‘Can it be a simple service? I certainly wouldn’t want a eulogy, nor would she. And I’ve no idea if she had a favourite piece of music, but I do know she never liked hymns. And nor do I.’
‘That’s so refreshing to hear. We’re under such pressure for a funeral to be a musical biography that it’s wonderful to find a non-Catholic not wanting one. And a requiem says more than a thousand renditions of I Did it My Way.’
Eva smiles, wanting to add that Barbara always did things her own way, but has no wish to enter into a discussion about Catholic and secular funeral practices.
‘Now, Monday’s funeral,’ he says. ‘Are you familiar with the church service and the committal at the grave?’
‘The funeral director has explained everything. I’m sure I know all I need to know.’
The priest seems content with her answer and stands to leave.
Eva shows him to the door, surprised the visit has been so short. It is not the pastoral visit she was expecting, and light years from bereavement counselling. But another part of her is grateful for its brevity; the last thing she needs is unrequested advice from a minister of religion. As she watches him leave and head for the main building, she thinks, off he goes for more last rites, and realises that she is angry. She needs to get away for a few hours. She changes into jeans.
On a bike borrowed from one of the kitchen staff, she cycles down the Kilnaboy road, with half an idea of visiting the graveyard where Barbara will be buried. But exhilarated at being away from St. Anthony’s and with a welcome breeze in her face, she cycles past, giving no more than a glance towards the ruined church. Further on she passes the guest house where she and Luke had stayed on their visit to Barbara in the spring. They had talked of returning. Now this would not happen. She speeds up, forcing the pedals as hard as the old bike will allow.
Heading towards the wildness of the Burren, she remembers the many walks enjoyed here with Barbara, and later with Luke whom she had introduced to the landscape. On one trip they had listed the different orchids they had seen, and last April they had searched for other rarities.
Near the Burren, she chains the bicycle to a gate and retraces their footsteps. It had been a damp day, but the weather had not deterred them from walking across the moonscape of limestone ridges and peering into the deep crevices to be surprised by the plants, and attempting to identify them. She does so again, marvelling at the botanical resilience in such a seemingly hostile terrain. After an hour of stooped investigation, her back aching, she walks towards the dolmen where she and Luke had sheltered during a heavy shower. Approaching it, she tries to recall the exact place where they had stood beneath the massive upper stone.
Looking across the Burren she hears Barbara’s words about Luke, ‘the stick to beat Mark with for leaving’. Surely not. Wasn’t her split with Mark as amicable as any divorce can be? Luke was not a weapon against her former husband and his partner. Luke and she had fallen in love. She closes her eyes and tries to focus on the time when Luke moved from being a client to the man she loved. Yes, I was newly-divorced, but how hurt was I?
Struggling to recapture the emotions of twenty years earlier, she finds herself saying the words she said to Agnes in the pub, ‘It was too long ago. A different life.’ Again she hears guffaws from the bar, but now they are directed to her. Shivering, she opens her eyes and looks around as if the inebriated jokers are close at hand, ridiculing her inability to know herself. But she sees only the dolmen and the limestone terrain stretching out silent in front of her. She wishes Barbara had lived longer – their last conversations had been too brief. Less than three weeks ago when Stella had suggested returning to the past, she had resisted – the prospect of travelling back so many years had been too painful. Perhaps at a future meeting she should allow Stella to guide her there.
She moves about, touching the uprights, their antiquity speaking through the weathered surfaces and making her own life – Barbara’s too – seem brief and transitory. Slowly, she walks back to the gate where she turns round for a final view of the dolmen which has become less a prehistoric monument than a memorial to her past, to her life with Luke. Cycling back to Corofin she wonders if the exercise has worked off her anger. And if that anger had been directed to the priest or to herself. Tomorrow she will pass the day reading, undisturbed in the library at St. Anthony’s, in preparation for Monday.
At 11.30am on Saturday Luke knocks on the door of the studio.
‘Come in, come in,’ Lynton calls.
As soon as Luke enters Lynton points to an old armchair and says, ‘I owe you an apology. I have been disingenuous.’
‘Surely not.’
