Woman in the Mirror

by Winston Graham

  Althea Syme raised her head from the pillow. A confused light was in the room. Someone was in the room holding a lamp, which wavered up and down.

  ‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘Who is it?’

  The elder Repple boy said: ‘Sorry to wake you but I think there’s a fire somewhere. The place is full of smoke!’

  II

  About ten minutes later Norah woke to find Christopher standing by her bed with a lighted candle.

  ‘The house,’ he said, ‘is burning under us. Get dressed as quickly as you can while I try to break this door down.’

  He was gone. Norah raised her head and looked about. There was no sign of fire but there was noise downstairs. Then she caught the whiff of smoke. He began hammering at the door with the poker he had snatched from the hearth.

  She got up and dressed quickly, uncertain whether it was really serious and not sure that she was yet ready to face discovery with him. As she was fastening her stockings he came back. He was dressed except for a collar and tie. He showed the bent poker.

  ‘That’s the worst of these pieces of tin.’

  ‘Is it bad? D’you think . . .?’

  ‘Bad enough. If you doubt it, look out of the bathroom window.’

  She was aware now, suddenly, now that she was dressed, that she was too warm. It was a very unpleasant discovery.

  He picked up a chair and went out. As she lit the lamp she heard him smashing the chair to bits against the door. She followed him.

  ‘Someone must hear that,’ she said.

  ‘I think, my dear, that we’ve been overlooked. Or you have. From the sound of it there was a bit of panic.’

  She went into the bathroom and peered out through the tiny window.

  From here you could only see the sloping roof, but all round from under the eaves, curling round the guttering, came billows of grey smoke. And farther away the moorland and nearby hills were as if fitfully sunlit. Above the uneven mass of hills in the direction of Plynlimon it was possible to see a faint, cool star. She withdrew her head, fear clutching at the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Someone,’ Christopher said beside her, ‘may yet remember you. Meanwhile I can try the door again while you tie some sheets together.’

  ‘They’ll not nearly reach.’

  At the rear of the house there was little sign of the fire except for some drifting smoke, but it was farther down this side because of the slope of the ground. And Mrs Syme’s rockery lay immediately beneath.

  She went back to watch him destroy another chair. A few dents were made in the door but otherwise there was no sign at all of breaking down the stout old wood. His face was streaming with sweat and he began to cough.

  ‘Try this way,’ she said, and led him into the sitting-room, where together they attacked the wall that Simon had rebuilt.

  It came away easily and in a short time they were through to the attic. Here the smoke was thicker. They pushed through into Simon’s studio, while Marion’s doll sat and watched them with mindless eyes, past the easel and the paintings and the couch and the pier-glass, to the big oak door at the head of the other stairs. It was locked. Christopher rattled it and flung his weight against it, but it was like trying to force a stone wall.

  ‘Anyway it’s worse this side,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where it started but the smoke’s thicker here.’

  They ran back to Norah’s rooms. From the bathroom the reflected light on the hills told its own tale, but because the long roof hid so much of the ground there was no one to be seen. She screamed shrilly twice into the open air and caught her breath and coughed.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he said. ‘Soak your handkerchief in water and tie it round your face.’

  ‘There must be someone. Somebody must know! There’ll surely be ladders – or a fire brigade.’

  ‘Can you help me with this sofa?’

  They dragged it out. The heat in the rooms was increasing, and tiny wisps of smoke were creeping up under the rugs and through the floorboards. The house was going up like tinder, in one big roaring mass. All the old wood, the dry beams, the panelling, the heavy curtains. A great funeral pyre.

  The smaller end of the sofa was the more effective because it was made of wood and not cushioned by stuffing. They crashed it into the door for two or three minutes and then fell back in frustration. The door had been made before panels were thought of, and the bolts held firm.

  ‘It’s no good!’ Norah said. ‘Why doesn’t someone come?’

  ‘Because if they know their business everyone will be out of the house by now.’

  ‘But everyone will know I’m here – Doole, Gregory, Althea . . .’ There she stopped.

  ‘Well,’ Christopher said, and coughed. ‘I didn’t believe even Althea Syme . . . But the door was bolted . . .’

  They stared at each other. ‘It’s not possible,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘Well, we’ve got to – face it – however it happened.’

  He went back to the bathroom window, she following. They waited in a curtain of smoke until a light breeze temporarily lifted it. Then he put back his head and shouted and she with him. His voice, though cracked, was very powerful.

  ‘There are people there!’ she said. ‘You can see their shadows. See – there and there!’

  He withdrew his head. ‘Well, the next move is to get on to the roof, but I’m afraid . . .’ He stopped. ‘D’you know, this has happened so quickly I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘No . . . I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I brought you into this.’

  ‘My own free will. But for God’s sake! It can’t happen . . .’

  ‘It may.’

  ‘Well, I can’t regret anything . . .’

  He spun round and turned on the two bath taps and then the two in the basin. ‘Put the plugs in. Then tie the sheets and the curtains.’

