‘Altogether, a successful evening.’
And I have learned that I must be nice about Alden, Luke thinks, and is immediately ashamed of the thought.
Later, when they are watching TV Eva’s phone rings. Luke sits up, a voice inside him saying, It’s her at last. But he falls back in his chair as Eva answers it and spends the next ten minutes hearing news from her daughter Helen in Sydney.
In bed that night they make love but Luke feels it is more habit than passion. Eva falls asleep, but for an hour he remains awake, staring through the window at a full moon. Stabs of guilt give way to fitful sleep. At 2am he wakes from a disturbing dream. He has rushed from Eva’s house to his own where he knows the phone is ringing. But on arrival he finds the building derelict and weeds pushing through the floorboards.
He looks at Eva sleeping peacefully beside him, and recalls that she had once told him that a dream about a building can represent the dreamer’s psychological state. For over an hour he fails to sleep, but there is comfort as the first grey light enters the room and he falls at last into a second, deeper sleep.
7
At 9.30am Eva is sitting in an armchair in the first floor drawing room of a Victorian house, off the Newmarket Road, in Norwich. It is the home of her supervisor Stella who is pouring coffee from a silver pot into two small cups. She places one on a quartetto table by Eva’s chair, and the other on a wine table next to a many-cushioned wing armchair into which she nestles. When Stella lifts her cup Eva notices that the nails of her long fingers are painted with a red more luminescent than any colour she has ever seen.
They sit and drink in the silence of a long-established routine. ‘I think a few minutes without words is a useful way to begin,’ Stella had said at their first meeting, fifteen years ago. Eva had warmed to the suggestion – an approach so different from the verbal volleys of her previous supervisor in his modern office in a concrete building at the University. Eva sips the exquisite Arabica and watches Stella run her fingers down a string of turquoise beads, their colour enriched against a mauve dress, the collar of which is touched by her long silver hair. Eva is reminded of an aging Afghan hound.
Eva looks around the room whose books, bronzes and oriental rugs remind her of the Freud Museum. If Stella’s possessions were swapped with the contents of Sigmund’s study, she thinks, nothing would be incongruous. Three Egyptian urns on a high shelf suggest that Stella might even share the great man’s love of ancient artefacts.
Stella breaks the silence in her usual tangential way. ‘And how is Luke?’
‘He’s well. The other day he even suggested we move in together.’
‘And will you?’
‘Eventually, I expect.’
‘And do you talk much about your work with him?’
‘I tell him about almost every case. I alter a few details of course, names mainly, but I don’t think he takes much interest. Years ago he loved hearing about marriage problems and cases with strong sexual issues. He used to call me his private pornographer. Less so now. Not that I ask him much about his mirrors. It’s gardening and fishing where we have most in common.’
‘And are the fish biting?’
‘They did on our last trip.’
‘Good. Now the bereavement client – how were the final sessions?’
At 9.00am Luke wakes to find a cup of cold green tea on his bedside table and a note from Eva: You were out for the count, so I tiptoed off to work. Talk later. E. XXX. P.S. Did I exhaust you that much??!?
As he shaves Luke realises that twice in the last fortnight Eva has been up before him. Am I getting lazy or complacent or is it my health? he asks, examining his complexion. But during the semi-rural walk to his own house, under a warm sun, his confidence returns. He relishes each step, every familiar flint and brick of the houses he passes. He enjoys peering over walls at the hollyhocks and foxgloves in traditional flowerbeds. He frowns at paved areas with box spirals and bay trees in tubs. But the silent criticism gives way to inner questioning and self-rebuke for romanticising Victorian gardens, knowing that this part of town in the nineteenth century was an area of poverty and deprivation. ‘Reality, reality,’ he says out loud. He makes a detour, looping down a lane so the walk home becomes double the distance. It doesn’t matter if he’s late at the shop – Russ will be there. He needs time to think, and walking is the best way. He remembers one of the few snippets learned at school in Latin lessons – solvitur in ambulando: a matter is solved by walking. And he must solve what his mind is calling this Rhona nonsense. Yes, nonsense it must be – unreal, a fleeting distraction. As he cuts through the churchyard with its cordoned-off wildflower areas, he is determined that today he will not again be obsessed by a non-ringing phone.