Lynton settles himself in his own chair. ‘I misled you yesterday. No, I lied. I told you I didn’t do watercolours but you, with your dealer’s eye, you saw my brush rest had been recently used.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter. Will you have some coffee? I make my own here.’ Lynton stands and turns to a side table. ‘Mathilde gave me one of these new machines, and even I can work it.’
Lynton drops a capsule into the coffee maker and presses the start button, pours some milk into the adjacent frother and switches it on. ‘You see, Luke, visitors all want part of me. A painting, a preliminary drawing, a scrap of paper with a charcoal scribble. They don’t care. Some offer money, others want it for nothing. It’s all the same. They want me for whatever they can take. Perhaps prostitutes feel the same. Luke, as early as I can remember there was always a pencil in my hand. Sometimes I would give my drawings a colourwash or a few highlights, but usually not. Now I’m near the end of my life I’ve dug a few of them out and am giving them the colour which was always intended. It’s a private task. You’re the first person who knows.’ He removes the cup from the machine. ‘You have milk? Look, the other gadget has frothed it for you.’ He spoons some milk into Luke’s cup and hands it to him.
Lynton lowers himself into his chair again. ‘I lied to protect myself, but I feel I can trust you. You deal but you don’t deal in paintings and I can tell you’re not like the others.’ Lynton points to his desk, ‘So, by way of apology,’ Lynton points to the desk, ‘I want you to have those. Take a look.’
Luke walks over to the desk and sees a drawing of a line of refugees weighed down with baggage and driving animals on a mountain road. There are a few washes of colour. It is initialled and dated 1937. He turns it over and sees a portrait of a small boy making a clenched fist salute.
‘Me at eleven. Already a hardened Republican. That was done by a school friend. He died in a refugee camp in France. Now look at the other one.’
Underneath the drawing is a second, more mature, watercolour. It is a view of a mountain ridge at sunset. The dark contours of the horizon, lit behind from the falling light, form curious shapes, like silhouettes of people and animals.
Luke turns to Lynton. ‘The ridge has become a line of travellers, refugees,’ he says. ‘The two drawings relate to each other.’
Lynton smiles and slowly nods.
Luke sees tears in his eyes. He looks back at the watercolour. ‘These are the mountains here on the island. Through this landscape you have come to terms . . .’
‘You understand straight away. I will send these to you, along with some others. I burnt most of my work from the ’30s. It is too painful. ‘ He waves a hand in front of his mouth. ‘But don’t . . .’
‘I shan’t tell anyone.’
‘Alden would love to get hold of them. He is a friend and has many fine qualities but . . .’ he shrugs. ‘He would like to turn Santa Marta into a venue for a summer arts festival. As if good art need festivals.’
As Luke leaves the studio Lynton says, ‘You must visit us one spring – the atmosphere is less . . .’ He hesitates, giving Luke a knowing smile, ‘. . . less effervescent – more congenial.’ The look and tone inform Luke that the old man is aware of the tensions and social interactions of his summer visitors.
With a lin
gering handshake Lynton says, ‘Look after yourself.’
For Luke the three words are not so much a farewell as a caution. He finds Rhona, now in a long-sleeved navy shirt, in the kitchen with Mathilde, marinating chicken joints.
‘You look tired,’ Mathilde tells him. ‘It is usually Lynton who is worn out by visitors, not the other way round.’
‘I woke too early this morning.’
‘And I made him swim in a rough sea,’ laughs Rhona.
‘You should have a siesta before the play,’ says Mathilde. ‘Now have some bread and cheese with us. Get your strength up for tonight.’
‘Mine’s only a small part. I’m mainly an unrequired prompter.’
‘Even prompters must eat. Now tell me about your shop.’
Luke describes his business, certain that Rhona has already given a full account to Mathilde. He is also sure that Mathilde is Rhona’s confidante in personal matters. When Lynton joins them for a light lunch, Alden is hardly mentioned in the conversation. Luke feels that he is among allies. After lunch, Luke, a borrowed straw hat on his head, walks back to Les Puits. In the courtyard Josh and Felix are in a shaded corner going through their lines. By the well Cassie is reading hers.
