The Mirrror Shop

by Nicholas Bundock

  ‘My grandfather clipped me round the ear once for not calling them looking glasses.’

  ‘He was a sweet old boy but a little bit of a snob,’ says Rhona.

  Luke springs to the grandfather’s defence. ‘A lot of that generation called them glasses. They used to come into the London shop. My restorer called them the Alice band, as in Through the Looking Glass.’

  ‘Perhaps they were right,’ says Alden. ‘Certainly Alice Through the Overmantel Mirror doesn’t have quite the same ring about it. On the other hand,’ he continues, ‘to take another case . . .’

  ‘He’s in lecturing mode,’ says Rhona.

  ‘On the other hand,’ insists Alden, ‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall sounds much better than looking glass, looking glass et cetera. And it would be too much for a driving instructor to ask you to look into your rear view looking glass.’

  ‘He’s the original word man,’ mocks Rhona.

  ‘This word man must get back to JB,’ says Alden, striding towards the door of the house.

  Luke wants to ask who JB is and why Alden must get back to him. But on the principle that it may be to his advantage not to ask what it is assumed he already knows, he says nothing and has a memory of the first day at his detested school, surrounded by people bigger than himself who knew what a wapper was, what the second bell meant, what it was to be given a blue paper and a host of other incomprehensibles. A system of mentors had been introduced a term before he left, too late to have helped him. He had soon discovered that the best policy was don’t ask questions; nor would he do so this afternoon.

  Rhona leads him to the door of the studio, pointing at the herb beds and saying, ‘Not Alden’s work – much too irregular.’ Having opened the door, she places a hand on the small of his back and guides him in ahead of her.

  His first impression is of a fashion boutique after an act of sustained and mindless vandalism. Parts of garments, rags, strips of cloth, swatches, drawings and various bladed instruments are spread at random on long tables and flow onto the floor. On a rail a line of dresses are rough-seamed, unfinished tatters, as if the vandal in a fit of conscience has attempted to reassemble them.

  ‘We seldom complete anything here,’ Rhona explains. ‘This is an ideas factory. People buy my outline designs and have them made up in factories in India and China.’

  Luke begins to discern order in the apparent crime scene. Only then does he look about the building and appreciate how new windows in the south wall, and lime-washed timbers have given a space and light unguessed from the red brick exterior.

  At one end is a modern mezzanine. ‘Storage area,’ Rhona tells him. She turns and points to the other end dominated by a long drawing board covered with jars of pencils, pens and paints. ‘My workspace where the ideas take shape.’

  Luke’s eyes rest on drawings for children’s clothes based on 1930s gangsters.

  ‘Our biggest customers at the moment are in the US. Rich kids’ parties have to be themed. If the shops want the Mob look for kiddies, we supply it. Alden, of course, is quite cynical: ‘Spend money on designer clothes for your brats to compensate for the fact that you never talk or read to them.’ Mind you, he doesn’t object to taking their money.’

  She pulls out some drafts of designs based on Russian national costume.

  ‘This is the latest venture. I’m doing a range for a new children’s boutique in Moscow.’ She leads him by the arm to the tables and shows him part of a child’s costume – whether for a boy or girl he can’t decide – with jacket and trousers covered with small applied fishes and shells. ‘The sea is always a popular theme,’ she says. ‘And anything which touches on green issues. Alden often questions what the carbon footprint of the final garment might be. Designed here using foreign fabrics, made up in the Far East, shipped to New York, LA or wherever. But I do things for the home market too.’

  She takes Luke’s hand and leads him to the far wall and lifts up a length of silk spread over a piece of furniture. ‘And here’s my new plan chest – in use already.’ She pulls open a lower drawer. Luke notices the contours of her body through the yellow dress. She extracts more drawings and spreads them on top of the chest. ‘Old ideas,’ she says. ‘Medieval, Spanish, The Nutcracker, whatever the dear children, or rather their mothers, want for their next party. And usually, like their mothers, they’ll wear it only once and . . . ’

  Luke, only half listening, finds he cannot move his eyes from the line of Rhona’s spine and her hair falling abandoned about her shoulders as she bends over.

  ‘. . . and we also do a more down-the-line range for high street stores. In some parts of England . . .’

  He wants to touch it, to feel its softness and weight in his hands. Too soon she turns round.

  ‘You must have quite a workforce,’ he says.

  ‘Five. I had sixteen in London.’ She points to two photos above the plan chest. ‘On the right – that’s us – a couple of years after I started the business.’

  Luke looks at a group of women in a studio, Rhona standing in the centre with her arms round those nearest to her. In the background he can make out Alden’s head. Luke considers asking about Alden’s role in the business, but Rhona anticipates the question.

  ‘Alden insisted he was in the photo, being a sleeping partner. That’s his sister in front of him – Moira.’

  Luke looks at a tall woman with close-cropped hair.

  ‘She’s the third shareholder – a working partner in those days, but now, mercifully, more dormant than Alden after marrying a hedge-fund manager. This can come down now.’ She removes the photo and slips it into the top drawer of the plan chest. ‘It’s not good to keep looking back.’

