The Bamboo Mirror

by Faith Mortimer

  ~~~~~

  Surprisingly, the room was packed and after our introductions to each other in simple Greek, the teacher soon got into her swing. She covered the board with the Greek alphabet, not just a foreign language to me but a totally alien one. Few of the characters looked familiar. I sighed, wishing perhaps I’d taken up upholstery myself.

  Our lesson was interrupted by a knock at the door and there she stood, my lady with the gorgeous smile.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late, but I had an important phone call just now that I had to deal with.’ She cast an apologetic look around at everyone and the teacher nodded in a friendly fashion.

  ‘I’m Rebecca by the way, with two c’s,’ she said inching her way in and looking round for an empty desk and chair. For some inexplicable reason I just knew she was going to sit next to me and moved the chair out so she could slide in without any bother. Smiling her thanks she removed a pad and pen from her bag and joined the class. I was smitten.

  ~~~~~

  ‘I’m taking the dog out for his walk,’ I say, shrugging into my best leather jacket and scarf.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she says, digging into the box of chocolates that rarely leaves her side, eyes glued to her favourite soap of the evening.

  Has she actually heard what I’ve said? She never offers to accompany me, and I am glad. Why has it come to this? We rarely do anything meaningful together these days. It was great in the beginning, a new adventure. We met; we dated and I thought we fell in love. Nowadays, she hardly notices if I’m there. She rarely suggests we go out together, or notices what I’m doing. When she returns from work in the evening, leaving her green Mini parked on the driveway she makes a beeline for a snack from the fridge. She usually suggests a takeaway for later; she rarely puts herself out to cook – for me. We eat in silence, plates on our laps, in front of the television.

  She knows I’m taking the dog out more regularly; she made a comment some months ago. ‘Good thing Bomber’s got you. I just haven’t got the energy and besides it’s far too cold.’

  Yes, Bomber and I go out very regularly, the exact time every morning and evening. She never asks where we go or why I choose those times. She’s more content to snuggle down under the duvet, guzzling tea or red wine.

  I fetch Bomber’s lead from the hook behind the kitchen door. He’s there, ready and willing. His feathery tail wags until you think he’s going to lose it and he makes little throaty noises of joy. He’s my one source of love in this place now and yet, I feel guilty in using him to get me out and away from the house.

  I close the door behind me and notice there’s been a soft sprinkling of snow. Bomber is overjoyed with all this soft white stuff and snuffles around making little excited barks. Can he know?

  Walking down the road toward the wreck I feel an uplifting of my heart. She has a dog like Bomber, an overgrown Golden Retriever, and she’s married too. She meets me every morning and evening, same time, same place for an hour. I live for those stolen hours.

  We’ve never said anything, nothing significant. But when I look at her and she gives me that gorgeous smile in return we both know.

  So I’ve brushed my hair, cleaned my teeth, and put on my smart jacket, that is really unsuitable for walking a dog, and gone to meet her.

  She’s a beautiful girl and I don’t just mean that in looks. She’s quiet, but strong. I know she’s married, because of her ring, but neither of us really mention our partners. In the beginning we decided it was too unfair to talk about them, to air our grievances and disappointment with our sad, loveless marriages. Neither of us wants to slag our partners off.

  We keep to safer things. We love our dogs, and her bitch, Megan behaves like she’s in love too with Bomber as she prances and preens around him. It reminds us of the film, Lady and the Tramp. We laugh at their obvious joy and we’re comfortable with each other. She tells me she is originally from Canada, and I think I detect a hint of a transatlantic twang. She likes horses and riding, swimming and walking, and she loves Greece. We discuss plays we’ve seen, and share music; I copy CD’s for her and occasionally we exchange a favourite book. When we agree on a newfound author, my heart beats wildly. I love her long brown curly hair and her smiley eyes and deep luscious mouth that curves into a smile just for me.

  Except, this evening she’s not there. I stand in the darkened park near our bench, beneath the lamplight. I watch Bomber scamper around chasing snowflakes and catching them on his tongue. I wonder if she is ill. She was okay this morning. Did her husband suspect? Only there’s nothing to suspect. We haven’t done wrong, not even a kiss. But we both know.