  She heard him go back to the door with a piece of iron he had picked up in Simon’s attic, and she could hear the screech of it as he tried to get it into a hinge.

  Curtains would only add a few feet and they tended to slip. The thin counterpane was good but the blankets almost useless. All the knots kept slipping. But she persisted, for a break in the lifeline was no worse than a failure of length. She tied the end of the first sheet to a leg of the bed and pushed the bed to the window. Then she pushed the sheets through the window. They fell about halfway to the ground. The heat in the room was now appalling. She had never thought that in a fire the heat would get there first. One wasn’t going to be burnt, one was going to be roasted . . .

  Shut up – that way lay panic.

  She went back to find Christopher in the bathroom.

  ‘Pipes have melted,’ he told her. ‘There was a gallon or two in the cistern.’

  The bath was a quarter full and she plunged two hand-towels into it. The water was warm. They could hear people shouting now, but only in intervals between the roar of the fire.

  ‘We must try the lifeline,’ he said, tying a hand-towel over his face.

  ‘It’s so very short – the line.’

  ‘Well, if I go first, I may be able to break your fall.’

  She put her head out of the window but soon withdrew it. The smoke was very much thicker at this side now.

  ‘I don’t think I want to go that way,’ she said.

  He put his arm round her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Courage.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I’m – sorry you’re here but glad you’re here.’

  ‘That’s a sort of consolation. Even though I was after the first prize.’

  The roar of the burning house now dominated everything else. Like feeding Christians to the lions. This was what created panic, she thought. You never realize until you experience. She still stood by the window trying to draw at the fresher air.

  Then to her ears came a sound she had not heard before. Someone – incredibly at this advanced stage – someone was drawing back the bolts of the
staircase door.

  She turned, stopped, looked at Christopher, who raised his candle to peer through the smoke. Coughing and breathing through the towels, they rubbed smarting eyes and saw a man’s figure come out of the fog. Round the head was a cowl of smouldering towel, which he quickly pulled off.

  Simon. Across one cheek ran a series of newly forming blisters. On the same side of his head the thick fair hair had been singed away. He was wearing a long raincoat and one sleeve was alight.

  He said: ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know they’d locked you in. Forgive me. I thought you were safe.’

  III

  At first nobody moved. It was as if they were wax figures waiting to melt. The smoke had thickened and then cleared with the opening of the staircase door. Then Christopher broke the spell by stepping past Norah and covering Simon’s burning sleeve with the wet towel from his face. The sleeve hissed and went out.

  Far from appearing to appreciate this, Simon was staring at Christopher with puzzled, tormented eyes. Then he stared back at Norah.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he said. ‘So it’s all the same again, is it? I thought earlier this week – but after these last two days I never believed . . .’

  ‘Believed? Believed what?’ Christopher went past him.

  Simon and Norah stared at each other.

  Norah said: ‘I’m not Marion.’

  He shook his head angrily. ‘Of course not. Of course I know that!’

  Christopher was back. ‘The landing’s a mass of flames! How did you get through?’

  ‘There’s another door at the foot of the stairs.’

  ‘Then show us the way . . .’

  ‘It’s too late. The floor collapsed as I came through.’

  Norah said: ‘It isn’t what you think, Simon. Christopher came up to see me about tomorrow – that was all. Someone locked him in. He was in the other room until we were wakened by the smoke.’

  Simon said: ‘This is the end anyway. It’s all been wasted. Everything’s been wasted. A pity. It might – I believed, I truly believed it could have been a new beginning.’

  Christopher grasped his arm. ‘Simon! Don’t give up. What she said is true . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid that isn’t going to matter now . . .’

  ‘You know this house. If we got out on the roof, which way should we go? Is there a way down? And how far has the fire spread? You’re the only one who can help us! Surely you haven’t come up here just to die?’

  Norah thought: to fall twisting through the smoke and darkness. Young and whole – in two minutes broken legs or crushed ribs or death. The impact, what’s it like? The snap of bone. But after the first pain . . . Forgot to write that letter. Strange end to a search for independence. Death between two men who love me. A light now on the other side of the lake – some shepherd. Above that, above the mantle of the trees, another star. The moon had set. Like her life.

  ‘Simon,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. Dear Simon, I wanted to help – to be with you, to care for you. Everything we have said to each other is true, utterly true – remember that. Always believe that.’

  He blinked and coughed. ‘I don’t think it can ever be now. The past won’t let it. I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard to rid myself of it. These last two days I’d begun to dare to hope . . .’

  He blinked again, almost as if coming out of a trance. ‘Sorry. The shock of finding Carew here – and the shock of everything else. Remember me, love. Remember me, Norah. You nearly gave me a new life. I came to help, and then the shock of this . . .’

