‘Yes, of course.’ Nora manages to spit out; mortified that Mrs Fowler would actually mention her condition in public. Perhaps Mrs Fowler will even pat her bump!
‘I believe you’ve met Willa, my girl. She will collect whatever I need for the next few months and I’m sure you and Mr Mockett will accommodate her. Mr Fowler will see to the payments. After all, our husbands share business concerns.’
At that remark Nora flushes from head to toe and a deep anger begins to brew within her. Whatever business occurs in the damp dark of their cellar, how dare this woman speak of it in the company of their customers. How careless of her. The assistant and the patrons shoot questionable looks towards them now.
Mr Mockett intercedes at just the right moment.
‘Ah, Mrs Fowler. How lovely to see you. Do not worry yourself with anything at all. How happy both Mrs Mockett and I are for you and Mr Fowler. We wish you great joy. Isn’t that right, dear?’
‘Oh, yes, yes of course,’ Nora replies.
‘May I offer you a chair, Mrs Fowler?’ he asks.
Clovis turns her complete attention to Mr Mockett in the way that makes a man feel as if only he exists – even though his wife stands shoulder to shoulder with him.
‘You are too kind. No, thank you. I won’t stay long. You have met my girl, Mr Mockett? I was just informing Mrs Mockett that …’
A sharp breeze accosts the apothecary when the door creaks open again. Two women stand together Anubis-like in their mourning dress. The shop fills with the clanging of the Five Bells public house from Three Colt Street, as if to herald the sisters’ entrance. Beginning at half past two in the afternoon, five times the bells toll to announce the afternoon’s closing of the docks.
The fragrant odour of the botanicals and drying herbs of the apothecary fades against the overpowering incense that clings to the sisters’ crepe clothing. They lift their skirts to climb the step into the shop revealing their grievous silk petticoats and plain black stockings. They are swathed in the black of the dead, a lustreless, sombre and depressing black. Their gloved hands grasp parasols of inky chiffon. Their faces cannot be distinguished behind their veiled hats, with the exception of the blue-tinted spectacles Verity wears that are intimidating and quite unnerving.
The fourth bell clangs.
No one moves or speaks; the ghostly sight strikes even Clovis mute. Willa retreats to a corner unsure what kind of protection she may need from these apparitions. Constance and Verity seem to have drawn all the air from the room. When they advance further into the shop towards the counter, row upon row of jet bead necklaces shimmer around their necks, crunching whenever the sisters move. Mrs Mockett dashes over to them and relieves them of their parasols. The sisters appear very grand in a way they do not intend.
The tone of the fifth bell fades.
Owen Mockett comes to his senses and silently blesses his wife for insisting he change into a clean shirt after staining his first one at dinner. Surprised to see the sisters, he assumes they must be out of ‘retirement’ from the world and able to return to society in a limited way. He’s been administering to them at their home regularly for over a year following the death of Mr Lawless. They have not been well. No, not at all. In fact, though there is no hint of it today, during their retirement he had never seen them quite so … vulnerable. And possibly, just slightly, unhinged.
‘Good afternoon.’ Constance’s bell-sleeve droops down, like a bird with an exceedingly wide wingspread, as she raises her arm and points at the shelves of medicinal glass bottles.
‘The last remedy was not as effective, Mr Mockett.’ Her voice is hoarse, her delivery, deliberate. A wisp of her silvery-white hair floats with her breath, trapped as it is under her veil.
No, indeed it was not. Owen has been carefully monitoring Constance Fitzgerald who was without a doubt completely and wholly dependent. He hates to admit that he is not entirely without blame. It happened slowly over the past year, drop-by-drop. Each fortnight he had increased the strength of the formula. She requested, ‘Stronger, more potent, please, Mr Mockett.’ However, there is, for the first time since the drug gushed through the sluices of the country, some concern about opium and its effects. So Mockett politely refused her, a precaution he felt he must take for her sake, and because the eyes and ears of the Society of Apothecaries whose jurisdiction he is under are everywhere.
But Constance had sought another source. She was introduced to a rent-collector who was connected with a burying club. She had a bad reaction when she chewed a raw form of Turkish that blistered her mouth. An unforgiving case of pruritus claimed her so severely that she scratched holes in her body. Worse than all that, the opiate sleep upon which she relied, that always came like a soothing, red blanket, eluded her.
By the time she called upon Mr Mockett again for help, her fingers and mouth had acquired a blue tinge. She looked as if she had aged twenty years and her blistered gums were beginning to deteriorate. Mockett was alarmed at how quickly she had descended into what was sure to be a poisoned death.
Constance was anxious to conquer her dependency and he was anxious to help her by devising a plan for a slow progression of withdrawal. Mr Mockett notices with relief that the tinge of blue at her fingertips is paler than it was the previous month, which is evidence that she is not waning and no longer as miserable a slave to the sleeping draught as she has been.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fitzgerald and good day to you, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ Mockett nods to the sisters.
Verity, whose attention has been drawn to the leech pots, turns to face him. Her nod