‘Come and cue me in, Luke,’ she calls ‘I need one more run through to be certain.’
He joins her, cues and shares a beer. When she feels confident, he goes to his room where he closes the shutters, undresses and slips under a sheet. Looking towards the window he watches the play of light through the louvres and is reminded of his bedroom at home. He remembers the last time he and Eva slept there together and her suggestion he should redecorate. Eyes closed, he hears voices from another part of the house, and wondering whose they are falls into a heavy sleep.
He dreams of being back home on his allotment, carrying his watering can up and down between rows of chard and French beans. Sinking to the ground, he rests with his back to the tall brick wall at the far end, enjoying the smell of wet earth. Maurice walks up to him, nestling a warm head beside his.
He wakes to find Rhona beside him, licking his ear. ‘I thought you’d never wake up,’ she says. ‘It’s after six.’
Luke lifts his head. ‘Should I be getting changed?’
She strokes his hair. ‘No, make-up’s not till seven. Kick-off’s at eight-thirty. Plenty of time.’
Luke looks towards the door.
‘Don’t worry, I bolted it,’ she says.
20
Leaving his room Luke finds Les Puits has burst to life with shouts from all directions, as bodies rush backwards and forwards in various states of undress between bedrooms and the only shower. Having had a shower himself, he follows the sound of voices and finds they have all congregated in the kitchen, along with some of the cast from the school. In the animated chatter of mutual encouragement, they are standing around the table, ignoring three bowls of salad and a basket of bread.
A glance tells Luke that Rhona is not here, nor is Agnes.
‘Guarding the costumes at the back of the church,’ says Russ quietly.
Matthew too is absent. Luke turns to Russ.
‘Guarding his hi-tech magic and a mile of cable.’
Luke notices that Louise has her back to Alden as she talks to Thérèse. Alden is sharing a joke with Cassie, but breaks away and announces, ‘We may not be hungry but we must get some water down us. There’s more up at the gallery. We can’t act if we’re dehydrated.’
‘I’m not sure if I can act, even hydrated,’ mumbles Russ.
Alden fills glasses and mugs with well water.
Luke takes two glasses and passes one to Russ. ‘Have you and Matthew got the technical side primed and ready?’
‘It should be better than last night.’
‘Looked perfect to me.’
‘There were one or two timing hiccups, but I think we’ve cured them. We’re not a bad team.’
Alden claps his hands. ‘We ought to get up there, guys.’
‘No pep talk?’ Josh asks.
‘Do we need one?’ asks Alden.
‘Oh, come on,’ says Felix placing arms round the shoulders of Cassie and Josh. ‘Let’s have a huddle.’
Arms round one other’s necks they form a circle in the kitchen.
‘Don’t forget the play’s for Lynton,’ urges Alden.
‘Let’s go kick pirate ass,’ says Josh.
Alden forces a smile. ‘Break your legs,’ he says and is first out of the door.
As the others leave, Luke feels Russ’s hand holding him back. ‘A pity to let all this go to waste,’ he says, grabbing some lettuce leaves.
Luke tears off a piece of bread and dips it into the dressing. Russ shoots his head round the kitchen door to make sure no-one is lingering in the hallway. Closing the door he says, ‘Bugger the water. I can’t face the night without a proper drink.’ He goes to the cupboard, reaches behind some saucepans on the bottom shelf and produces a bottle of whisky, uncorks it and pours generous measures in their glasses. ‘Bonne santé,’ he says and drinks deeply.
Luke sips with caution. Russ quickly knocks back the rest of his glass, exhales with satisfaction and looks up at the ceiling. ‘Now I can face the vulgar multitude,’ he says.
‘The audience or the rest of the cast?’
‘The whole lot of them.’
Luke downs his own drink as Russ returns the bottle to its hidey hole.
‘You’re very well organised, Russ.’
‘Let’s call it experience.’
