“Not too fierce, dear,” Miss Holland said, meaning not to put the fire on too high. Her accent was sliding as she calmed down and caught her breath. She was funny sometimes. In normal conversation, her Scots accent faded. And she always called me ‘dear’.
“So how do you feel now?” I asked her as she took a sip from a china cup.
“Better thank you,” she said. “I’m really cross with that nephew of mine. These are my things. He can get them when I’m gone and not before.”
I gave a sympathetic nod. Her house was full of old furniture but doubted it would be worth much. I caught sight of the mirror on the wall to her right. It was set low for her head height. You could see where previous nails had been in the faded wallpaper. As Miss Holland travelled through the years, it had been adjusted down for her. She always looked into the mirror before she left the room. I had seen her do it.
“You’re not the first person to admire it, you know,” she said to me.
I smiled, relieved at her being back to herself. “Really? What’s the story behind it?”
Expecting her to give the usual cryptic answer, she surprised me when she said, “I was given it when I was a young woman. By a cavalryman. When I first came to Oldham.”
When she said ‘cavalryman’, Miss Holland’s eyes flashed open for a second. I’m no history expert but I was sure there were no cavalrymen when Miss Holland was young. I didn’t challenge her on it, though. Why would I? I did ask her to tell me a bit more, but she pointed at the air again which told me she didn’t want her secrets prised out.
Eventually, she fell asleep in her chair. The smell of burning gas made the air muggy and soon she was sleeping deeply, by which I mean snoring. I put a blanket over her knees and turned off the fire. There was still time before the next job so I took to straightening her place up. After washing the tea cups and the few dishes, I ran a duster over the surfaces in the living room. While Miss Holland grabbed some sleep, I had a look at the mirror, having to bend down to see. Its spiral frame drew you in. I saw myself looking tired. I pushed my bottom lip and had a look at my chin.
A shadow fluttered over the surface of the glass, startling me. I stood up and looked behind me at what had caused the shadow. Half expecting Miss Holland to be glowering at me, all I saw was her peaceful living room and her still asleep in her chair. Sunshine still made its way onto her worn carpet. Another shadow flickered. Birds, I realised, birds were flapping by the window causing shadows. I breathed again.
Simon from Walker’s antiques didn’t visit again while I was there and Miss Holland never mentioned him. Her nephew Jack was noticeable by his absence and again he was never mentioned. Each day I was there, I just did my job. But details of this mirror leaked out from Miss Holland over time. She had moved from Oldham, along with her brother, when his firm offered him promotion. Their parents were long gone and she kept house for her brother. I suspected there had been an Edinburgh sweetheart left behind by Miss Holland, because there was a brief mention of a ‘Sandy’ but I might be wrong. Her brother married and, as was the norm back then, Miss Holland continued to live with them, even when their son Jack came along. This is where her cavalryman came in.
The story came tumbling out of her as I did my job one day. She followed me from room to room and when I went upstairs, she stood in the hall calling up. Sure enough, this boy was a cavalryman. I imagined the red coats and plumed helmets on fancy occasions but she described him as wearing a dark uniform with shiny buttons. Yellow patches on his shoulder and collar showed his regiment, which was some local outfit still using horses. She didn’t describe his face, even when I asked if he was handsome. Over a cup of tea, she touched fingers to her chin and trailed off when she tried to speak about his face.
I let her go quiet but then she said, “He went off to Malaya but before he went he gave me the mirror as an engagement present. We stood side by side looking into it and he said that every time I brushed my hair I would see him right next to me.”
How sweet, I thought. “And when he came back from Malaya?”
Miss Holland shook her head. “He never came back from Malaya, dear.”
She let that just hang in the air. I knew what she meant though. Miss Holland looked around the room and I imagined her thinking of all the years from then to now. She touched fingers to her chin again and leaned forward. “Mirrors are magical things,” she said. “They have a flat surface but you can see into them. Objects which are far behind you can be seen in the distance, beyond the mirror. Same goes for people. Those who are far behind are beyond the mirror too.”
Sadly, Miss Holland died not long after that; weeks it was. I got the call from my supervisor telling me to give that address a miss. That’s how you find out. There was no will, but Miss Holland left a note saying I should have the mirror. Her nephew Jack was happy for me to have it, but my employer was cagey about accepting such things. You can see their point. It looks dodgy if you’re looking after them in their old age and they leave you things. I ended up buying it, though, from Walker’s Antiques on the High Street. In the shop, Simon was very pleased with the thirty pounds he prised out of me. It was sad to see a few of her other things amongst other dusty memories of peoples’ lives. Ninety pounds he wanted for Miss Holland’s chest of drawers.
I took the mirror home and found a spot for it in the hall. Black spots around the edges, and with its spiral metal frame, the mirror actually looked pretty above the phone table. I could check my look before heading out for the night. As I stood back and admired it, and myself, a shadow fluttered across the glass. I looked over to the front door, the top half being frosted glass covered in a net curtain. There were no birds this time.
