The Mirrror Shop

by Nicholas Bundock

  She breathes deeply and tries to relax. A minute later her mobile rings. She seizes it.

  ‘Luke, where have you been?’

  ‘Eva, this is Stella. I’m returning your call.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I was expecting . . . Yes . . . I wondered if I could see you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course. I’m in London at the moment, but I’m back tonight. Can you wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow would be great.’

  ‘Ten o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Eva?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t mind burning midnight oil if you’d prefer.’

  ‘No, tomorrow is fine.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing you.’

  The few words with Stella, the appointment made, are a palliative. In a spirit of partial release she returns to the house and five minutes later is walking towards the town centre, telling herself she needs to buy some bread. As soon as she enters the market place she looks across to the shop, squinting in an attempt to tell at a distance if the shop sign says open or closed. But a few steps later, she sees him walking to the shop door from the other corner of the market place.

  ‘Luke!’ she calls out.

  He waits for her at the door.

  ‘You’ve caught me red-handed . . . or rather black-handed,’ he says, showing her his soil-encrusted fingers. He kisses her.

  ‘You’ve been on the allotment?’ Eva tries to hide her relief.

  ‘Skiving from work, I’m afraid. But at lunchtime I thought, why should I be a slave to the business? Russ would be ashamed of me.’

  ‘Dinner at mine as usual? I walked in to buy a loaf.’

  ‘I’ll come back with you. Let me set the alarm and pick up my mobile’

  Eva follows him into the shop, reprimanding herself for unfounded suspicions. ‘Was Alf at the allotments today?’

  ‘Not when I arrived, and you won’t believe it but after a spot of weeding I dozed off in one of the hothouses and didn’t wake up until that old flea bag Maurice started licking me when Alf turned up to pick some tomatoes. And he’s got those fence posts for you. I’ll pick them up and put them in for you at the weekend’ He rubs his eyes. ‘I’d have slept for another hour but for that wretched mongrel.’

  ‘I shall definitely be reporting you to Russ first thing tomorrow,’ Eva says, deciding she believes him. On the way home she wonders if she should steer the conversation to needlework, but walking with him along the familiar roads to the edge of town, greeting acquaintances, pausing for a few words with a neighbour, she feels that her world is so normal and trouble-free that she must dismiss the idea as a poisonous compound of jealousy and paranoia.

  10

  It was a very moving service,’ says Russ as he brings in the coffee. ‘Family and all the old guard were there – those of us who’re still alive that is. And St. Jude’s was as lovely as ever, with clouds of incense to see Margaret off. Now you’ve got to have one of these biscuits. They come from a new Italian deli on Chiswick High Road which years ago used to be . . .’

  ‘Brewer & Son Mirrors.’

  ‘You would hardly recognise the old place. It’s sad, in a way, going back. And it’s all so smart round there now, with the pavements crammed with posh mothers or their nannies behind designer push chairs. You did mean me to fix the back on that mirror you’ve been working on, didn’t you?’

  ‘It was my occupational therapy in your absence. Screwed on OK, did it?’

  ‘Have a look.’

  They go to the workshop where Russ lifts the mirror up onto the workbench.

  With less enthusiasm than he feels, Luke says, ‘I cobbled it together when you were away. I may have a customer for it.’

  ‘Best bit of cobbling I’ve ever seen. I’ll have to look to my laurels.’

  Russ stands the mirror on the floor and they return to the showroom.

  ‘Most of the old shops have gone,’ says Russ. ‘It’s depressing, but some of the pubs have improved no end. I was treated to supper at The Swan last night . . . ’

  Luke sits back and listens to a course by course description of the pub’s cuisine, relieved Russ is not going to quiz him about the destination of the mirror. It will no doubt be a two cup report, but afterwards he will make some excuse for leaving the shop, go home and make the phone-call.