Luke and Russ walk up to the church across La Place des Pèlerins where the day’s heat radiates from the stone flags in the fading light. At the hotel and café a larger than usual number of outdoor tables are packed with chattering diners. Kitchen smells drift up towards the steps, in front of which rows of chairs and benches have been set out, many carrying reserved notices and cushions. At the top of the steps the pirate ship and Lost Boys’ home are being examined by a small group of children. The bollards denying access from the road have now been removed and an ice cream vendor has taken position near the school and is doing good business. To one side stand two policemen, both holding cornets. The sun has now dropped behind the mountains, and Luke, looking up towards the peaks, recalls Lynton’s drawings of a mountain ridge, its silhouette morphing into a line of exiles or the baggage train of an ancient army. He follows Russ behind the screen hanging from the tower balcony and enters the gallery.
The atmosphere inside is one of quiet bustle and reverential tones, as if the building had reclaimed its origins and its occupants were preparing for a religious festival. To one side Rhona and two girls from the school are on make-up duty, while Agnes is darting about, ensuring that each cast member has the correct costume. Hurrying towards them, she says to Russ, ‘Get a move on. Make-up’s got to do your beard.’
Luke looks at the tatty blue velvet frock coat and ragged red trousers waiting for him on a chair labelled with his name, and wonders how he has ended up in a ruined Corsican church, converted to a gallery and now a temporary dressing room for an English play in which he has a part. For Russ, already pulling on Smee’s billowy navy shorts, the exercise seems as natural as gilding a mirror. Luke looks over to Rhona. Fan brush in hand, she is making up one of the mermaids. Her adroitness sweeps away the absurdity of his situation. He is here for her, not for this ridiculous production by the fool she will soon be leaving. Encouraged, he puts on the costume.
‘Cecco next,’ calls Rhona.
The make-up chair brings a new level of excitement: she is out of sight, her presence felt through the touch of sticks and brushes. Wordless he responds to her instructions, ‘Head up now’ and ‘Tighten you lips,’ knowing that she, like him, is suppressing other thoughts.
At 8.15pm, when Luke and the other pirates have taken their places in the screened-off alley, the spyhole reveals an eager crowd with every seat taken and as many again standing as far as two coaches parked near the hotel from which emanate the only lights in the dark Pla
ce des Pèlerins. Lynton and Mathilde are in the centre of the front row. Above Santa Marta stars glitter the night sky, and in the direction of the sea the half moon hangs over the maquis.
From the cheers when the Darling children appear floodlit on the balcony, it is clear that the audience is determined to revel in every moment of the play. The descent by rope receives prolonged applause, while Tinkerbell’s rotating fall is met with gasps which give way to riotous clapping and whistling.
Nervous before his first entrance, Luke waits with the other pirates who all seem supremely confident. But when they walk on to great applause he is transported to a world never experienced during rehearsals. The elation is short-lived. Between scenes, anxiety returns, and he waits dry-mouthed and apprehensive for the second act, uncertain if he will be able to join the others in their singing entry. Now the applause heard from behind the curtain has become less a boost than a threat to his confidence. But as he enters the stage, he finds his faltering voice is encouraged by the gusto of the others, especially by Russ’s stentorian yo hos. The audience responds with more applause, changing to boos as Hook orders his men to search for the Lost Boys. But stage and audience are silenced by the tick of the crocodile, given such volume by Matthew that the sound reverberates around the village like an apocalyptic time bomb, only relieved by the appearance of the beast and consequent laughter. Luke sees Lynton, spellbound in his chair like a child, a grin never leaving his face – the exile in secondary escape.
Offstage Luke hears the third act begin with more hilarity as the Lost Boys try but fail to catch a mermaid. More boos mark the appearance of the bound Tiger Lily and cheers at her release by Peter. Not required for the scene, Luke hears Russ, audience in his hand, draw laughter from almost every line. With a keyring torch Luke follows the script, fighting the temptation to sneak peeps at the stage or audience.
In the interval he joins the rest of the cast in the gallery, where a buoyant atmosphere is not suppressed by cautions from Alden that the play is not yet finished. But the final two acts sustain the success, the single digression from the script coming when the Darling children should sing the National Anthem. In its place they sing the first verse of the Corsican Anthem – whether for the sake of the audience or to annoy Alden, Luke is not certain. He remembers his own three lines and, after Cecco’s death, exits into the gallery where Rhona greets him with a hug.
The Mirrror Shop Page 28