  I wait over an hour, and then I think about returning towards home. Home?

  My mind flits to my life. Why had it all gone sour? When had we drifted apart, floundered upon the rocks and I stopped living and began to endure? We had been in love, I was sure of it. Yes, we had been young and silly, and living together was all part of the thrill. We overthrew our parents’ misgivings and married blissfully unaware. We were happy for a time, until things were simply wrong.

  We lost a child, just four years old to leukaemia. She could never bring herself to have another, and now there was just this empty space between us.

  Bomber brings me a stick and I throw it for him. His joyous bark echoes around the parkland. I wonder how long I can carry on like this. It’s been bad for years if I’m truthful. I only come alive when I see her. My heart aches for her. Where is she?

  Despondent, I turn to retrace my footsteps, giving one last look around, and there is Megan, bounding up to me. But where is she?

  ‘Where’s your mistress?’ I ask. Bending down I give her a stroke and notice the collar. There is a tag with a telephone number on it. Is she following? Or is she injured somewhere? I am alarmed, I can’t leave Megan and I need to find her mistress.

  ‘Where’s your mistress,’ I ask Megan again. ‘Go! Find her!’

  Megan stands before me wagging her tail. I repeat my command and she rushes off with Bomber and me following. We walk round the park and I realise it is our usual route and we end up back where we started. I look at the telephone number again and I hesitate. Should I ring her? I am torn. I take out my mobile phone and am just about to dial when it rings.

  ‘Where are you? You’ve been gone over two hours now and it’s getting late. I wanted a takeaway.’ My heart sinks. Her voice is not the one I want to hear. Vaguely I am surprised she has even noticed I’m not yet home.

  ‘I lost Bomber for a while,’ I say. ‘He skipped off after a rabbit, but I’ve got him now. We’ll be home shortly.’ I don’t like to lie but I feel I have no choice.

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘I’ll make myself a sandwich then, I suppose.’ She sounded cross.

  I end the call and go to put the phone back in my pocket, mind made up. Then I pause, shall I make that call? I can hardly leave Megan out here by herself and she might follow me back home. I dither. Ringing her home number means venturing into her and her husband, Jim’s life. Something we both vowed never to do. What if he answers?

  I decide I can’t abandon Megan and dial the number. There is a slight pause while I’m connected and then I hear a recorded message. ‘Sorry Rebecca and Jim can’t answer the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and we’ll get right back to you. Bye!’

  ‘It’s John,’ I say before I have time to change my mind. ‘I have Megan with me. Where are you? She followed me on our walk. What shall I do with her?’

  I leave my phone number and prepare to walk home. When I look round for Megan she has vanished. ‘Megan, Megan.’ I call. Bomber looks at me as if I’m slightly mad. Sighing, I turn round and we finally walk home. With the snow falling all around me there is an eerie silence. I scrunch up our drive and I’m surprised to find that Susan has actually managed to put her car away in the garage for once. Judging by the tyre tracks in the snow she’s obviously made a meal of it. Susan’s not the best of drivers. Entering the kitchen I was surprised to see her
still up. She gives me a look with what I can only describe as strained, and I am even more surprised to find that she was anxious over my delay.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting ages and ages. It’s far too late for a takeaway now, besides I had that sandwich. I was starving.’ I eye her bulky shape in the unflattering black sweater and skirt. She didn’t look like she was starving.

  ‘What happened?’ She peers at me. ‘Why are you upset?’

  I make my excuses, blaming poor Bomber and his zealous rabbit chasing. Lies again. I can’t tell her the truth.

  Later, in bed I lie there staring at the ceiling, watching the car lights chase across the walls. Susan is sleeping soundly. She mutters in her sleep and turns towards me, but I push her away. Oh God! It wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, we’d both have fallen on each other, passionately, ripping our clothes away and devouring lips, tongues, and bodies. Susan had been like a vixen in bed, now there was nothing.

  What made people change? Was it the death of our child? I know Susan had been depressed for years after, but I thought she’d got over it, as we never spoke about him now. I realised she’d let herself go. The slovenliness and the weight gain. She seemed far older than her years; she was younger than Rebecca but acted ten years older. She wasn’t the woman I’d married and I’d tried. Oh God how I’d tried! But I wanted nothing of her now.