Back home the house is musty, as if he has been away for more than one night. He opens some upstairs windows to let it breathe, changes his clothes, and after a quick inspection of the roses in the garden, walks to the shop, resolving yet again that this will be a normal day. From now until closing time he is a dealer and restorer of mirrors.
When the coffee has appeared Russ goes back to the workshop and returns holding a three-drawer satinwood dressing mirror which has lost some of its veneer.
‘The lady who brought it in said she met you last night. “Is it worth fifty pounds?” she asked. I said we’d get back to her. She apologised that the central drawer’s locked – “lost the key years ago,” she told me.’
Luke examines the mirror. ‘But Russ, the middle drawer’s unlocked.’
‘Had it open in half a minute after she’d left. Guess what I found inside?’
‘A purse of guineas? A gold ring?’
‘All the missing veneer. I can have the lot stuck back by lunchtime.’
‘Do you think I have a twang in my voice?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh, something this woman said to me last night. I think we’ll give her the fifty pounds and say that if we do well with it once it’s restored, we’ll give a donation to the Cantisham Society.’
‘How badly did she annoy you last night?’
‘She has this idea that the market place needs a couple of plane trees.’
‘Perhaps she should move to France.’ Russ, mirror in hand, returns to the workshop.
The phone rings. Aware of new resolve, Luke moves a slow hand to it.
‘This is W J Haulage about the Elman shipment . . .’
Having dealt with the carrier, Luke relaxes in his chair. Levelheadedness has returned. A few steamy fumes of scotch glue drift from the workshop. The smell of a working day is reassuring. He is in control of his life; perhaps the morning walk has released a few endorphins and bestowed some equilibrium.
‘Now what have we overlooked?’ asks Stella.
Eva smiles at the question, always asked towards the end of their meetings, and reflects on her recent cases. In the silence she feels that it is during the moments they do not speak that the real work of supervision is conducted. She looks out of the half-open window behind Stella’s head. Wisteria leaves cover the upper three panes. Two months ago racemes of almost the same colour as Stella’s dress had hung from the climber. Now the flowers had long gone and it needed its summer pruning. ‘I think we’ve touched on all the case issues.’
‘No other matters?’
‘I don’t think so. Only . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘In a recent counselling session I found myself reliving the emotions I felt when I had to leave London. I was unnerved.’
‘Did something in the session trigger this?’
‘The client was directing her anger at me – quite personally – which I thought useful, but it did strike an old wound which I thought had healed.’
‘Healed, perhaps. But don’t the shadows of emotional wounds always remain? And we who are mad enough to be therapists are often in situations where the shadows seem to come alive.’
‘It was uncomfortable.’
‘How are things now?’
‘The pain was short-lived. The following session she apologised for her outburst and I think we’re now making progress.’
‘The old shadows can become useful tools. Now when do you start your mini-sabbatical?’
‘At the end of the month. But it’s only until November, and in August I’m reading a paper to a study group in Birmingham.’
Stella rises from her chair. ‘Now come downstairs and look at my lilies. They’re being attacked at night by some invisible creature and I need your advice.’
Mid-morning Luke is standing in the centre of the shop among two couples and three children. The adults are taking varying degrees of interest in the stock, the children are eating ice creams. A sale is unlikely, but since they have opted for his shop and not the coast on such a hot day, there may be a chance of some business. None materialises and as soon as they have left the shop Russ emerges from his workshop, rag in hand, and removes children’s finger marks, real or imagined, from every low surface. Why does he do it? thinks Luke. It’s so unnecessary and . . . No, it’s part of the shop routine. Today is a normal day and Russ must follow his normal patterns.
