He closes his eyes and listens to birdsong, but can hear Eva’s comment over lunch: ‘A customer on a Sunday afternoon? Isn’t that a bit of an imposition?’ His reply, ‘A sale’s a sale,’ was weak, a deception. ‘Shall we meet up at the Queen’s Arms for pub grub at seven?’ he had added. Luke opens his eyes and checks the time. Another minute and he can go. As he watches the light sparkle on a small lancet window of the church, a voice inside him says, Let’s get this nonsense over, but it fails to prevent his heart racing as he restarts the engine and turns down the lane under the ash trees. Soon it becomes a rough track, tarmacked but narrow, divided by a central ridge of grass. The lane continues downhill for a hundred metres, levelling at a bend from which he catches a glimpse of a building behind a beech hedge. This must be the house. He slows as the beech hedge gives way to a farmyard entrance with an open five bar gate on which is a sign, Saffold Farm. Driving in, he finds himself in a gravel yard and parks near a blue Citroen estate. From under it a white cat stares at him with suspicion. The yard is silent. To his right is the rear of the house, about 1800, he guesses, and with a single back door. Ahead is a converted barn – a studio? To his left a larger barn is in need of repair. Turning round he sees an overgrown paddock with sycamores beyond. The unmown grass and trees are motionless in the still afternoon.
He walks to the door, counting four windows on the ground floor and five dormer windows above, suggesting bedrooms with low ceilings. He gives the heavy iron knocker a double strike. A few sparrows fly out from a clematis on the wall. There is no sound from inside. Waiting, he looks either side at flower beds planted with French lavender. Around the door trails an old rose, a few soft pink flowers enjoying the afternoon sun on the west-facing wall. He wonders if he should knock again, and even if he has arrived at the wrong time, or if Rhona’s vagueness has allowed her to forget the appointment, but he continues to wait. Turning around, he sees the cat fixing him with eyes reserved for uninvited callers. He looks away and towards the barn conversion where a modern doorway has been built into its original arched entrance, now mostly bricked-in. On each side are flower beds planted with herbs; a mauve creeping thyme spreads over the brick path which leads to the door.
He knocks again and is encouraged to find the cat at his feet, as if expecting to enter. The sound of footsteps proves the animal correct. As Rhona opens the door he sees a curious object glitter and sways in a dark passageway.
‘Luke, this is lovely,’ she says and gives him a hug, her hair touching his right cheek. He feels awkward. His hands fall on her waist. There is no kiss and she moves back, smiling and resting her hands on his forearms as if greeting an old friend. She says nothing but hunches her shoulders, excited. At that moment the cat crashes through their feet into the house.
‘That’s Rambo. He lacks all the graces cats are meant to be blessed with.’
‘I never knew this house was here – it’s so secluded.’
‘That’s why we bought it. I wanted somewhere to work where it would be almost impossible for people to drop by. Come through. Mind your head on the low beam. I hung those beads on it to warn people of the danger. Not that it stops Alden from bruising his head ten times a day.’
The passageway leads past an open door. Luke steals a look and sees a large kitchen, cupboards and worktops all in white, whose clean modern lines make no concessions to the old farmhouse. The exception is a well-worn York stone floor. As Rhona walks ahead, Luke registers her yellow dress, almost ankle length and printed with small red flowers. He notices too her tanned feet and ankles – she is barefoot– and her bright green toenails. He also catches her perfume, unmistakeably the same as she wore in the shop on her first visit. She leads him into a small room at the front of the house.
‘The old couple who lived here before us called it the parlour. We’ve kept the name.’ She turns round with a faraway look. ‘Parlour always reminds me of a cosy room in a Beatrix Potter story.’ She points to one of a pair of armchairs facing the fireplace and goes to a window and adjusts the catch from half to fully open.
