‘Their sort of thing,’ says Russ. ‘But far too obvious where it is.’ He places the mirror behind some others, half covers the stack with an old curtain, steps back, adjusts the curtain, then steps back further like an artist viewing his canvas from a distance. ‘They’ll enjoy finding that. I can already see it flying to Connecticut.’
They half hide a few more suitable mirrors, Luke feeling that it is ridiculous for a third generation dealer to resort to such tricks. He watches Russ give the final touches to his work and by way of a signature throw an old newspaper on the floor.
‘Perfect mayhem,’ says Russ.
By 9.30am Luke is at his desk, Russ back with Neptune. The postman has not yet arrived, so Luke, having nothing better to occupy himself, switches on his laptop, determined that this is an ordinary working day. But before the PC has booted up he goes over to look at the needlework. Restless, he paces the shop. More than once he glances in one of the mirrors, satisfied with the look of his white open-neck shirt and black linen trousers, both crumpled to a pleasing informality. Looking in a pier glass, he is pleased that his hair is not thinning and that there is not a grey hair on his head. But as he sits down he remonstrates with himself for the stupidity of it all. At forty-eight he must be at least twenty years older than her. But does that matter? Don’t thousands of couples have that age gap? No, what am I saying? he asks himself. I’m with Eva. We’re happy. For some minutes he trawls online auction catalogues.
‘No kipper?’ asks Russ as he brings in the coffee.
‘I’m hoping for more bass this week.’ A pang of dishonesty: the Wednesday kipper had been forgotten, the day’s routine disturbed. And he and Eva had no immediate plans to fish again. It is uncomfortable not to be truthful with Russ. He stares into the sunlit market place towards the plant stall. It is surrounded by women in bright dresses. If Rhona calls in today, what will she be wearing? Two weeks ago she was so well wrapped against the weather, hardly more than her eyes were visible. It had been enough.
Russ reads his mind. ‘I hope that needlework girl isn’t one of those customers who reserve something and then never set foot in the shop again.’
Ignoring a tug in his stomach, Luke summons enough nonchalance to say, ‘She may be. In which case we’ll up the price and sell it to someone else.’
When Russ has returned to the workshop Luke goes to the reference shelves, remembering having seen somewhere a leopard head mirror similar to his own. His hand is on the spine of Schiffer’s Mirror Book when the shop bell rings. In one movement he spins round and stands up. He is instantly disappointed.
‘Hi, Luke, good to see you. I can’t believe it’s been a year.’ Paul Elman, in a new English tweed jacket, stretches a hand in Luke’s direction.
‘Paul, how are you?’ It is a struggle to find a matching enthusiasm. ‘And what have you done with Freda?’
‘You know Freda – she’s looking at every stall in the market. I left her buying a pile of locally-made wicker baskets.’ Paul begins to examine the mirrors, one by one.
‘I wasn’t expecting you so early,’ says Luke, hoping Rhona will not appear in the next thirty minutes.
‘We spent last night at the golfing motel down the road.’ He pauses by a mahogany mirror. ‘I’m booked to play in a four-ball at two o’clock, so I had to see you early. What’s trade on the fret mirror?’
‘Seven.’
‘Six for cash?’
‘OK,’ says Luke, thinking five would have been acceptable if it speeded up the visit.
As Paul pulls notes from his wallet and counts out six hundred pounds on Luke’s desk, Russ appears in the workshop doorway.
‘I always enjoy my first purchase of the day,’ says Paul. ‘It’s like that first cigarette of the morning. Russ, how are you?’
‘You’ve brought the sun with you, Mr. Elman.’ Russ unhooks the fret mirror and carries it away for wrapping.
Paul continues his circuit. ‘The cheval mirror?’
‘Twelve fifty.’
‘I like it, but I’ll pass. All the young buyers want twentieth century nowadays. We’re going to have to change, Luke, or we’ll be dinosaurs.’
Luke assumes a sad face. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Paul,’ he says but inwardly he smiles at the thought of the two hundred 1920s and ’30s French mirrors bought cheaply by his grandfather in France after the war, and now safe in his barn, an unplanned pension fund.
The shop bell rings again. Luke twists his head, relieved to see Freda Elman. She is struggling under a pile of wicker trugs.
