

‘Morple,’ he said happily.

She knelt beside him in the earth, alarm surging up through her body, tightening her chest. With shaking hands she persuaded his mouth open, raking inside with an experienced finger, extracting broken fragments of fruit. He objected, rearing backwards, pushing at her hand, but did not bite.

‘What is John eating?’ she asked him. ‘That’s not good, John. Bad berries.’

‘Goo’ bez,’ he contradicted, opening and closing his fat little hand on the pulpy mass. She scraped them off his palm, and scooped him up, looking round.

‘Where did you get the berries, John? Show me.’ Her heart was hammering as if it would leap out of her mouth. What the fruit was poisonous? What if he- how could she face her father? How could she face the harper, the boy’s father?

‘Morple,’ he said again.

There was nothing with berries on it where he pointed. She set him on the ground again, saying, ‘Show me, John. Where were the berries?’

He looked round him, up at her, and round the garden again. More voices over the fence, men’s voices. Have you got him? Aye, there he’s over the fence in the physic garden. Christ aid, what’s he found there? She ignored them, intent on the child.

After a moment John trotted off towards a shaded corner by a laurel bush. Not the laurel, she thought, please blessed Mary I beg of you, not the laurel!

They’ll eat anything at that age , said the voices over the fence. My cousin lost one afore he was two, from eating unripe elderberries. What’s the bairn got?

‘Bez,’ said John happily. He squatted down to gather more, and held up a bright red berry between thumb and forefinger. ‘Morple, pease?’

She stared at the patch of ground where he sat. Dark oval leaves flopped this way and that, and above them little stems nodded, each bearing a curve of bright berries. Not the laurel, but nearly as bad. How many had he eaten? How many would it take to -

She found she was running towards the gate, the child in her arms, wiping fragments of berries off her hands on his back and shoulders. He was struggling, and exclaiming, ‘No! No! Want bez!’ and the gate seemed to be getting no closer, as if she was running on the spot. Her mind was whirling round and round like a squirrel in a cage. What was the treatment? Was there an antidote? How many had he swallowed?

Nan was at her side, offering to take the boy from her. She clutched him closer, despite his indignant cries, and tried to run faster.

‘What was it? What had he got at, mem?’

She stared, open-mouthed, over John’s dark curls. Her Scots had deserted her.

‘ Muguet ,’ she said. ‘ Muguet des bois . Little white — scented — I don’t know — ’

They were in Kate’s garden, and Mysie was wailing and Nancy was hiccuping in shock. Edward was screaming, the two little girls were sobbing, everyone seemed to be crying except herself and Kate and Nan, but a ring of silent, appalled men stared at the scene. She set John down on the bench, and he pushed away from her, red-faced and cross.

‘Want bez,’ he reiterated. ‘Mine bez. Now!’

‘He had eaten berries of muguet ,’ she said to Kate, still unable to find the Scots word. ‘I don’t know how many but it is poisonous. We should make him vomit, we should — ’

‘Right,’ said Nan practically, seized the boy and pushed a finger down his throat. He screamed angrily at her, but did no more than hiccup and scream again when she withdrew the finger. Her next attempt obtained only furious roaring, which escalated rapidly into a full-blown tantrum.

‘He’s no having any,’ said one of the men. ‘I doubt, I doubt — ’

‘May lilies,’ said Kate suddenly over her son’s screaming. ‘Lily of the vale, Our Lady’s Tears.’ She was shaking, but gathered her stepdaughters to her. ‘Come, come, lassies, no need to cry. You wereny to know he’d run off.’ She handed the baby to an awed Wynliane. ‘Can you stop Edward, I mean Floris from crying for me? Andy, get the men back to work, there’s nothing for them to do here.’

‘He’ll no throw it up,’ said Nan despairingly, looking down at the roaring child in her arms. ‘Should we try salt in water, mem?’

‘I don’t like his colour,’ said Alys. ‘He’s gone very pale if that’s a tantrum. And he’s slavering.’

‘Has he vomited?’ A new voice. Alys looked round sharply, and found Grace Gordon at her elbow, her apron full of crockery. She seemed out of breath. ‘Has he vomited?’ she repeated.

‘No, we can’t make him — ’

Without comment Grace set down the things she carried on the bench beside Kate, poured water and a few drops of something into a small beaker, added a single drop of something else, advanced on the child still roaring in Nan’s arms. Mysie had stopped weeping and she and Nancy were clinging together staring. Edward was still crying.

‘Had you cleared his mouth?’

‘Yes, yes, I — ’

‘Hold his head, then,’ Grace directed. Alys obeyed, and the entire contents of the beaker vanished into the square scarlet mouth. John choked, spluttered, began to cry rather than roar. Grace watched him tensely until he suddenly wailed in distress, dribbled at the mouth again and was very sick. Nan tipped him expertly forward, and Grace inspected the results in the grass.

‘Only some fragments,’ she said dubiously. ‘Is he finished, do you think? He needs to empty his wee wame.’

‘No, there’s more,’ said Nan as the child wailed again.

Grace stepped back, and said to Alys, ‘What has he eaten today?’

‘Bread, porridge,’ said Alys shakily, trying to recall. ‘Nancy, what did he eat?’

‘Two raisins,’ said Nancy. ‘An apple. Or was that last night? Oh, mem, I’ll never forgive mysel!’ Her face crumpled again, and she scrubbed at her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Bread and porridge,’ repeated Grace, bending to study the second instalment. ‘I think that’s most of it, then, and the apple, and it looks as if he’d only swallowed one or two fragments of the berries.’ She broke off a twig of box from the nearest hedge and poked at the mess on the grass. ‘Good.’