‘Would you like me to examine your eyes, Mrs Fitzgerald?’
No, she indicates by slowly moving her head.
‘Then, would you like more ointment and another bottle of solution?’
Yes, she nods, that is what she requires.
Clovis has been watching and waiting for the opportunity to address the sisters. She glides over quietly, positioning herself between them. Captured by surprise they turn to her, and because they are both two important inches taller than Clovis, they look down on her with a united and protected force.
It is a thing to witness: Clovis Fowler caught slightly off her guard. She is not intimidated, yet their combined presence forces her to take a step back.
‘My deepest condolences and regret for your loss.’
The sisters in one united movement turn further to glare at this creature. Verity’s brow furrows as she thoroughly inspects the woman who has the impudence to address them and the further effrontery to refer to their ‘loss’.
Verity detaches a steel pin with a dull, black head that secures her veil onto her hat. The gauze unwinds and falls into a soft ring around her neck. She removes her spectacles oblivious to the theatrics she creates and blatantly stares for a long moment at the swell in Clovis’s skirts. Slowly she raises her naked eyes to the face of the Fowler woman who has held her nerve at the scrutiny until now. But when their eyes meet, Clovis falls short and looks away. Verity’s pink lids, both upper and lower, appear as raw as a rare piece of meat. The inflammation and redness make the young beauty’s eyes stream. But there is more – Clovis did not expect to see the hint of the madness of grief that stared back at her.
Verity retreats behind her spectacles once more. She throws the veil up and winds it round and round her hat and sticks the black-headed pin into place. Customers are beginning to spill into the shop now. Mr Mockett discreetly beckons the sisters to his corner table.
‘Mrs Fitzgerald.’ He addresses Constance. ‘I have your bottle ready. The mixture is correct.’ He gives her a stern voice and look to go with it.
Now he speaks to Verity. ‘I have made these lozenges for you.’ He opens a small box filled with flat coin-like tablets with the Mockett stamp embossed on each one.
‘These are made with a mild concoction that is most effective in this form. They are light and easy to carry. To use one, crush it and mix it with a liquid – distilled water is best – and then apply it to your eyelids like a salve. You must only do this in the evening before retiring.’ Because there are 4 drams of opium in this batch, he thinks, but doesn’t say. The drug seems to have no effect on the younger sister. She scratches her eyes at night when she is unaware of this world and lost to another. He struggles and will be damned until he devises a potent formula.
‘I wonder, Mrs Fitzgerald, why your eyes seem to be troubling you more than usual.’
Verity turns to Constance who offers an almost imperceptible nod.
‘We are learning to swim, Mr Mockett.’ She says.
A glass bottle crashes to the floor and explodes into crystal shards. Nora has dropped it spectacularly.
The assistant scrambles at once to sweep up and no one knows quite what to say, so uncomfortable are they all with the thought of the sisters submerged. Only Clovis looks slightly confused and much amused.
‘Mr Mockett.’ Constance nods. ‘Mrs Mockett. Gloved and veiled once more, jet beads glistening and striking against each other, she makes for the door.
Verity adjusts her spectacles and follows, with the Mocketts fussing along behind them.
Clovis has positioned herself at the door and takes this opportunity to offer an unctuous farewell.
‘Perhaps we will meet again soon. I wish you both a good day.’
Constance pauses at the door without turning to the woman who insists on making her presence felt.
‘Take great care of your child, Mrs Fowler. The world can be a cruel place.’
Verity sniffs as if accosted by an unwelcome odour.
Willa steps out of the corner where she has made herself small. She is drawn to the window where she hopes to catch a last glance of the sisters. She feels remarkably calm and though it makes no sense to her, she feels the moment of peace was due to them. How inexplicably sad she is to see them go.
One by one Mockett’s customers conclude their business and a lull falls on the apothecary, yet Clovis lingers.
‘The Fitzgerald sisters. A strange pair, wouldn’t you say?’ she probes.
‘Those women. They have lost too much.’ Nora replies.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I was but twelve years old …’ Owen begins.
‘Mr Mockett, this really isn’t the time …’ Nora says.
‘What does it matter? It’s no secret. It was well reported in the London papers. Please do sit yourself down, Mrs Fowler.’
‘Thank you, Mr Mockett. I am beginning to feel a bit fatigued and heavy and would like to rest before I leave. Please do continue.’ Warm smile.
Perhaps she’d like to tell us how many months gone she is, or what her belly looks like unclothed! Nora thinks, feeling a headache approaching from grinding her teeth.
‘It was thirty years ago. I was twelve years old,’ he begins again. ‘The first freeze of the winter brought us all out of our homes on the Sunday. The day before, the news was that the Serpentine was frozen. So from all corners of London, the young and the old, we all made our way to Hyde Park; the wealthy to parade their winter finery and the poor to get warm by the big fires. I went
