The Dark Side of the Mirror

by Pat Herbert

  “I can’t keep calling you Robespierre,” she complained, trying to get her Cockney vowels around the name. “It’s too much of a mouthful.”

  Robespierre Fentiman grinned as he peppered his soup. “My friends call me Robey – you know, like the comedian.”

  “Comedian? Oh you mean the man with the eyebrows – George Robey.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can’t stand him. He’s not at all funny like he thinks he is.”

  “It’s a matter of opinion. But Robey’s easier to say than Robespierre.”

  “That’s true. Robey it is then.”

  “You’re married, aren’t you, Dulcie?” he said suddenly.

  She nearly dropped her soup spoon. She’d swing for that Monica Hurst one of these days. “What makes you say that?” she said, looking at him through large, innocent eyes.

  “Come off it, sweetheart,” he said, winking at her. “You don’t think I’ve not made it my business to find that out.” He didn’t much like that miserable barmaid, but he wasn’t going to drop her in it. He didn’t have many noble qualities, but at least he didn’t peach on people when he didn’t have to.

  Robespierre loved the way her eyes, saucer-like, gazed innocently into his. “It’s none of your business whether I’m married or not,” she said, beginning to bridle. “You didn’t bother to ask me if I was married when we were necking in the back row of the Plaza last week.”

  He shrugged. “This soup’s not very hot,” he observed, ignoring her petulance. He was used to the women he took out reacting this way. He was always more relaxed with married women because, in the end, they were in no position to make demands on him. It was the single ones who wanted to marry him, that caused the problems. As a rule.

  “You’re a cool customer, I must say,” she grumbled, swallowing her soup with a gulp. “You came out with me even though you knew I was married. So you’re in no position to act all high and mighty.”

  Robespierre grinned at her. She really was beautiful when she was angry. “My dear, it makes it all the more exciting, don’t you think?” He reached across the table and chucked her under her expertly powdered chin. “You mustn’t mind me and my little ways. We get along, don’t we? Let’s not quarrel. The night is young.”

  “…And I’m so beautiful. Isn’t that how it goes? You’re a smooth talker and no mistake.” He could see her smile despite herself. He knew she wasn’t fooled: he was just out for a good time and nothing more.

  “That’s me. Charles Boyer’s got nothing on my chat up lines.”

  Dulcie, being a film fanatic, loved Charles Boyer and melted at the sound of his name. Now she looked closely at her handsome companion, she could see a distinct resemblance to that Gallic film star. She was putty in his hands.

  “I bet you’re married too,” she said, after a moment.

  “That, my dear girl, is absolutely none of your business and you’d do well to remember that.” Was she imagining it, or was there a faint threat in his tone?

  “What you gonna do about it if I don’t?” she said, more bravely than she felt.

  His face darkened and he leant forward and grabbed her free hand in his. He squeezed hard. “I said be careful, young lady. I’m not to be trifled with. We are going to have some fun together and – when it suits me – and not before – we will stop.”

  Dulcie stared at him. She wasn’t used to not being in control of these situations. Usually men wheedled and whined when she had had enough of them; it was she who always called the shots. She realised that the man seated opposite, sipping his lukewarm soup, was dangerous. Very dangerous, indeed.

  Toying with the remains of her own soup, she looked at him carefully, and then came to a decision: a little bit of danger spiced up one’s life, there was no doubt of that. She cleared her plate and wiped her lipsticked mouth with her napkin.

  Summer, 1956

  “Hello, dearie. Can you take this bag? No, not the little one, the heavy one.”

  Mrs Nancy Harper stared at the bundle of clothes on the vicarage doorstep until it transformed itself into a vague human shape. It was a while before she realised the shape belonged to a woman of uncertain years and even more uncertain state of health. In fact, the poor old soul looked like she was about to collapse under the weight of her portmanteau and various other bags and baggage she was carrying.

  “Where d’you want me to take it, ducks?”

  “Into your hall, of course. You don’t expect me to stand here on the doorstep all day, do you?”