Luke absorbs the room. Here, unlike the kitchen, the cottage style has been allowed full sway: chintz curtains, a faded Donegal carpet on the Norfolk pamments, printed linen loose covers on the armchairs, a small oak side table between them, a third armchair in a corner, watercolours of rural scenes on the walls, Staffordshire figures of the four seasons on the mantelpiece. On the chimney breast a modern landscape in oils seems out of place. A vase of sweet williams stands in the hearth. As Rhona moves away from the window he sees a small Pembroke table level with the sill and covered with a white tablecloth on which is a tray with two floral-pattern side plates and two cups and saucers. Rhona sits on a stool by the fireplace, her legs stretched out in front of her.
‘Alden’s out somewhere this afternoon,’ she says.
Luke suspects she has followed his eyes and seen him note only two cups.
‘Just as well really,’ she says. ‘He takes no interest in mirrors, or any other furniture for that matter. Even the room at the other end of the house which he pretentiously calls the library, he furnished with a mindless mixture of chipboard shelves and heavy carved bookcases. He resents the fact that I use a corner as my own office. The only room he has given any thought to is the kitchen which he designed himself. He’s so proud of it. I think it’s like a mausoleum and I’m very happy to let him bury himself in it, since he does all the cooking. In fact he was a little miffed this morning when I said I was going to do some baking.’
It occurs to Luke that she has not explained that Alden is her husband or partner, but assumes he knows.
‘I do love your shop,’ she says. ‘Nestled in the corner of the market place as if it’s been there for ever.’
‘Only nineteen years, I’m afraid. I bought it when I moved up from Chiswick.’
‘Really? How interesting. I used to pass through Chiswick when I was a student. I shared a flat in Fulham but loved taking a bus down to Kew to draw the gardens.’
‘Probably the 27 or 391.’
‘Was it? I’m hopeless with anything to do with figures.’
There is a hint of Cinderella about her, he thinks – barefoot by the fireplace. But the nail varnish and yellow dress belie the comparison. He imagines her as a black and white photograph until, after a few moments, the colours re-emerge. There follows a silence, perhaps half a minute – he’s not sure – but it is not uneasy; in her presence he is comfortable to say nothing. If he were to leave this instant, the afternoon would have been perfect. It is an unfamiliar feeling, painful to bear if he gives it thought. His eyes move to the mantelpiece and the Staffordshire seasons. It is a relief to be drawn back to the known world of the old, but his eyes return to her.
‘Pretty, aren’t they?’ she says. ‘My granny gave them to me when I was twenty-one. I think they even have the maker’s name on them somewhere. I can’t remember who.’
‘James Neale?’
‘You know I think it is. How clever of you.’
‘Not really. I’m a third generation dealer and the business has never been restricted to mirrors.’
A breeze from the front garden ruffles the curtains. Rhona rises effortlessly from her stool. Smiling, she waves in the direction of the painting on the chimney breast. ‘That’s where I’d like a mirror.’ Slipping from the room she says, ‘While I find the kettle, have a think what would suit it best.’
Looking at the wall above the mantelpiece Luke wonders whether she is in the least concerned whether she has a mirror or not: it is all a gentle game, but one to be relished. He walks over to the window, inhales the warm summer air and looks at the garden, brutally formal, he thinks, with a lawn divided into four by a cross-shaped gravel path. A rosebed in the centre of each quarter is planted with a single dark red standard rose, all in full bloom. To complete the rigid design, a terracotta urn planted with glaring red pelargoniums stands at the intersection. Luke hears a noise beside him and sees Rambo jump up and sta
tion himself on the sill, one eye to the window, the other to the room.
Luke returns to his armchair, determined to commit every detail to memory. There will be no difficulty in remembering Rhona’s yellow dress, but even the smallest detail of the parlour must not be forgotten, down to the mouldings of the woodwork and the tone of the off-white walls. Since all these objects are part of Rhona’s life, he must become familiar with them, make them his own. It is a pleasing room, unobtrusively decorated: the skirting board and picture rail have been newly painted, but the old dark green paint on the door has been retained, its surface around the lock rubbed to the bare wood by generations of hands. The design of the fire surround is understated, its bullseye corners small and delicate, the cream paint original. Any mirror above it must be equally restrained. He stands and looks at the painting it would replace. With its rocks, olive trees and a distant glint of a cornflower sea, it must surely be a Mediterranean landscape, but it has no title or signature – a work of some quality but not helped by a cheap frame.