‘A few presents solved. And one for myself.’ Freda unloads her baskets and gives Luke a wet kiss on the cheek. ‘Great to see you again. Now what’s Paul been buying behind my back?’
‘One small mirror that’s being wrapped,’ Paul says. ‘What’s your best on this, Luke?’ He touches an oval Irish mirror.
Before Luke can answer Freda says, ‘We don’t need another of those.’
‘If you say so, honey. Now Luke, what have you got tucked round the back?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. Stock’s impossible to find and the auctions are hopeless.’ Luke sees Russ reappear on the sidelines, ready for the game.
‘Oh, come now,’ says Freda, ‘you must have some little treasure hidden away.’
‘We’re restoring an interesting Classical mirror at the moment.’
Russ ushers the Elmans to the workshop, knowing with Luke there is no chance the Elmans will buy it. Politely they admire Russ’s work and with equal politeness say it’s not for them.
‘Sorry I’ve nothing else to show you,’ says Luke, warmed up for the game but equally happy if Paul and Freda buy nothing more and leave.
The Elmans decide to play. Paul lays his hand on the door of the storeroom. ‘Come on, sir, open up Aladdin’s cave.’
‘I wish it were,’ says Luke, searching his desk drawers for the key, and finding it in its usual pace. Yawning, he unlocks the door.
Russ takes over, switching on the storeroom light and apologising for the dust. Luke remains in the showroom, staring out of the window, looking for Rhona, but sees only the bustle of the market and a queue waiting for the 11.00am bus to Norwich. From behind come mumblings and the sound of moving stock, but he does not turn round even when he hears Freda’s voice: ‘I love those leopard heads – they’re tailor-made for our next show.’ The bus appears, pulls up and hides the queue from his vision. A hand taps him on the back.
‘I thought you said you had nothing in the store,’ says Freda. ‘Now what can you do on the leopard head mirror?’
‘Which one is that?’
Together they go into the storeroom. Russ has now completely unveiled the mirror.
‘Mrs Elman’s been wondering about the Roughton Hall overmantel,’ says Russ.
Freda’s eyes widen. ‘You mean it’s got provenance?’
‘We were going to restore it for a member of the family,’ says Luke. ‘But when we quoted a price they changed their minds and we bought it. It’s got to be two thousand two hundred.’
‘That’s steep,’ says Paul.
‘We’ll take it,’ says Freda. ‘Our restorer will fix it. The carrier will collect Friday.’
Luke watches Russ brush imaginary dirt from his work coat, while Freda finds an Empire picture frame which she is sure will convert to a mirror. Luke goes to his desk for the invoice book. As he opens it he notices, standing in the centre of the shop, a woman in a long white dress and straw hat. She is carrying a jute bag on which there is some writing. For an instant her face reminds him of a Copeland Parian figure which had stood on his grandmother’s mantelpiece. The memory fades as the corners of her mouth move with a hint of a smile.
‘I don’t know what happened to me – I was so rude to you last time. I’m really sorry.’
Eva notices that today Agnes is more relaxed and that her hair has been cut and re-shaped, and the tie-back dress she is wearing is in contrast to the heavy cords worn at earlier sessions.
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br /> ‘You look good in that dress, Agnes. And happier too, I think.’
‘I shouldn’t have had a go at you.’
‘You were angry. And you said you were frightened. How are you this morning?’
‘I’m . . . I feel . . . more resigned.’
Eva waits.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Agnes says. ‘I’m not going to make any plans for the future or rash decisions. I think I originally came to see you to get some sort of detailed course of action. But counselling’s not like that, is it?’
‘Not always, no. A lot of people want me to give them a blueprint which will lead to an untroubled life. Sadly, that can’t be done, although sometimes we work on ways to avoid negative patterns. But it can be best to learn to wait and let things settle.’
‘You remind me of when I was on holiday as a child.’
‘Yes?’
Agnes looks towards the Dufy prints. ‘I remember being on a beach in Cornwall. There was this rock pool full of tiny fish and minute spiral shells. I tried to scoop up the fish and pick up the shells, but I kept disturbing the sand on the bottom and clouding the water. It was infuriating until I found that if I waited and let the water clear and dipped my hand in very slowly and made my fingers like tweezers I could pick them up. But if I dug my fingers in too far, the water would cloud over again. The hard thing was waiting for it to clear.’ Agnes looks towards Eva and laughs. ‘Not that I’m saying men are like things in rock pools and I’m out to catch one.’