  He began to unbutton his tattered coat. They stared at him through the hot, smoky, roaring dark. About his waist was wound a rope.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I

  The twittering of a thrush continued to announce the dawn long after full daylight had come to show up the devastation of the night. A light wind sighed, and away from the pyre of the house it was cold.

  The fire was out. A fire engine from Rhayader had been the first to come, followed half an hour later by one from Aberystwyth. They stood now spraying casual jets here and there among the smoking ruins. A couple of local policemen helped.

  The main building had largely gone. Most of the outer walls built of solid limestone, had resisted the heat and remained, but many of the minor walls had collapsed, and of course no roof was left. Windows were gaunt and eyeless. A few pieces of furniture which had been dragged out in time dotted the grass, a picture or two, some silver candlesticks, a typewriter and a pile of books. As the ash cooled, firemen were stepping into some of the more accessible front rooms to see if anything more could be salvaged. The only parts to survive intact were the outbuildings, the stables and the garages, and here the fugitives from the house were sheltering. A few sightseers wandered about, farmers and farm hands from the neighbouring vales.

  The storm of yesterday had cleared the air, and although there was still cloud it was of a thinner more vaporous character which drifted across a greenish sky and seemed to be waiting only for the coming of the sun to disperse. The ground was still muddy from the rain, and the brook running down to the lake was in spate.

  Standing on the edge of the area of blackened ground which had been scorched by the heat, Christopher Carew filled his pipe and lit it. It was the first pipe of the day and the feel of the stem was pleasant between his teeth. He had come out while the maids were preparing some breakfast. Most of the stores had been destroyed but there were eggs and some bread, and fortunately tea, which everyone seemed to have been drinking for the last four hours.

  He was about to walk on when someone touched his arm. A fair man in a brown trilby hat and a shabby mackintosh.

  ‘I beg pardon, sir. I wonder if you could give me some more information about this fire. I should be obliged.’

  Christopher looked at him. ‘Reporter?’

  ‘From Cardiff. I was in Llanidloes covering some sheep dog trials and happened to hear the fire engine when it left. Could you give me details for a paragraph, like?’

  Christopher hesitated. ‘I don’t live here. Staying at a cottage a couple of miles away. What is it you want to know?’

  ‘Thank you. Just the facts, you know.’

  ‘Won’t the firemen have told you those?’

  ‘Well, they were not eye-witnesses, sir, if you know what I mean. They tell me the house was called Morb House and the present owner is a Mrs Althea Syme.’

  ‘The present owner is Mr Simon Syme, and Mrs Syme, his aunt, kept house for him.’

  ‘Profession, do you know?’

  ‘His? A painter. And of course a landowner, if you consider that a profession.’

  ‘Well, a status, sir. It’s a status, isn’t it, like? Were they both here last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any idea how the fire started? They were all in bed, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. It may have been the storm. Or a careless maid. These old houses are like tinder.’

  The reporter tutted his agreement. ‘At what time were you awakened by the fire, Mr . . .’

  ‘Carew.’

  ‘Mr Carew. Could you see it from where you were staying?’

  ‘About two it must have been. But I was over here last night.’ He explained briefly what had brought him here but gave the impression he had never left. Although more than half the refugees from Morb House had witnessed his descent of the perilous twisting rope, helping Norah to go down hand by hand, explanations would be forthcoming only when he deemed them necessary.

  ‘Thanks very much, Mr Carew. I’m obliged. That’s interesting. Do you happen to know who raised the alarm? That’s always a point.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I was wakened myself by the smoke and the noise of people’s voices.’

  The reporter glanced down at Christopher’s bandaged right hand. ‘Was anyone hurt? Serious, you know. Did everyone get clear in time?’

  ‘Gregory Syme, Mrs Syme’s son, fell down some steps and is suffering from concussion, and Mr Simon Syme has ha
d to go to hospital to be treated for burns.’

  The automatic concern in the reporter’s face did not disguise his interest.

  ‘Mrs Syme’s son. Indeed . . . How old is he?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘And it is serious?’

  ‘I think not. He came round an hour ago and is just lying quiet.’

  ‘These – hikers, Mr Carew. Would they be about, do you think, now? A little word with one of them . . . Another angle, you know . . .’

  ‘I think they’re all too tired at present,’ Christopher said, preparing to move on. ‘Why don’t you go and telephone your news? You’ve got a scoop at present. Make use of it before someone else comes.’

  ‘Thanks very much. Thank you . . .’

  The brown hat was gradually and reluctantly left behind. When he was alone Christopher stared down the slaty valley at the way it folded into itself and hid the descending road, at the derelict cottages and the decrepit mine buildings. The shale and waste of former diggings surrounded the engine-house like ashes about another and long-dead fire. Once a scene of life and activity, for fifty years there had been nothing here but emptiness and slow decay – except for the house, prosperous, well cared for, a memorial to all that early industry. Now that was gone too, to a desolation even completer than the rest. Would it ever be rebuilt? One could hardly see Simon wishing to do so, whatever Althea Syme might have done in his place.