‘It’s nice, I think, but sort of in the wrong place.’ Rhona is carrying a tray with a teapot and milk jug, a plate of scones, butter and jam. She places the tray on the Pembroke table and raises a warning finger at Rambo. ‘It’s Alden’s painting, a present from Lynton, but I think it would look better in his library.’
Luke wants to ask more about Alden: what if anything is his work? Does he work from home? How long have they been together? Who is this Lynton? But this is not the moment. In the fullness of time he will learn everything. Didn’t Eva once say that in her work questions are sometimes best asked sparingly? Of course, this is not a counselling room, but the afternoon’s dynamics awake memories of one.
Rhona claps her hands. ‘Now come and try a scone. I bought some cream but I’m afraid Rambo got there first.’
When he has returned to his chair with his tea, he watches Rhona settle into the armchair next to his, her plate and cup sharing the same small table. The silence between them is disturbed only by a meadow brown butterfly which drifts through the window and drops on her shoulder, its wings spreading on the pale red flowers of her dress. Motionless, Rhona looks at it from the corner of an eye.
‘Oh dear,’ she says quietly, ‘if it’s looking for nectar it’s going to be disappointed.’
‘Perhaps,’ Luke finds himself lowering his voice, ‘it’s attracted by the colours. Who wouldn’t be?’
The meadow brown moves towards the fireplace and flutters above the sweet williams before landing on them.
‘I may have the perfect mirror for this room,’ Luke says. ‘It’s rectangular with a delicate gilt surround, partly worn back to the gesso.’
Rhona is listening attentively, but he hears another conversation conducted beneath this talk of furnishings. ‘It’s in my store,’ he says. ‘I can’t remember if the plate is original or not. I could bring it across and let you see how it looks.’
‘Luke, that sounds perfect. On dark evenings I shall be able to light candles in front of it. I bet your house is full of beautiful things.’
Luke describes his house and explains he lives on his own, at which a look of surprise from Rhona leads him to describe his relationship with Eva.
Rhona raises her fingers to make inverted commas. ‘A psychotherapist for a partner?’
For an instant Luke is offended to hear Eva ridiculed, but Rhona’s eyes make all things forgivable. ‘She trained as a psychotherapist but is happy to be called a counsellor. I think some of her colleagues regard her as a bit of a maverick.’
‘Do you think you will ever live under the same roof?’
‘We joke about the possibility, but it seems very distant.’
‘What a perfect arrangement,’ she says. ‘My own life is not so tidy.’
Luke wants to know more about her private life, but contents himself with the thought that her need of a mirror has given him an excellent excuse for a second visit.
The meadow brown returns to her dress, this time resting on her knee.
‘It must like that pattern,’ says Luke. ‘I think I agree.’
‘This is one of my old art school efforts,’ she says. ‘Everybody else was obsessed with blacks and whites, so I thought I’d do something different.’
The butterfly ascends towards the open window.
‘I’d love to see some of your current designs.’
‘I’ll give you the studio tour later. Tell me, Luke, what do you do when you’re not working?’
‘I enjoy fishing. I like French films and music of the ’50s and ’60s. And I have an allotment.’
‘Alden promised me some homegrown vegetables this summer, but he spent all his time making that suburban garden in the front and never got beyond digging out a vegetable plot the size of a handkerchief which remains unplanted.’
‘A garden can take years to be established.’ Luke is aware that by defending Alden he is following Eva’s advice to a would-be adulterer, albeit a light-hearted comment after a conversation with a fool – ‘Don’t criticize the husband.’