  “Please yourself, but it’s gonna rain any minute.”

  The old lady tutted and, before Nancy knew what was happening, had pushed past her into the hall. “That’s better. Now, let me look at you, dearie.” She turned to the vicar’s housekeeper and put her hands on her shoulders.

  “Get your ’ands off me!” said Mrs Harper. “Who the ’ell are you, anyway?”

  “Now, now, calm down. You’re a good soul, I can tell. You belong with the angels.”

  “Not yet, I ’ope,” declared the irate housekeeper. “Tell me who you are and what’s your business with the vicar.”

  “Hasn’t he mentioned me to you?” said the old lady, removing her hands from Nancy’s shoulders and fishing in her capacious handbag. “How very remiss of him. This will enlighten you,” she said, handing her a large pack of cards.

  “What’s this?” Nancy stared at the pack with the strange figure drawn on it.

  “Oh, no, not that. I didn’t mean you to have that. That’s my Tarot pack, dearie. No, this is my card.” She handed Nancy a crumpled piece of card in return for the Tarot cards.

  Nancy read the words, but was none the wiser. “Anbolin Amery-Judge – let me bring you comfort and lighten your load. Let me pass on your thoughts to those loved ones who have passed over. Bog Cottage, Deep River Passage, Holloway, tel: AMBassador 1234.”

  Nancy read the card over again and still made nothing of it. “You something to do with the funeral parlour down the road?” she asked, scratching her head.

  “I’m a clairvoyant. Doesn’t it say that on the card?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice it,” said Mrs Harper. “Just a lot of airy fairy jargon. P’raps you should make it clearer just what your line is, love.”

  “Hmmph! I think it explains my line very well,” she replied, snatching the card back. “Now if you’d be so good as to show me to my room –“

  “Your room?” Nancy was more perplexed than ever.

  The old lady sighed. “I see I need to explain. My name, as you know, is Anbolin – pronounced Anne Boleyn – Amery-Judge and I have been recommended to the vicar by Dorothy Plunkett with whom he is acquainted I understand. I’m here to help with a haunting.”

  “Blimey!” said Nancy. “We’re not ’aunted, love. You must ’ave been misinformed…”

  “I am not in the habit of picking up the wrong ends of sticks, my girl,” she said angrily. “I wrote to – what’s his name – Reverend Palto – quet – that’s it – saying I would be happy to help with the haunting and that I would be here today, at three-fifteen prompt. And, as you can see, here I am. Three-fifteen prompt. Though now, with all this argy-bargy, it is now three-twenty.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Nancy, still not really seeing at all. “His reverence never said nothing to me about your visit. Can you wait ’ere till I find out what’s going on?”

  “Hurry up, then,” said Anbolin. “I’ve never been treated so badly before. I’m usually welcomed with open arms. I’m here to sort out a problem for him – the least he can do is have the welcome mat out.”

  “Just wait there and don’t get your knickers in a twist,” said Nancy. Just who did this old biddy think she was?

  “Anne Boleyn, Mrs Aitch? Has she got her head tucked underneath her arm?”

  Bernard sniggered at his own witticism. Nancy Harper gave one of her sniffs. “Very funny. ’Er name’s very long-winded – that’s only the beginning of it. It goes on for a bit an
d then ends up with a Judge. Mean anything to you? Says she’s ’ere on the recommendation of Miss Plunkett.”

  Bernard suddenly smiled. “Of course, Mrs Aitch. I know who she is. I wrote to Dorothy asking her to recommend someone.”

  “Recommend someone for what?”

  “Oh, just confidential business for one of my parishioners, Mrs Aitch,” said Bernard. He didn’t add that she was being a nosy old so-and-so, but he thought it. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  “She’s got loads of bags and a great big case with ’er,” said Mrs Harper, well aware that Bernard was snubbing her. “She says she wants to be shown to ’er room, if you please. I ain’t got no room ready for ’er. The guest bedroom’s not even aired. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know she planned to stay, Mrs Aitch,” said Bernard in genuine surprise. “She only lives in North London, so I’m surprised she expects to stay here. But, nevertheless, you’d better get the room aired and make her welcome. Why not treat us both to some of your fondant fancies? It is nearly four o’clock.”

