The other driver opens his window, ‘Tired of living, are you?’ he shouts.
Luke shouts back, ‘Sorry,’ and drives on. The near miss hasn’t cooled his excitement. On the outskirts of Cantisham he looks at his watch. Not yet time to meet Eva, but the prospect of an empty house is unbearable. He pulls up at the Woodcutters, a dreary pub on the edge of town which, he suspects, owes its survival to the big screen in the bar. He hasn’t been in since a first visit years ago; today it deserves another chance. A blackboard outside reads TV – Bayern Munich v Norwich. Relive the day. It is only when he climbs from the van that he sees a card on the passenger seat. Handwritten it says Rhona with a large X and a mobile number. He kisses it and places the card in a back pocket.
Inside the stuffy bar Luke finds a dozen locals. One calls out to him from a table, ‘Didn’t know you were a City supporter.’ It is Alf, with a half empty pint in front of him and Maurice asleep at his feet. Neither he nor anyone else in the pub is taking more than a passing interest in the match.
‘Drink up and I’ll get you another,’ says Luke. They watch football and talk vegetables and fence posts, but Luke feels that part of himself has not left the sublime comfort of the parlour at Saffold Farm. More than once he checks that the card is still in his pocket.
‘You? Watching football in the Woodcutters? I can’t believe it.’ Eva laughs. They are in the Queen’s Arms, braving the new chef’s Thai Special. Luke has said nothing about his visit to Saffold Farm. ‘I knew Alf would be there, and there was some allotment business to discuss.’ The facts are half true but Luke knows he is approaching the point when he will have to be honest with Eva about Rhona, or he will be entering a world of lies and deception. Perhaps he is already there.
‘And this afternoon’s customer?’ asks Eva. ‘Did you make a sale?’
‘Yes, a very satisfactory day. Now tell me about your afternoon.’
‘I fell asleep doing the crossword and didn’t wake until four. Gave the house its token weekend clean. Made myself do half an hour’s weeding. And in the pub – did you cheer when the goals were scored?’
‘You have to enter into the spirit of The Woodcutters.’ This again, he knows is approaching a lie, having arrived at the pub as the second half of the game was starting, by which time he had missed all the goals in the match. Afterwards, there had been replays, but . . . Eva deserves to be told about everything before further duplicity.
‘Busy week ahead of you?’ he asks.
‘No,’ she frowns. ‘You’ve known for ages I’ve run down the workload before my mini-sabbatical.’
‘Oh, of course.’
‘Luke, what’s the matter? You seem distracted.’
‘Sorry. Guess I’m tired. The beer in the pub didn’t help.’
‘And maybe you shouldn’t see customers on a Sunday.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he says, knowing he would see Rhona on any day, at any hour of her choosing.
‘What was this customer like?’
‘Boring couple on the edge of town, but as long as they spend money . . .’
After the pub, as usual on a Sunday night, they go their separate ways, Eva towards Brick Kiln Cottage, Luke towards Back Lane. As soon as he is in the door of Number 7, he rushes to his diary in the kitchen, turns to the pages of August and confirms, as he suspected, that the month is free of appointments. But the four days, 19 – 22, each has a pencilled note, Eva in Birmingham. He smiles, knowing he can invite Eva to Corsica in the confidence that she will refuse. He does not believe in Fate but some power is on his side. And there is no need yet for Eva to know about Rhona. But another voice says to him, What exactly is between you and Rhona? You talked. There was silence. There was an innocent goodbye kiss. Nothing more. He almost believes it.
Before going to bed he googles Lynton Travers and makes some notes: Born in England. At the age of eight was in the Basque country with his Communist father when the Civil War broke out. Father fought against Franco. Young Lynton remained in Spain and sometimes ran messages in the mountains for the Communists. Both returned to England during the Second World War. Art School, early success, clashes with the critical establishment about his return to traditional subjects. Move to Santa Marta where he was instrumental in restoring a derelict village. Former monastery now the home of a summer school.