Other callers enter and leave, and he sells a decorated washstand. Normality restored, he goes home for a lunchtime sandwich. Sitting in his kitchen, he watches clouds build from the south and the sunlight shrink from the walled garden. With its disappearance his confidence fades. He is trapped, as if the morning’s routine, rather than imparting stability, has only served to remind him that he is caught in dull mundanities of his own making. He shivers and goes upstairs for a sweater. On his return he looks at the angling reports in the local paper. The bass have moved along the coast in large numbers towards Cromer. Perhaps he and Eva should have another fishing trip. He considers texting her but hesitates. Through the kitchen window he watches a heavy summer shower, ideal for garden and allotment, fall and pass over, leaving on the lawn raindrops which sparkle in the returning sun. The shower seems also to have refreshed his mind, but as soon as he returns to the market place a malaise descends. The sight of the shop front with his name over it makes him shudder. It is as if he is looking at his own gravestone, recording a safe, uneventful life. His work, once seen as a challenge to be seized and enjoyed, has now become a monotonous routine. Shocked at the realisation, he halts, staring up at the hotel sundial. Below are the words Time is short. They tell him that his world has become too comfortable and without any prospect of change. Even thoughts about dawn fishing in the North Sea, with all its unpredictability, no longer excite him.
As Luke approaches the shop an urgent-looking Russ opens the door. ‘You haven’t forgotten about tomorrow’s auction at Tudfield, have you? It starts at nine and the viewing’s only this afternoon.’
Retracing his footsteps along Back Lane and down an alley to his garage, Luke is glad of an escape from the shop. But driving to Tudfield, the sight of mauve tufted vetch and acid yellow ragwort on the verge of the country road induce a sadness: it is the third week of July; midsummer is over. In many fields barley and wheat have already been harvested. The cycle of seasons is turning but his own life is stationary, fixed in an unchanging, colourless routine. There should be some pleasure in driving to view this auction, one of the few remaining which has no online catalogue. Once he would have felt the excitement of the chance of a bargain. Today it is a duty which would have been forgotten but for Russ’s reminder.
Despite the auctioneer’s poor advertising, the village hall car park is so packed he is forced to leave his van a hundred metres up the road. Walking to the hall he recognises the vehicles of other local dealers and habitués of salerooms. Members of both categories are rooting around the outside lots spread on the paved area near the hall’s front door. He inspects the unrestored pine furniture, battered armchairs, garden tools, flower pots and miscellaneous boxes of garage and shed detritus. He is drawn to a pair of Victorian terracotta garden urns, but closer inspection reveals cracks and losses. Inside, the furniture on offer is stacked around the walls, while at the far end smaller items are untidily spread on grubby white sheets on trestle tables. Luke says hello to the porter and joins the shuffle of viewers. There are only two mirrors which might be worth bidding on. Both are large, nineteenth century and plain but with the gilding in fair condition. One retains its original glass, the other is terminally cracked. Habit suggests he should buy them. Restoring them is an easy task for Russ. There are plenty of spare mirror plates in store which could be cut to the size of the cracked plate. The likely hammer price would leave plenty of room for profit. But today he doesn’t care.
A semi-retired Norwich dealer appears at his side. ‘Your sort of gear this, isn’t it Brewie?’
‘Was, Len, was. I’ve enough restoration projects for two lifetimes as it is.’
‘You’ll still buy them, I bet.’
Luke looks round the room and sees four Georgian chests of drawers and a set of eight Regency chairs. ‘A few lots for you furniture boys, I see.’
‘Nothing to get excited over. The business has changed.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Same reason as you. Always have done. Can’t change now.’ Len shrugs and stalks off.
Luke looks at him move from chest to chest, a man governed by ingrained habit, not choice. Have I become like that? he wonders.
Turning to leave, Luke is confronted by a pair of wide blue eyes.
‘Luke, hi,’ she says, almost sings, and rests a hand on his arm.
Luke feels his earlier resolve drain away.
‘I was going to phone you when I got back home,’ Rhona says. ‘Now what about tea on Sunday afternoon? You’ll be able to see how much we need a mirror.’
For a moment Luke envisages himself flaked out in an armchair at home on Sunday afternoon, exhausted after a morning’s gardening at Eva’s and her usual large 1.00pm lunch. ‘That would be lovely,’ he says.
‘Shall we say four o’clock? Doesn’t that sound wonderfully old-fashioned? It’s a pity I don’t know how to make scones. You couldn’t look at a plan chest I was thinking of buying, could you? I’m worried there might be some awful damage I haven’t spotted.’