Thinking perhaps it was me, I turned back to the mirror and leaned forward. I looked tired and pulled at my cheek to expose a bloodshot eye. In the background of the mirror, I could see my upstairs. A shape moved around up there. Blood drained into my legs. I could feel it. A sick churning in my stomach plunged downwards. The shape moved to the top of the stairs and I could make out it was a man. My throat contracted and bobbed once. I could hear myself breathing out. Moving down the stairs, the man was dressed in a military uniform; dusty leather boots, dark trousers with a yellow strip up the seam and a dark coat with tarnished metal buttons.
All this I saw in the mirror, with me still pulling at my cheek. He stepped to the bottom of the stairs and his face was murky, blotted out almost, by a mist. I let go of my cheek and looked to the side, without moving my head, away from the mirror. No-one there. Turning back to the mirror, the man had moved closer to me. He was still there, in the mirror, but not in the room. A shiver ran across my shoulder and I heard myself breathing out again with no memory of breathing in.
He stood closer to me, this man with an obscured face and military uniform. It was like we were standing side by side, lovers blinking a snapshot for our memories. He paused for a moment, as if hesitant, but then he moved closer to the glass, closer to the real me and his face darkened further. A rage seemed to boil up inside him. He raised gloved fists and started hammering them on the inside of the glass. Despite not seeing his face, I had the sensation of tears, not through anger, but from fear. His fists continued to pound on the inside of the mirror yet I could not hear anything. I was sure he was screaming, yelling his pain, but I could not see the expression on his face, or hear the sound. Imagine dying on a foreign battlefield and leaving this storm behind, an echo in a mirror. I reached up to touch the glass.
But then he was gone. He just evaporated like water spots from a bowl. I breathed in again.
Later that afternoon my own daughter came to visit. As she took off her coat, she caught sight of the mirror. She gave it an odd look and smiled at me as if I had said something funny. I said to her, “You’re not the first person to admire it, you know.”
“Where did you get that, mum?” she asked, following me into the kitchen.
I filled the kettle. “Your Dad gave it to me before he we
nt off.”
She pulled in her chin and screwed up her face. “I’ve never seen it before.”
I plugged the kettle in, and we sat down at the kitchen table. She took out her phone and started fiddling with it. “I know you don’t remember him, love. But he loved you. And he loved the horses.”
My daughter rolled her eyebrows as she scrolled through her phone. “Horses. Right.”
“And he gave me that mirror before he went off,” I told her. “He was a cavalryman.”
Joseph
I HATED MY brother for many years. Anger at the manner of his leaving grew into my despising him. It took years before a day could pass and not think of him. Now he is back and I cannot think of anything else.
He sits to the right of me at the dinner table. Food cools in front of me. Cutlery scrapes on plates. Mary sits to the left of me and compliments my wife’s cooking. Beside her Katie chats away to my wife about her day at school. Ethel listens to our daughter but her attention is on me. James, so tall now at fourteen, sits between Ethel and his father, my brother. I say nothing to my brother and have said little since he arrived yesterday. He has taken it for granted that he can stay here in our parents’ house and I am powerless to prevent it.
“How was your day?” he asks me. “Was the shop busy?”
Father would have fawned over him, had he been alive, and made an elaborate show of engaging with him about the business. I reply, “Just the usual. How was your day?”
He hesitates. “We visited Mum and Dad.”
I take a sip of water and think of the churchyard; bare trees shivering in the wind as the sun disappears early. Katie stops chattering away and everyone becomes quiet. I glance at my brother. I can see the memory of our parents has hurt him though he tries to cover it with a pale smile. I think of him heading north, with our father not long dead, and my heart hardens again.
After our meal, Mary insists “you men go to the pub”, seemingly oblivious to the awkward situation. My brother and I exchange hesitant looks but eventually we agree. Even he thinks it will be difficult for us to be alone. He kisses his wife on the forehead as she does the dishes. We leave Ethel fussing over helping Mary while James teaches Katie a card game in the front room.
The pub is a short walk through the village and it faces my shop. Barrett’s Grocers was opened by our father in 1918 when he came home from France. He worked there until his death at the end of the war; our mother having passed on a few years before. When I got demobbed, I took over and married Ethel who worked in the shop. The shop is quiet and dark as we pass by.
We enter the warm air of the pub. From behind the bar, Harry sees us and lines up two pints of export without needing to ask. He is not surprised to see my brother and their conversation shows they must have met again earlier, perhaps today. I pay for the drinks, of course, and we sit down at a small table. We are the only drinkers so far. The clock behind the bar ticks and the fire crackles. Steam vents out a large piece of coal. My brother raises a glass to “being back home” and we sip our drinks. Our local Constable steps in rubbing his hands. He nods a greeting to us but is interested only in letting Harry know he is on his rounds. He will be back later to ensure closing time is observed.
My brother tells me how much he has missed the place and how good a pint you get here. I agree about the pint and say, “No decent pubs up north, then?”
He laughs lightly. “None as good as this.”
I wonder at that moment why he ever left and why he convinced Dad to give him cash instead of the shop. Inwardly, I shake my head for his taking Eleanor and James with him. I watch him run his hands across the pub table, quietly admiring the wood. Another man might think me jealous of his skill as a joiner but really I seethe at his constant commentary on timber related topics.