  Rebecca had given me a new purpose in life. She’d put a ‘spring’ in my step. I knew she was the reason I had a certain look in my eyes. Had Susan noticed? I doubt it; she noticed nothing else about me these days. And thinking about it, there was nothing for her to notice anyway and maybe never will be. We had never discussed leaving our spouses, nothing even remotely like that.

  I turn over, thinking about tomorrow. I feel a shaft of fear go through me. Will she be there?

  Leaving the house the next morning, I hasten to the park. All is quiet and lonely. There is no sign of either Rebecca or Megan. I let Bomber sniff around his favourite haunts, my hands deep inside my pockets, my back hunched over.

  Is this what it is like to lose someone? Will it always be like this from now on? My heart aches to hear her voice. My mobile rings.

  Feverishly dragging it from my pocket, I punch in the receive button.

  ‘Hello.’ Hoping, praying that it is Rebecca.

  ‘Is that John?’ A masculine voice enquires.

  I am snapped back to normality in a trice.

  ‘Detective Inspector Roberts here,’ he carries on. I am instantly alert.

  ‘I gather you knew Rebecca Chalmers?’

  I freeze at his words. Knew?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident. We need to speak to you. Can you come down to Guildford police station?’

  I whisper a ‘yes’ down the phone. I am numb all over.

  ~~~~~

  ‘Hit-and-run,’ he says later. ‘Poor woman didn’t stand a chance. She was crossing the road with her dog.’ I look at him blankly. He returns the stare. ‘Did you know her very well?’

  I swallow; it’s painful to speak with a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg in your throat. ‘No, not well. We both have dogs you see. We sometimes met and the dogs would play together.’ I stretch the truth a little, hating myself in doing so. For some reason guilt hangs over me.

  ‘I see. I guess that is why you rang when they didn’t turn up?’

  My mind was in a whirl. They?

  Finally I found my voice. ‘Megan, Rebecca’s dog was there. I saw her – I said so on the telephone.’ I blurted out.

  He gives me a sad and thoughtful look. ‘They were both killed outright.’

  ‘No, no! That can’t be true! Megan was there. She was with me. That’s how I could ring Rebecca; her number was on the dog’s collar.’

  Shaking his head, Inspector Roberts looks down at his report. ‘Couldn’t have been, the dog was hit first. Mrs Chalmers walked out to help her dog and was then driven over afterwards – a second hit. Our witness says he couldn’t see the number but he recognised it as a green Mini. There can’t be too many registered around here. I don’t suppose you saw anything?’

  Shocked, I shake my head, a numbness creeping over my body.

  ‘Megan was there.’ I repeat in a whisper.

  Walking home, my eyes are misted with tears. How had Megan come to be there? I’d stroked her glossy coat; I’d seen the light shining in her eyes. Had Rebecca sent her? As a vision to tell me, to warn me what had happened? Were our feelings so strong that even in death she could reach out to me? Reach out to me, yet when alive it had been forbidden? I’d never have known her phone number or spoken to the police if I hadn’t seen it on Megan’s collar last night.

  I haven’t spoken to Susan yet. I know she’s visiting a neighbour this morning. Arriving home, I go straight to our garage and stare at Susan’s green Mini. Nausea washes over me as I see the huge dent in the bonnet. I catch a gleam of gold and I realise that dog hair is trapped in the dent.

  Tears roll unchecked down my face as I stand there shaking. Susan has known all along. But what has she known? There was nothing to know, was there?

  I pull out Inspector Roberts’ card and with trembling hands I dial his number.

  July 2011 Rebecca With Two Cs by Faith Mortimer

  Summer Visitors

  by Faith Mortimer

  Alex sat watching the birds swooping high above her head. They put on a marvellous aerobatic display that she imagined was for her alone. Soaring, dipping, their cries were faint but distinct upon the air. Alex knew little about birdlife, but could still appreciate the agility and beauty of these small warm-blooded animals. She supposed they were swallows, remembering nature classes back in junior school, or were they house martins? It didn’t matter; she enjoyed their seeming spontaneous and erratic flight. She sighed. If only she could join them and fly far away.

  ‘Excuse me, but do you mind if I sit here?’