Conflicting thoughts vie in Eva’s mind. Agnes’s analogy is appealing but has this turnaround happened too quickly? Creative clients can be elusive. Is she fashioning a response she thinks I’ll warm to? A different tack might help.
‘Now you told me in your first session that both your parents are teachers.’
‘My father teaches oriental languages, my mother biology.’
‘And they have always been supportive of you?’
‘Sort of. When I was at school they moaned about my behaviour – with some justification, no doubt. They were disappointed with my exam results, and at first they opposed my decision to go to Art School. But they came round to it. Financially I’ve always supported myself.’
‘And you’re happy with what you’ve achieved?’
‘Yes. I’m not my own boss, but I like things as they are.’
‘And having an affair with your employer’s husband won’t change things?’
‘I can’t see why.’
Eva watches Agnes’s eyes drift to the window.
Agnes says, ‘They have some kind of so-called open relationship. It seems to work for them. I don’t think I’ve upset the love-apple cart.’
Eva nods in understanding, but senses an evasiveness in Agnes. I’ll plunge in, Eva thinks.
‘You’re not envious of your employer? Her business, her name in the fashion world, even though a lot of it is your work. And she still has her husband, despite his fling with you?’
Agnes’s face is scarlet. ‘Envious of Rhona? God, no.’
Luke wants to speak but is aware of three pairs of eyes behind his back. He watches a smile spread over Rhona’s face as she turns her head to where the needlework is hanging.
‘Oh, you’ve framed it already,’ she says, surprised and walking towards it. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you so much.’
Luke is certain she would have spotted it as soon as she entered the shop, which was probably several minutes earlier, but the vignette of pretence is enticing. ‘Thank Russ here,’ he says.
Rhona studies the frame. ‘And wow, Russ, you’ve used old wavy glass.’
‘Well, I thought the needlework deserved it,’ says Russ.
Luke hears Freda’s voice bellow behind him, ‘You never told me you do textiles, Luke.’ She walks up to the needlework and forces her head in front of Rhona. ‘It’s so pretty. Do you have any others? We did so well with our textiles at the last show.’
‘Perhaps this lady here’s a dealer and might be happy to take a profit,’ suggests Paul.
Russ’s hand is quick to the needlework. He lifts it from its hook. ‘I’ll wrap this up before it disappears to America.’
‘And I could never sell it,’ says Rhona, smiling at Freda.
Freda forces a smile in return. ‘I’m sorry – I just loved it as soon as I saw it.’
Paul turns to Rhona. ‘I congratulate you on having a good eye. You know, I was in such a mirror mode today that I walked straight past it. Never saw it.’
Frowning at her husband, Freda turns to Luke. ‘I guess we’re finished. Cheque book, Paul.’ She looks down at the desk where Russ has already prepared the invoice. She writes a cheque. ‘The carrier will be in touch, Luke. It’s been lovely seeing you again. Next trip you must have dinner with us.’ She gives his hand a wrench. ‘Love to Eva. Come on, Paul, we’re behind schedule. Don’t forget my shopping.’ She is soon halfway across the market place.
At the door, Paul, collecting the pile of trugs, says to Luke, ‘Eighteen hundred for the Irish mirror?’
‘Eighteen fifty,’ says Luke.
‘Deal, but don’t tell Freda. Send it with the others. I’ll mail a cheque tonight.’
Luke closes the door and walks over to Rhona. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m afraid those two tend to monopolise the shop.’
‘I thought he was sweet.’
‘He, maybe.’
‘I see quite a few women similar to her in my own business.’
‘Let me guess. What you do is connected with textiles?’
‘Well done. I design clothes – mainly for children.’
Luke thinks she is about to say more, but she resumes her Copeland figure pose. He is desperate to break the silence.
‘Do you live locally?’ He feels embarrassed as soon as he has spoken.
‘We moved to Ulford six months ago.’
Luke wonders which house in the tiny village is hers, but cannot bring himself to ask. The two earlier questions have somehow diminished him.
Russ arrives and hands her a parcel. ‘One seventeenth-century needle work of Peace and Prosperity. I hope it brings you both.’