Rhona leads him to a corner of the hall where a black-painted plan chest is almost hidden behind an assortment of canvas golf bags. A heap of Second World War uniforms is piled on top. Luke checks that each of its nine drawers runs smoothly. Having examined the top and sides, he hauls it forward to see if the back is sound.
‘Looks fine,’ he says. ‘It’s in two halves, so it shouldn’t be difficult to move.’ He notices that she is wearing a light blue cotton shirt over jeans. Her jet black hair is tied back with a diaphanous floral scarf. He tells himself, remember these details.
‘How wide do you think it is?’ she asks.
Again he runs his eye over it. ‘Forty inches. And in every dimension. It’s almost a perfect cube.’
‘Don’t you have to measure? How clever. What do you think I might have to pay?’
He notes that her lipstick is almost the same colour as her socks and that there is the tiniest gap between two of her lower teeth. ‘You might get it for twenty. You may have to pay a hundred. But I’m only guessing.’ Two of her shirt buttons are open and the top of her black bra is visible.
‘I’ve never bid at an auction before. I think I’ll be too nervous. I may have to get Alden to do it for me.’
Luke wants to say, ‘I’ll bid for you,’ but some inner force, perhaps the wish not to appear to rival Alden, restrains him. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage,’ he says.
Again she rests a hand on his arm. ‘You’re so kind. Now I’m definitely going to dig out my recipe books and find out about scones.’ She looks down the length of the room towards a woman who is waving at her. ‘That’s my lift – I must dash.’ She sways forward as if about to kiss him or perhaps expecting Luke to kiss her. Taken by surprise he doesn’t move and Rhona melts into the hall.
As he drives home he recalls what she was wearin
g, reciting each item like a mantra: jeans, light blue cotton shirt, pink socks, black bra, floral scarf – silk perhaps – around her head. Only the colour of her shoes escapes him. He remembers the tiny gap between her teeth, the suggestion of a parting kiss, and above all her eyes, the blue eyes. But was she wearing a ring? What is her height? These details are uncertain. And yet he knew the size of the plan chest at a glance and even now recalls the exact shape of its wooden handles. Should he attend tomorrow’s auction? She is sure to be there. He needs no excuse: the dusty world of the country auction with its dealers’ rings, intrigue and poker faces is home territory. No, he is seeing her on Sunday; to see her before would somehow devalue that visit. He is forty-eight, not fifteen in Chiswick High Street, stealing glimpses of the girl in the florist’s who worked on Saturdays; buying flowers for no-one in particular, simply for an excuse to see her, when she was the one person he wanted to give them to but was too scared to say anything.
Part II
8
As Luke drives to Ulford, the oak trees along the familiar road seem to have grown or moved position, and as he passes a barn he is certain he has never seen before, he wonders, how can a road I’ve travelled a thousand times have altered so much? A mile later a telephone box at the crossroads before the Ulford turn seems to have sprung up overnight among the faded green cow parsley, heavy with seeds, which cover the roadside. And yet, since it is the famous K6 model, it must have stood there bright red and obvious for God knows how long. Curious too that the seven mile journey at a speed dictated by narrow rural roads has been quicker than expected.
It is 3.50pm when he arrives at Ulford church. He pulls in at a makeshift layby and cuts the engine. Under the eaves of the church, house-martins dart to and fro, almost invisible against the flint wall. He looks at a late Gothic window and notices a rectangular panel of medieval fragments leaded among later clear glass quarries. In the church where his grandmother’s funeral had taken place there had been a similar group of remnants in a window. He can still remember the inscription, Gather up the fragments. He had thought at the time that this described his own work – gathering often damaged mirrors, long-removed from their original settings, and finding a new home for them. The church in front of him, without a house in sight is perhaps itself a remnant, almost the last survivor of an earlier Ulford which had later been rebuilt half a mile down the road. Was Rhona’s house part of the original village? He looks down the lane on the right, the junction half-hidden by the bushes and ash trees in the churchyard. It is still too soon to drive down there.
The Mirrror Shop Page 6