  Startled, Alex looked down at this intrusion into her musings.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, it’s just that all the other tables are full.’

  Alex shook her head. ‘No that’s fine, I don’t mind at all,’ she said removing her bag from the vacant seat he was indicating. ‘Feel free.’ She did mind, she’d particularly chosen a small table hoping no one else would join her.

  ‘Thanks.’ He placed what looked like a double espresso on the table and sat down. Alex couldn’t help stealing a look at this newcomer: dark blonde hair, medium height, quite slim, not handsome but pleasant looking. She remembered she was off men for good. Perhaps she could try being a lesbian. She returned her gaze to the swallows.

  ‘Swifts,’ he said.

  Alex looked back at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘They’re swifts. Aren’t they beautiful?’

  ‘Yes very. I thought they were swallows, are you sure?’ Without reason, the fact that he knew which birds they were and she didn’t, niggled her.

  ‘Swallows are small birds with dark glossy blue backs, red throats, pale under-parts and long distinctive tail streamers. They are extremely agile in flight and spend most of their time on the wing. They come here to breed, migrating south in winter. There have been recent declines in numbers due to loss of habitat quality in both their breeding and wintering grounds, which puts them on the Amber List of Endangered Species. Swifts on the other hand are a medium-sized aerial bird and a superb flier as you can see. The summer sky is often full with them, usually flying very high. Swifts never perch on wires like swallows. You might see excited screaming parties of them careering madly at high speed around rooftops and houses, especially towards dusk.’ He sat back and lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, his eyes watching her over the rim.

  ‘Oh.’ Alex was lost for words. She’s never imagined him to be an ardent bird-watcher, but then she didn’t know him either. He was a total stranger and a know-it-all. ‘What do you know about house martins then?’

  Noting the ac
erbity in her voice he laughed. ‘Well – since you ask. The House Martin is a small bird with glossy blue-black upper parts and pure white under-parts. It has a distinctive white rump with a forked tail and, on close inspection, white feathers covering its legs and toes. It spends much of its time on the wing collecting insect prey. The bird's mud nest is usually sited below the eaves of buildings. They are summer migrants and spend their winters in Africa. Although still numerous and widespread, again recent moderate declines earn them a place on the Amber List.’

  Alex stared. He really was a - what were they called? A twitcher! All she could think to say was, ‘You must be a twitcher! Okay then, what’s the Amber List?’

  Placing his cup back in its saucer, he shifted in his seat. ‘In the UK, birds can be split in to three categories of conservation importance - red, amber and green. Red is the highest conservation priority, with species needing urgent action. Amber is the next most critical group, followed by green. It’s quite a comprehensive list and actually quite frightening. Too many people are unaware of what’s going on around them in their own country let alone worldwide. Habitat loss is one of the biggest factors in bird decline. I’m sorry to go on, but it is a passion of mine and you did ask. By the way a twitcher is a British term used to mean "the pursuit of a previously-located rare bird." Twitchers are birders who travel long distances to see a rare bird that they would tick off a list. It’s a bit of a derogatory name. I’m just a lover of the natural world.’

  ‘No, no! It’s interesting. I’m sorry too. I didn’t realise. I was a bit rude. Today’s not been a good day so far.’ Embarrassed Alex looked away.

  ‘It’s okay and I know I do go on a bit. Shall we start again? I’m Chris by the way.’ He held out a hand towards her.

  Alex could hardly ignore his friendly invitation. She had been acting like a baggage. She took his warm, dry hand in hers, noticing how green his eyes were for the first time. ‘I’m Alex.’

  Chris smiled and unfolded his newspaper. She was a bit taken aback after his initial conversation. She had obviously annoyed him despite what he’d just said about starting again. Oh well. She’d never understand men. Fine. She didn’t want to talk anyway, and certainly not small talk. She’d come here to think and with him sitting opposite her, how was she going to do that? She didn’t know whether she’d done the right thing this morning.