Again resisting the temptation to find out more about Rhona, he searches online for the stage version of Peter Pan.
9
Restoring Rhona’s mirror is a sacred ritual, each part of which must be carried out with the utmost devotion to detail. Even the drive to the storage barn on the edge of town at 7.00am on Monday is no workaday task. And his head, since waking, has been abuzz with thoughts about the future. A 5am plan was to phone Rhona’s mobile number as early as reasonably possible – he must hear her voice again. But a simple phone-call is insufficient; there must be a pretext other than, ‘Thanks for a great afternoon,’ or some such platitude. Far preferable to be able to say, ‘I’ve found that mirror I mentioned – shall I bring it over?’
He arrives at the barn earlier than any of the tenants of the light industrial units, beating even the wood-turner, normally at work by 7.30am. Unlocking the main gates and parking near his barn, by far the biggest building of the complex, he entertains more thoughts of the future, of plans for converting the barn into a house with an entrance and garden not affected by the units. With so much space, so many outbuildings, if Rhona ever needed a new studio . . . The conversion plans, like Russ’s retirement date had remained a distant prospect, but now . . .
Inside, he walks down one of the rows of mirrors stored on pallets in bays, according to size and date, many bought years before he was born, including the frame destined for Rhona’s parlour. He removes its cardboard and paper covering, his fingers trembling. It is exactly as he remembers: a simple 1820s design, its water gilding worn in places with the boulle exposed, giving it, to his mind, the charm of natural ageing which no amount of deliberate distressing could ever replicate. He is certain she will love it.
Now the second stage of the ritual. Since it is without a mirror plate, a suitable glass to be cut to size must be selected from stock. The loose plates are stored at the far end of the barn. There can be no compromise in quality. Rhona must have Vauxhall glass of the period, not a thicker Victorian plate. The search begins. Half an hour passes, he hears the wood-turner’s van arrive, another vehicle pulls into the yard, he hears the sounds of power tools from the units, but the desired glass eludes him. He continues to hunt, certain that somewhere there will be the perfect piece, with wear equal to the frame but not so worn that its days of reflecting are over.
In the dim light of the barn he imagines Rhona looking into it as she walks past, or sitting at night in a room lit only by the candles in front of it. He sees himself sitting there with her. By which time Alden would somehow have disappeared from her life. That is a certainty.
At last, the perfect plate. He lifts it, but at the same time two large eyes look up at him from the floor. The glass moves in his hands. He almost drops it. The eyes, oval and silver, too big for a mouse or rat, stare at him. He freezes before realising that they are two pools of mercury which must have bled from this or another old mirror plate. He relaxes, smiling at the thought that if Health and Safety officers knew about this store, they would issue orders for its immediate closure.
He places Rhona’s mirror plate safe on a palette. With a knife blade he sweeps the eyes into a jam jar, feeling lucky not to have dropped the precious plate and now to be clearing up its razor-edged shards.
The remainder of Monday and all Tuesday, in Russ’s absence, is spent carrying out minor restoration to the frame’s woodwork and gilding. On a rushed commercial job, he and Russ might have employed quicker techniques, but this mirror demands the best of which he is capable. No modern wood adhesive can be used; instead, traditional scotch glue that needs to dry overnight. Time-consuming, but short-cuts are unthinkable. Gesso and bou
lle also demand time, but for this task hours will not be counted.
At 9.00am on Wednesday he turns the shop sign to open. Outside, the market goes about its unhurried business, but in the shop it doesn’t matter if there’s none – serious, casual, trade or private – only the task in hand. Strange, as ever, to be here without Russ, and difficult to recall when Russ last took a few unscheduled days off. Tomorrow, on his return, there will no doubt be a full account of the funeral.