  Eva sips her coffee and looks up at Stella’s Egyptian urns, relaxing into the security the room always gives her. Yesterday, when she had phoned, she had pictured herself pulling into Stella’s driveway, dashing from her car and throwing herself into Stella’s arms as soon as the front door was opened. It had not been like that. Driving to the city, she had found that the mere thought of Stella’s company dispelled much of her agony, and by the time she had parked, walked slowly to the door and pressed the white enamel bell button, desperation had receded.

  She looks towards Stella, sitting opposite in her wing chair, exotic in a red and blue dress with floral embroidered belt. When Eva lowers her eyes she sees Stella is not looking at her but towards a vase of faded anemones on the stone hearth. In the silence, each time their eyes meet Eva feels her problem is somehow diminished. And wasn’t last night with Luke, supper and bed, so comfortable, so normal, that yesterday’s panic may have been a foolish, self-inflicted over-reaction?

  After a few minutes Stella places her cup on the octagonal wine table beside her chair. ‘Those flowers are like favourite shoes. They’re at their best the day before they fall apart?’

  ‘You can guess why I wanted to see you.’

  ‘Guessing usually gets in the way of listening.’

  ‘Yesterday I saw my client Agnes.’

  Stella sits back, occasionally stroking the left arm of her chair with long scarlet-tipped fingers, as Eva recounts yesterday’s session with Agnes. Eva omits nothing but pauses once as if about to cry. No tears appear. ‘Was I wise in telling her that next week would be our last appointment?’ she asks, at last feeling a tear on a cheek.

  Stella rises from her chair, walks to Eva and places a hand on her shoulder and rubs it. ‘My dear, dear, Eva, what an ordeal you have suffered.’

  Through tears Eva says, ‘I felt like killing Luke – if it’s true.’

  Eva feels Stella take one of her hands and gently squeeze it before returning to her own chair.

  ‘Shall we explore that ‘if’?’ says Stella.

  ‘How can we?’

  ‘Well, it might be worth considering whether Agnes knew exactly what she was doing?’

  ‘You mean she might have been telling me a pack of lies, making the whole thing up?’ Eva looks away and finds herself staring at a bronze dog.

  ‘It is a possibility. Didn’t she recently say to you, when she was upset, “You’re just like my mother”?’

  ‘She did, yes.’

  ‘And might she possibly be angry with you like a child is angry with a parent?’

  ‘I think we’d moved beyond that stage. Agnes had even apologised for earlier outbursts.’

  ‘Isn’t anger sometimes like an incoming tide? Only, instead of seconds between each breaker, with anger there can be days?’

  ‘And we never know whether or not the biggest breaker is yet to come.’

  ‘Exactly. So perhaps, between sessions, Agnes felt another wave of anger towards her parent figure. And like a child she wants to hurt you. The small child may, in uncontrolled anger smash her mother’s favourite piece of china, but a grown-up child may be more subtle. Agnes may have discovered that your partner is a mirror dealer and now she wants to use this knowledge to punish you. If this is so, perhaps you and your client have further to go.’

  Eva frowns. ‘No, I’m certain she was telling me what she believed to be true.’

  ‘Very well, but I had to mention this possibility.’ Stella leans forward, arches her hands and brings them together, reminding Eva of a cluster of berries.

  ‘Now, have you been unprofessional?’ Stel
la continues. ‘Perhaps.’ She shrugs and the berries disappear. ‘Forgivable and no harm, I suspect, to your client. I think you are wise to have one final session with her. And you have suggested another counsellor. That’s good. But you want to talk about Luke, don’t you, not standards of professionalism?’

  ‘I called on a friend yesterday, but I couldn’t bring myself to open up to her. She knew there was a problem and that I was holding back. I was disingenuous.’

  ‘If she’s a true friend she’ll understand. Tell me, Eva, are you surprised with yourself that you haven’t made Luke aware of what you’ve been told?’