‘You framed it beautifully,’ she says.
Russ beams.
Rhona pulls out a cheque book from the depths of her jute bag. She frowns vaguely. ‘How much did you say?’
‘Six hundred including the framing,’ says Russ.
Luke watches Rhona write the cheque with an old Parker fountain pen in large handwriting. Her signature covers almost a quarter of the cheque. He notices that the logo on her bag is a heart underneath which is written I LOVE LITTER. She tears out the cheque and places it on the desk. Russ hands her a receipted invoice.
Luke walks with Rhona to the door. Again, he wants to break the silence, but is at a loss. As he rests his hand on the shop door she glances at the Venetian mirror in the window.
‘I’m sure we could do with a large mirror at home,’ she says. ‘You must give me some advice. How about tea one day?’
‘That would be lovely.’ Luke regrets his formal tone, but it is the best he can manage while still recovering from her appearance during the Elman’s visit.
‘Next week?’ she says quietly. ‘My diary’s at home. Can I phone you tomorrow, Luke?’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Rhona hugs her parcel to herself like a child with an unopened present. ‘Bye, Russ,’ she calls over Luke’s shoulder.
Luke turns to see Russ a few feet behind and wonders if he heard the invitation to tea.
Luke closes the shop door and looks out to the market place for a last glimpse of her. But he is disappointed. There is no sign of the white dress or straw hat. Watching a couple carry drinks to a table outside the Queen’s Arms on the opposite corner of the market place, he puzzles at her unnerving ability to appear from nowhere and vanish as quickly. It is as if he has imagined her visit. He sniffs the air in search of a trace of the perfume she wore last week, but again finds it as fugit
ive as its owner. Perhaps she hadn’t worn it today. Or perhaps he hadn’t noticed it. He turns round, struggling to believe that less than a minute ago she was standing here inviting him to tea.
‘In and out like a ghost that one,’ Russ says. ‘You’ll have to tell me about her house next week. And the lowdown on her husband.’
‘I shall,’ Luke says, aware he too is harbouring the wish to know all about her husband, but for reasons different from Russ’s. ‘You were on good form this morning, Russ. I insist on buying you lunch and a pint at one o’clock.’
‘That’s very kind but I do have my usual sandwich.’
‘Feed it to the dolphins. We deserve pie and mash.’
Before her next client of the morning Eva stands by the window and allows the city roofscape to clear her mind. The vista is motionless apart from a tower crane on the horizon, its jib moving above an invisible building site. She drops her eyes to the street below and watches a woman in a ’50s style dress walk in the direction of Foundry Bridge. What progress, Eva wonders, has Agnes made during the last hour? Neither of us will know yet. Heading for the city she looks so confident, so in control of her world. She watches Agnes walk past two men. One man makes a comment to the other – perhaps about Agnes – and they both burst into laughter. The ties on the back of her dress, swinging as she walks, seem like arms dismissing their gaze. When Agnes has disappeared under the lime trees, Eva moves away from the window to check her diary. Will Agnes be one of those clients who sometimes like to write between appointments? Luke had been. She still had the letters.
At 1.00pm, as Russ is removing his brown work coat, Luke struggles to recall every detail of Rhona’s visit – her voice, her exact words, her clothes – but already she is receding like a dream on waking. He cannot even remember where she was standing when he first noticed her. He looks down at the green carpet in the hope that it might yield some clue. At his desk he picks up Rhona’s cheque and studies the tangible proof of her visit. Even better she has written his name: Luke Brewer Antique Mirrors. But there is so much more about her, unnoticed or forgotten. What shoes was she wearing? She wore a ring set with . . . what colour was the stone? Was there also a wedding ring? For a dealer with the ability to be in a room for half a minute and afterwards to recall in detail every piece of furniture, these observational failures are unforgivable. Of course there is an excuse – being caught off guard by the invasive Elmans – but he should have remembered more. And what was it about her which particularly struck him? As he and Russ walk across the market place he remembers. When she said she would phone tomorrow she used his name. She had said ‘Luke’ for the first time. But there was also a note in her voice. He tries to hear her say it again above the lunchtime chatter in the pub, but it has faded – the moment, the tone and she have disappeared.
The Mirrror Shop Page 4