Luke stares at the mirror plate. But now it is more than a mirror; it has become a talisman which, handled in the correct way, will produce the desired result. He opens his tool box and removes his diamond glass cutter. To use Russ’s is unthinkable - under workshop law cutters are one-man tools. He measures, makes marks, measures again, positions the ruler. Now he must concentrate on the line down which he draws the diamond, make himself forget that she will see this object almost every day of her life, pause in front of it, look at her reflection and see those eyes return their blue gaze. For a minute he must not think about her, certainly not look in the mirror at himself; the workshop is a place of frames and edges, not reflected faces.
He scores along the length of the mirror plate. Lifting it a few inches, he taps the back with a steel rod. The score line deepens. With pliers he snaps off the unwanted margin and places it to one side, pleased that his hand on the diamond remains steady after years of reliance on Russ. Turning the mirror ninety degrees, he lowers it back onto the black rubber mat which covers the workbench and repeats the procedure along its width.
The offcuts are retained with the others. Narrow, impractical-looking strips, they may have a use in a future job. He returns the pliers to their clip on the wall among the other communal tools, and his diamond cutter to his own small tool box. Having moved the glass to another table, he vacuums the work surface, removing any tiny splinters which might damage frame or fingers. Only when the frame is laid face down on the workbench and the mirror plate is fitted into the rebate, does he return to the thought that this mirror is Rhona’s. More than that, he has decided it will be a gift to her.
Eva sits in silence in her counselling room. It is a day of intermittent sun and racing clouds. The sound of a sudden gust of wind emphasises rather than diminishes the peace. In the armchair opposite Agnes sits relaxed, wearing a pale blue cotton dress and black sandals with straps of a Stella nail varnish red. If she is wearing any make-up, it is so subtle Eva cannot detect it.
‘You are looking very well,’ Eva tells her.
‘I feel it.’
‘Compared with two weeks’ ago, you seem much more in control.’
‘I think I am. But occasionally I have . . . they’re like small shocks pulling me up.’
‘What sort of pulling up?’
‘They seem to be getting at me.’
‘They?’
‘Two voices.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘Conflicting messages. But both talk at the same time.’
‘Tell me about them.’
‘The louder one tells me how stupid I was in trusting a creep like Alden. Of course, I know now I was stupid, but the voice says, “You still don’t know how bloody idiotic you’ve been.” It wants to rub it in.’
‘And the other voice?’
‘He – or is it she? – quietly suggests that there’s a chance – just possibly, against all common sense – Alden and I may still get things together. A hundred to one, a thousand to one chance, but still possible. I don’t want to hear this message either, but it nags at me all the same, hard on the heels of the other. I’m not going mad, am I?’
‘Not in the least. Finishing a relationship is not so different from a bereavement. Something dear to us has ended – a life, a love. Part of us accepts the fact, but the loss can take many months to make itself felt. We want to go back in time to when things were different. In the case of a death, this is of course impossible. With a lover . . .’ Eva pauses.
Agnes continues for her, ‘We remember the good times, imagine they could be repeated.’
‘So when you have these shocks . . . voices, what do you do?’
‘I try to ignore them, get on with my work. Luckily they don’t come very often.’
‘Ignore them so they go away?’
‘I guess so, but . . .’
‘They haven’t quite gone yet?’
‘Not quite.’
‘No?’
Agnes draws herself up in her chair. ‘I suppose I become aware of them, whatever they are, about twice a day.’
Eva decides Agnes is attractive, but not in any usual or obvious way. Much of her charm is in her voice, a confidence tempered with a hint of vulnerability. ‘Instead of ignoring them, have you tried talking to them?’
Agnes frowns. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Supposing, for a moment, I was the voice of reprimand. Would that be OK?’
‘Why not?’