The outside door opens, in walks Jack, and I immediately feel better. He is a big man with a ruddy face and an easy grin. He spies us straight away. “I didn’t believe it when I heard.” He comes quickly over and shakes my brother’s hand vigorously. He slaps me on the shoulder and sends me to the bar to get some more pints. I’m happy to do it. Whilst Harry pulls the pints, I hear them catching up on old times. Jack’s laugh is infectious.
Sitting back down with them, we each have a fresh pint. Jack leans his chin on his hands which grip the curved handle of his walking stick as he listens to my brother talking about Eleanor. Jack says, “I’m so sorry to hear about that, fella. She was a lovely girl.”
We all agree to that and, a little misty eyed, we raise our glasses to Eleanor and think of her laid to rest in her home town in the north. To take our minds off it, I ask Jack if he’d only just finished work, what with it having been dark for a few hours. Jack takes his cap off and rubs his head. “I came off the hill at about three. I’ve been up at the big house reporting to his lordship about the state of the herd.”
My brother makes the sound of a sheep and we burst out laughing. I realise it is good Jack showed up. We should try and get his brother Frank to join us and the Four Musketeers would be back together.
“And you’ve got a new wife I hear.” Jack punches my brother on the shoulder.
My brother blushes and looks away. “Mary.”
We kid him around a bit, saying she’s not much older than James, and ask him why she couldn’t find some other old geezer to marry. I say, “And her father ran you out of town, did he?”
Jack thinks this is hilarious. My brother laughs nervously and for a moment I think this is what happened. My brother says quietly, “He’s a kind man. He gave us some money for the journey, and the bus fares of course.”
“Right,” says Jack. “And how long have you been married?”
My brother sips his beer, and peers up at the ceiling, making a show of working it out. “Ten months, no sorry, eleven.” He looks me straight in the eye as he says it. My blood freezes. I suddenly remember him looking Dad straight in the eye and swearing it was he, and not I, who had left the shop unlocked. He took the punishment that night instead of me.
“And a baby on the way?” asks Jack.
“Due in two months,” says my brother. He looks Jack in the eye.
To change my own mood, I dig him in the ribs. “She looks ready to drop any day, son.” We all have a laugh about it and enjoy the rest of the evening, reminiscing about our old haunts. I watch my brother laugh at Jack as a story unfolds. His eyes crinkle around the edges like our father’s did when he listened to the wireless. I am reminded of his warm laugh, tickled at the shows he loved.
Katie’s pony is stabled outside the village. Twinkle the pony has warm lodgings next to two other horses and my daughter does well to keep up with the chores, better than expected. We take our visitors out there for some fresh air. Mid-winter skies threaten rain over steep hills which surround the village. Small white dots of sheep sprinkle the dark grass and I can see two tall figures moving between the animals. “Is that Jack and his brother?” I point up at them.
My brother stops and peers up. “I think it is. Are they coming down the hill?”
“I hope so,” I say, slapping my brother on the back. “We’ll meet them here.”
The girls walk ahead; Mary with her hands on her back, almost waddling. James has stopped beside us. His father is very proud of him. “Tell your uncle what you told me.”
James lights up. He has no interest in woodwork like his father but he loves fishing. “There’s boats at Loch Fyne that are always needing fixed. Dad could do the repairs on them while I sell bait to the fishermen.”
I smile at my nephew’s enthusiasm. He’s got it all worked out. Wondering if my brother is considering this, which of course means him moving away from here, I see that his jaw has fallen. James is still chattering away. His father’s face is ashen and he starts to move away from us. I look to where his attention his; the stables. Mary is bent over double and my daughter is clearly panicked. Ethel is looking this way and she screams out my name. My brother is already on the move and I cla
p James on the shoulder for him to follow as I race after them.
When we reach them, Mary is in obvious distress. She is crying and clutching her stomach. Ethel is grasping her shoulders. “Give me a hand!” Clumsily, my brother helps Ethel move his wife inside and they lay her down on the straw. Without needing to be told, Katie leads Twinkle out the way. I stand around not knowing what to do. Ethel gives me an angry look as if I should already know what’s needed.
“I’ll get the doctor,” I say and run across the yard into the office where I know there is a phone. I get the girl to call a doctor and hurry back. Mary is on her back with her knees up. Her distress is eased and my wife smiles gently at her, stroking hair away from her damp forehead. Ethel glances at me and with her eyes tells me to take James and his dad out the road. I tap them on the shoulder and lead them out.
As we step away, I hear Mary say to Ethel, “He’s a good man. Most others wouldn’t-” My wife shushes her gently and we don’t hear any more of the conversation.
The yard has a high fence and I place my forearms on the top rung and my foot on the lowest. My brother does the same while James kicks a stone about, bored already. We watch the two figures make their way down the hill. My brother says, “I think it is Jack and his brother.”
I nod. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Do you think they can see it’s us from up there?” He is clearly worried. I catch sight of Katie across the yard. She is in her riding clothes and waves at me as she leads Twinkle across the cobbles. I wave back, listening to the familiar sound of horse hooves on cobbles.
“You’ve always had a good sense of what’s right and what’s wrong,” I say to my brother.
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