‘You’re too kind,’ says Rhona. She goes to the kitchen to refill the teapot.
Luke leans back in his chair and knows he is falling in love with her. An inner voice says, It is hopeless, ridiculous. She is merely flattering you. And he feels guilty about betraying Eva. Doubly so, since he is using skills she has taught him to his own advantage. But, he thinks, hasn’t life been too safe for too long? Rhona makes me feel so alive. She gives me a new energy. The voice says, She is flirting with you – that’s all. She’s been cruel about her husband; she may be cruel to you.
Yes, I know she is flirting with me, he tells the voice, but why not enjoy the moment, the excitement that someone twenty years younger is happy to be in my company, to confide with me about her partner? But isn’t it deeper? There is an electric charge between us – unspoken, hidden beneath talk of trivia, but felt most keenly in the silences. This unseen Alden of the hi-tech kitchen may be an obstacle, but the charge makes all things possible.
Rhona returns from the kitchen and refills his cup. ‘I’ve been trying to imagine you on your allotment,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know there were any in Cantisham.’
‘They’re hidden inside a large Victorian walled garden.’
‘How magical. I love allotments. As a child I used to look at them from the train window and make up all sorts of stories about the animals which crept in at night.’
‘We don’t encourage the animals.’
‘There’s no end of rabbits in our orchard. Alden wants to bring in the pest control men, but they always look so mean, don’t they?’
Luke wants to say ‘The pests are pretty damn mean too,’ but says instead, ‘I bet Rambo hunts the young ones.’
‘Yes, but that’s nature and somehow forgivable. And it diverts him from stalking birds and that I don’t like. A few weeks ago he ate a baby swallow. How he found it I dread to think. Alden just laughed. I was so angry with him.’
Luke almost says that he too would be angry, but looking at Rambo says in a Mr. Jinx voice, ‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer but it does make a very tasty meal.’
Rhona frowns. ‘You’re as bad as Alden.’
Luke thinks this is a reprimand until he sees the corners of her mouth quiver and she laughs.
Jumping up, she says, ‘Come and see the studio.’
Luke follows her out into the passageway, shooting a glance down the hallway towards a door which must be a second kitchen door. Further on is another door – to a dining room perhaps – and a staircase at the far end. Alden’s library must be one of two rooms on the other side of the hallway. It is important to know the geography of this house. Since Rhona, for all her vagueness, her lovely this and wonderful that, misses nothing, he is determined to be equally astute. With an eye trained since childhood to see and remember detail, it would not normally be a difficult task. But the last twelve days have shown that extra diligence is required in the face of her di
sconcerting ability to impair his powers of observation. He will be vigilant. Nothing will be overlooked. At the same time there are rules. It would certainly be unacceptable to go online and search every possible detail about her, her business, her husband, their house. Such cold inquiry would destroy the mystique.
They are almost at the studio door, when a motor bike snarls down the lane and into the yard with no audible reduction in speed. It comes to a gravel-spraying halt a few feet in front of them. A man in black leathers kills the engine, climbs off a Triumph Thunderbird, kicks down the side stand, pulls off his gauntlets and removes a black helmet, revealing a mass of untidy dark brown hair. Luke decides that some women would perhaps call him ruggedly handsome, were it not for the pale, bony hands.
‘Might have a problem with the tappets,’ says the biker.
Rhona raises her eyebrows and turns to Luke. ‘Like we’re interested,’ she says.
The comment is unheard or ignored. ‘Bloody good machine though. And it’s almost thirty years old. Anyway, hi, you two.’ He slaps his gauntlets down on the seat.
Looking at the white fingers, Luke imagines them touching Rhona.
‘Luke, this is Alden,’ says Rhona.
Alden extends his right hand. Luke shakes it, noticing a tuft of grey hair to one side of Alden’s head.
‘Luke’s come for a chat about mirrors,’ Rhona tells him.
The Mirrror Shop Page 7