  Nancy smirked to herself. Never forgets ’is food, that one, she thought. “Shall I show ’er up then?”

  “Yes, you’d better, I suppose.” Bernard had little else to occupy him as he had actually finished writing the next Sunday’s sermon already and it was only Friday afternoon. This was a record for him, as he was usually putting the finishing touches to his words of wisdom at five to ten on the Sunday morning itself. Which was pushing it, as the service started at ten.

  Mrs Harper turned to do his bidding. “Don’t forget the fondant fancies!” Bernard called after her.

  Fifteen minutes later, Anbolin Amery-Judge was sitting with Bernard in his study, biting into her first fondant fancy. Unbeknown to him, she was possessed of an appetite very similar to that of his own, and she was determined to devour most of the cakes on the plate.

  Bernard watched in horror as he saw each delightful morsel enter her mouth and work its way down her gullet. She’ll have to go, he thought grimly, grabbing the last cake before it was too late.

  “Now, young man, are you and Dorothy courting then?”

  “Courting?” Bernard was astounded at the old woman’s effrontery. He already disliked her intensely for stealing his food, and now he disliked her even more for being so personal. “Not exactly. We are friends, that’s all.”

  Anbolin gave Bernard an appraising look. “Hmm,” she said, guzzling her tea. “You’re not really her type, I can see that. But there’s no accounting for tastes. Anyway, she said you have a problem that she thinks I can help with.”

  “Are you a clairvoyant like her?” he asked.

  “I taught her everything she knows,” she said haughtily. “I can assure you you’re in safe hands with me.”

  Bernard, looking at the old woman, for all the world the spitting image of Margaret Rutherford in her Madame Arcati role, was not at all convinced of that.

  Autumn 1936

  Danton Fentiman was an identical twin; he had struggled all his life with that fact. It wasn’t so much that he saw himself as unique and was unhappy that another person looked exactly like him; it was more that his twin brother was a thoroughly amoral character. Identical in looks but not in deeds. Danton was an upright, church-going citizen, full of kind and gentle thoughts and ready to like everyone until they proved themselves unworthy of his approbation. On the other hand, Robespierre was lazy, cynical, rude and always waiting to grab the main chance, no matter how unethical it was.

  From tiny babies in their playpen, their personalities alone separated them. Nobody, not even their parents, were quite sure which one was which; but it was soon obvious when interacting with them. Danton would give his toys to anyone to play with; Robespierre, far from giving his toys away, stole them from other children.

  Danton was approaching forty years of age. He held a solid, if rather staid, position in a reputable insurance firm and had a wife on whom he doted. Charmian had been widowed after only a year of marriage, and Danton had met her when he had come to discuss her claim on her husband’s life assurance. It had been love at first sight on his part. She was the kind of beauty usually described as ‘English rose’, having soft, blonde hair, blue eyes, rosy lips and porcelain skin.

  His heart had gone out to her as she sat there in her widow’s weeds, dabbing her eyes with her lace handkerchief, pouring him tea. Her husband had contracted a rare virus and died within a couple of days, leaving her with only a meagre allowance. Fortunately, his life assurance had been fully paid up, and Danton was able to settle the claim quickly, alleviating her suffering on that score at least. He couldn’t bear to see her pretty eyes fill with tears at the mention of her late husband, and it was all he could do not to put his arms around her there and then.

  He returned a couple of weeks later to give her the cheque and to see how she was coping. Although wan in complexion, she was still beautiful to him and he fell in love even harder.

  “One lump or two?” she asked very prettily, her delicate hand holding the sugar tongs over the teacup.

  “Two, thank you,” he said, retrieving the cheque from his briefcase. “Here is our cheque in payment of the full amount of your – er, late husband’s life assurance.”