  Eva sits up in her chair, tense. ‘It did occur to me to confront him, but it felt like making an accusation on flimsy hearsay. I didn’t want to be like those clients I see who suspect a partner of cheating and make all manner of wild assumptions.’

  ‘But you were angry?’

  ‘I was upset, but I didn’t see how bringing the matter up with Luke would help things.’

  ‘Don’t you suggest to your clients that it might be helpful to discuss things with their partners if there are uncertainties?’

  ‘Almost always, yes.’

  Stella smiles. ‘So why haven’t you done the same?’

  Eva frowns. ‘I suppose I thought we were different.’

  ‘In what way different?’

  ‘We don’t live together, we’ve never seriously talked about doing so or getting married.’ She shifts in her chair. ‘I suppose there is a tacit understanding that we each allow the other certain freedoms.’

  ‘Including the freedom to have affairs?’

  ‘The problem’s never arisen.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Of course I love him.’

  Running the fingers of her right hand through her hair, Stella stands, rearranges the cushions in her chair, walks to the window and looks out into the garden. It seems to Eva a long time before she turns round. When she does she points to the empty chair.

  ‘Now, Eva, sit in my chair.’

  Eva stands, walks over and lowers herself into Stella’s chair, but is ill at ease, a usurper.

  Eva is about to turn to the window when Stella says, ‘Look at the chair you’ve vacated. Imagine you are still sitting there.’

  Eva looks at the tub armchair and absorbs the unfamiliar view of the room. She does not recall ever having noticed two miniature silhouettes on the wall behind where she usually sits.

  ‘Now imagine yourself there.’

  Eva struggles to picture herself opposite.

  Stella says softly, ‘What do you want to say to that person?’

  ‘I want to say . . .’ She hesitates. ‘I want to say, “Don’t be so sad. Everything will . . .”.’ She finds herself unable to continue. Eva closes her eyes and shakes her head.

  ‘Everything will be alright?’ says Stella’s distant voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Eva looks up and Stella is at her side. Eva begins to get up but Stella rests a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘No, stay there. Otherwise it will become like musical chairs.’

  Stella settles herself opposite Eva and claps her hands with a grin. ‘Time for a story, I think,’ she says.

  Eva relaxes, wondering where Stella is leading her.

  ‘Once upon time,’ says Stella, ‘a long time ago, I had a client, a woman, a lady in the old-fashioned sense. Let’s call her Esther. Now Esther had an inkling her husband was having an affair. There were hints, suggestions. Nothing definite or confirmed, but a suspicion – maybe a little more than a suspicion. Esther came to me in a very distressed state. She was about thirty. And at that time I wasn’t much older. You won’t be surprised to hear that at some point I asked her whether she had voiced her disquiet to her husband. Emphatically she said no and wouldn’t entertain the idea. On one occasion I suggested she really ought to consider talking about her worries to her husband, but she was quite adamant. I can still hear her saying, “I’m not sure if that’s the sort of thing one does”.’

  Eva smiles and is about to make a comment, but Stella says, ‘No, wait, there’s more to come. I don’t know if I still have my notes about the case, and I can’t remember exactly what I wrote, but I certainly thought, typical English upper class reserve and inability to express her emotions – it’s a wonder she came to a counsellor in the first place. Or some such stereotypical reaction. Well, as it happened, Esther and husband lived in a very large house, a minor stately home you might say. And Esther decided to move from the large bedroom she shared with her husband to another of the many bedrooms and in a different wing of the house. I think she gave him some excuse – his snoring or to be nearer the children, something like that. She certainly didn’t say, “I think I need more space,” or whatever the equivalent was in those days. She continued seeing me for many months, always worried, and very upset when suspicions became supported by facts. Yes, her husband was having an affair, and with a woman she regarded as a friend. I was very worried for her. I strongly suggested that she at least consider talking to her husband about it, but she refused. She lost weight, her GP supplied sleeping pills, then some other medication. And I was worried not only for her but for her children. At one session she talked only about suicide. If ever there was an example of somebody who should have communicated with her partner this was it. And finally it happened.’