Eva sits up and pictures herself as her old English teacher, Miss Forbes, a harridan who believed literature was to be read and analysed, not delighted in. ‘Agnes, you have no inkling how incredibly imbecilic you have been, carrying on with someone you knew would let you down.’ Eva raises her nose in the air, brushes the back of her head with a hand, picturing Miss Forbes touching her bun of white hair. Agnes is visibly shocked. Will she retreat or confront me? wonders Eva in a silence, broken by, ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’
Agnes goes for confrontation. ‘I know I was stupid. Right? And you don’t have to tell me again. OK?’
For a moment Eva wishes she had been able to talk back like this to Miss Forbes. She now relaxes into her chair, the harridan dismissed, and says quietly, ‘Of course, you may get back with him. Give yourself time and you may find that . . .’
‘No way,’ snaps Agnes.
‘You don’t know for sure. Many happy relationships are founded on the most inauspicious of beginnings.’
‘I don’t want a happy relationship with him.’
‘You were happy once.’
‘Cloud cuckoo land.’
‘It sometimes felt like cloud nine.’
Agnes pauses. ‘Get lost,’ she says, shifting her feet and looking away.
Very quietly Eva says, ‘It may seem like a million to one chance you could be happy with him. But think, most people meet their partners as a result of those sorts of odds.’
‘I’ve already met him, been to bed with him, regret it. Now it’s over.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Piss off.’
They both laugh.
Agnes eases herself back into her armchair. ‘So ignoring’s not the way. I’ve got to answer them back. OK?’
‘It might help. We’ll have to see.’
Eva glances up at the fishermen, pauses, looks at Agnes. ‘And at work? Everything’s fine?’
‘Yes, and Rhona’s always very good to me. She lets me choose my hours, which is why I can come here most Wednesday mornings. She knows I will always work weekends if there’s a panic. And she’s even offered to lend me, interest free, the money for a deposit to buy my own place, if I ever decide not to rent.’
‘And you don’t find her presence makes you think about her husband?’
‘No, he’s hardly involved with the business and I seldom see him, thank God. And Rhona seems to have found some other guy.’ Agnes looks up at one of the Dufy prints. ‘Do you think it’s really possible for people to live together and have a so-called open relationship?’
‘It can mean quite the opposite.’
‘You mean not being open with each other.’
‘It may come to that.’
‘So open relationships are a bad idea?’
‘Different arrangements work for different people. Some couples seem to thrive on secrecy and intrigue. Others have an unspoken rule that mistresses and boyfriends are permitted providing that children, property and reputations
aren’t damaged.’
‘Do what you like but don’t frighten the horses.’
‘Something like that.’
‘But in your counselling experience, how many open relationships are successful?’
‘Any answer I give you would be misleading. I tend only to see relationships in crisis. What matters to us now is whether you are affected by whatever relationship exists between your employer and her husband.’
‘I’m sure I’m not. In fact I seem to benefit from her good moods when she’s got some other man on the horizon.’
Eva smiles.
‘I haven’t met her latest. Apparently he’s some mirror dealer. She bought a piece of needlework from him the other day.’
Eva feels the blood drain from her head.
It is 10.30am. Luke needs his coffee. There has been no Russ today to bring it to him promptly, followed later by the offer of a refill. In the kitchen he makes himself a strong pot with the Ethiopian organic coffee Russ always buys, and carries it to the workshop where all is ready.
On an electric hotplate a double chamber glue pot is at a gentle simmer. Beside it are a dozen small pine glue blocks, rectangular and chamfered, which will hold the plate into the rebate of the frame. One by one, he takes a block, brushes some glue on two sides and rubs it to and fro along the face of the rebate adjacent to the mirror plate. When, as the glue spreads and strengthens, he feels resistance between block and rebate, he leaves it in place. At the same time he ensures that the blocks touch but do not press hard against the back of the glass. Any surplus glue he wipes off with a damp cloth. It is a satisfying task, but once completed, he is glad to remove the glue pot from the heat from where its smell has permeated the whole shop, smothering even the aroma of Russ’s coffee.
The Mirrror Shop Page 9