  “Time enough, time enough,” she said, ignoring his outstretched hand holding the cheque. “I don’t like to think of my dear Percy being summed up in pounds, shillings and pence.” Her lace handkerchief was on display once more.

  He coughed with embarrassment, realising that somehow he had made a faux pas and hating himself for it. He had trodden on her delicate feelings, and didn’t quite know how to retrieve the situation. He put the cheque on the table between them and proceeded to ignore it as well.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, handing him his tea. “I know you’re only doing your job. I must seem very ungrateful to you, Mr – er, Fentiman.”

  “Danton, please.” He suddenly felt much better.

  “Danton? Is that your name?” A puzzled frown darkened her sweet face for a moment.

  “Yes. Silly, isn’t it? My brother’s got an even worse one – Robespierre.”

  “Robes - ?” She put her hand to her lips to stifle a giggle. “That is a funny name. It makes yours seem quite normal in comparison.”

  Danton smiled. He loved the way she laughed; he loved everything about her. “Yes, that’s true. I’m grateful for that, at least.”

  “Danton is a very nice name,” she said, offering him a biscuit from a pretty china plate. “I think it is distinguished.”

  Danton almost visibly swelled with pride. Distinguished – yes, he supposed it was. He blushed in confusion as she looked at him with her sad, sweet smile. He wished with all his heart that enough time had passed for him to offer to be more than just an acquaintance to her.

  Dabbing his mouth with his napkin, he rose to leave. He had a few more visits to make that morning, otherwise he would have made any excuse to stay a little longer.

  “Must you go so soon?” she said coyly. This time he blushed to the roots of his hair. Was it his imagination or was she intimating that she felt an empathy with him? Maybe she needed a male champion at this difficult time, someone to protect her from the big, bad world. He wanted, oh how he wanted, to be that champion.

  After he had left, she swiftly picked up the abandoned cheque. “And about time, too,” she said.

  That was three years ago. Now he was almost forty, Danton began to wonder whether he would ever be a father himself. His brother had been blessed with twins who were now ten years old, but he and Charmian had not been so fortunate. He couldn’t bear the sad look in his lovely wife’s eyes when, yet again, she hadn’t conceived. Nature had played them a nasty trick; he didn’t know where the fault lay, but he had more or less given up all hope of being a father after three years of marriage.

  Danton had been shocked and surprised, and not a little delighted, when Charmian had accepted his proposal of marriage six mont
hs after the death of her first husband. He had fully expected her to demur and produce a fainting fit at the very least, saying that he was far too bold and premature for such a suggestion. But instead she had smiled softly and taken his hand, fluttered her eyelashes and said simply “yes, please”. He had almost passed out with joy.

  She had been a quiet and devoted wife from the moment he married her. She had been soft and gentle with him, and attended to his every need. There was nothing she would not do for his comfort and yet … and yet.

  Danton Fentiman was a disappointed man. He had the wife he adored but he felt something was missing. He didn’t know what, but something wasn’t quite right. It was probably the fact that he hadn’t been able to give her a child, and the resentment she must have felt, although well-hidden, was unspoken between them.

  But one bright spring morning his whole world brightened. She smiled at him across the breakfast table and refused a second cup of coffee.

  “But you always have a second cup, my love,” he said, puzzled, as he replaced the pot in its stand. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “No, I’m quite well, dear. Positively blooming, in fact.”

  “Then why don’t you want another cup? It’s an exceptionally good brew this morning. Daisy has excelled herself.” Daisy was their live-in maid, and a treasure.

  “I’m well aware of that,” she said, smiling even more broadly. “But I’ve been advised that too much caffeine isn’t good for me. Especially now.”

  “Especially now? What’s so special about now?”

  Her husband could be quite obtuse at times, Charmian thought, not altogether fondly. She continued to smile however. “I can see that you’re not getting my drift, dear,” she said.

  She watched him as he folded his newspaper in preparation for work. She could see his hasty glance at the mantel clock, knowing that he would miss his train if he didn’t get a move on. Sighing, she could tell he wasn’t in the mood for riddles at so early an hour.