  ‘She took her own life?’

  ‘No. One morning she found a note on the kitchen notice board – that had become the default method of communication. It read, The stupid thing with her is over. If you could . . . ? That was all – a few dots and a question mark. No explanation and no apology apart from the word stupid and no asking for forgiveness apart from the enigmatic If you could . . . ?’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Esther came to me for one more session. And she spent the best part of an hour thanking me for listening to her for months on end while she was, as she put it, “ignoring every damn bit of advice you gave me.” I pointed out that giving advice was not what I was there for, but she simply said, unconvincingly, “I know, I know.” And I never saw her again, but she always sends me a Christmas card from herself and her husband with Love and thanks written on it.’

  ‘It must have helped living in a very large house. Leading separate lives in a small flat would be more difficult. And wasn’t your client risking her sanity, maybe her life, on the chance, some would say slim chance, on their staying together?’

  ‘Exactly. But, for her, this – what shall we say? – aristocratic disdain for soul-baring actually worked. Or to put it another way, sharing one’s feelings with one’s partner in times of crisis is usually helpful, but not necessarily always.’

  ‘But had she done so,’ Eva insists, ‘she might have saved herself months of agony, and the affair might have ended quicker.’

  ‘It might have done, but we don’t know for certain. She made her own decision and I have to respect it.’

  ‘In her situation I’m sure I would have . . .’ Eva pauses, scrutinising Stella. ‘You’ve told me all this, haven’t you, because you think I’m in an Esther position? Luke and I are as good as living in the same large house where we have the advantage of a wing each – separate bedrooms whenever we want them. But are you saying I should follow your Esther’s example and say nothing?’

  ‘I never gave Esther direct advice, nor would I do so to you. I simply throw the possibility into the pile of options. Some counsellors wouldn’t allow it near the pile. We sometimes fall back on the occupational clichés: ‘Get in touch with your feelings; share them with your partner.’ Our profession has its aphorisms and correctnesses, but you are sensible enough to take a broader view.’

  Eva looks up at the ceiling and runs her eye along the delicate plasterwork. ‘Luke was very passionate last night,’ she says softly.

  Stella tilts her head a fraction to one side.

  Eva averts her eyes and looks towards the anemones. ‘Oh,’ she says, closing her eyes and droppin
g her head. ‘Some things can be at their best the moment before they fall apart.’

  For the second time in a week Luke is impatient to escape the shop. He feels he has been force-fed each mouthful of Russ’s supper at the Swan, down to the last crumb of artisan bread.

  ‘I must collect some papers from home,’ he tells Russ during a long-awaited pause in a protracted coffee break, and not waiting to see if Russ raises his eyebrows, walks to the door as casually as the excitement coursing through his body will permit.

  The phone-call to Rhona must be made from home where he will be alone, away from the ears of Russ. Of course he could stand in one corner of the market place and use his mobile, but to do so would be cheap and unworthy. He needs to be away from the workaday centre of town, and undisturbed in the seclusion and comfort of 7 Back Lane. Here, not a word she says will be drowned by a passing lorry, and it will be possible to focus on her voice, to remember each phrase and intonation. And when I speak I must be relaxed, he tells himself as he approaches the front door. This must have the appearance of a business phone-call, although she, as much as I, knows that the transaction is far deeper than a conversation about a mirror.

  Inside the house he is nervous and begins composing the exact words he will say to her. He even contemplates making some notes in large letters to have in front of his eyes as he makes the call. The absurdity is soon dismissed, but only to make way for another: which is the best room from which to phone her? Where will he be most relaxed? For the last few days he has envisaged phoning her while sitting in the kitchen and staring into the peace of the garden. But with the phone in his hands, the sight of starlings strutting the paths and the grating call of others on the garage roof makes him reject the idea. Now the front room seems preferable.