  Luke looks at the other photograph, Rhona and four women standing outside Saffold Farm.

  ‘That’s us now,’ Rhona says. ‘A much smaller team. I was expanding too quickly in London. Now I concentrate on the upper end of the market. Higher risks but greater rewards.’

  Luke wants to ask if Alden has a job apart from his sleeping partnership, but says instead, ‘I’ve a customer who runs a hedge fund. When he talks to me about his work and million pound deals my mirrors seem like throwaway baubles.’

  ‘My sister-in-law calls my business a cottage industry which is slightly annoying.’ Rhona waves her arm around the room. ‘Designs which leave this cottage industry find their way to at least twenty countries. Lowering her voice, she says, ‘I certainly earn far more than her brother. He says he’s quite happy I’m the main breadwinner, but I’m not sure if I really believe him.’

  Again Luke wonders about Alden’s work, but says nothing as Rhona returns to the plan chest. She opens a drawer and shows him a small design based on a peasant costume. ‘I promised Lynton’s grand-daughter, Phoebe, I’d give her one of my drawings.’

  Luke notices in the drawer a photograph of a group of children.

  ‘My second family. An orphanage we sponsor in India. Each year a percentage of our profits go to them. In the textile world child labour is rife, and I can’t control where my designs end up or which factories produce the end product.’ She picks up the photograph and lays it on the plan chest. ‘I try to make a small difference. Alden calls it tokenism and gets annoyed when I call them my children.’ She closes the drawer. ‘We don’t have any of our own – fortunately.’

  Luke hears a wistfulness in her voice and sees her look towards a worktable next to the plan chest and study a dress design. ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  Rhona takes up a pencil, scribbles some notes on the design, unpins three pieces of floral-printed cotton from the dress and rearranges their position.

  Luke marvels at the sudden transformation of the garment into a dress now more colourful, vivacious.

  ‘Work never stops in this cottage industry,’ she says. ‘Let’s go back indoors.’

  As she leads Luke into the yard, he wonders if it is time for him to leave. The afternoon has been so electric he wants to quit while the current is li
ve. To outstay such a welcome would be unthinkable. But she pre-empts him. ‘Now you must come and see where I’ve hung that fabulous needlework.’

  Back in the house she leads him through one of the doors he saw closed in the hallway.

  ‘We call this the snug,’ she tells him. ‘A bit pubby I know, but again it’s what the old owners used to call it’.

  Snug it is, Luke thinks: two sofas, a TV, coffee table, a small fireplace over which is a portrait of Rhona with sea-green hair.

  ‘A brief phase at Art School,’ she says. ‘The painter’s quite famous now as a shoe designer.’

  On one side of the fireplace in an alcove and above an old oak chest of drawers hangs the needlework. ‘The perfect place,’ says Luke.

  Rhona smiles back, motionless, again the Parian figure. After a few moments’ silence she spins round and points to the other alcove where the wall is bare. ‘If you could find me another needlework for here . . .’

  Alden bursts through the door. ‘That drip Connor has let me down and can’t come to Santa Marta.’ He turns to Luke. ‘Don’t fancy a week in Corsica do you? Flight and expenses paid for light duties?’ The leathers have been exchanged for baggy green cords complete with fishtail waistband and yellow braces worn over a white T-shirt.

  ‘Alden, I’m sure Luke hasn’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

  Alden drops onto one of the sofas, stretches his body full length, throws back his arms, brings his hands together behind his head, and closes his eyes.

  Rhona touches Luke’s arm and they sit on the other sofa.

  ‘Lynton,’ begins a weary Alden, ‘you know, Lynton Travers the artist, come August will have been living in Santa Marta for sixty years.’

  ‘It’s a tiny village in the mountains,’ Rhona says.

  ‘Unscarred by tourism.’ adds Alden.

  ‘But there is a hotel and a café,’ says Rhona, ‘and the village has mobile network.’

  ‘It’s unspoilt,’ says Alden. ‘I wanted to mark the anniversary in some appropriate way. There’s going to be a retrospective exhibition of his work but that’s in Paris and not until next year. A London gallery wanted to put a show on, but Lynton is having none of it – he fell out with the art establishment years ago. I had long discussions with some old friends of his . . .’

  Luke searches his memory for the name Travers but finds nothing. Perhaps Russ has heard of him.

  ‘Now, as it happens, the village square has this amazing flight of steps leading up to the main door of the church. The interior is a ruin – what’s left is now a gallery – but the exterior walls survive, and the paved area in front of the door and the steps below are a great space for an outdoor play. So what better way, I thought, of celebrating the anniversary than producing a play in his honour. My first thought was that it had to be Shakespeare – a Mediterranean setting, set partly on an island. There was only one play I could choose of course.’

  In an uneasy silence, Luke realises he is expected to guess the chosen play.

  ‘In the shadow of war, like much of Lynton’s life,’ says Alden. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Alden wanted to put on Othello,’ says Rhona and yawns.

  Alden frowns. ‘That was my original choice. But when I broached the idea to Lynton, he was uneasy about it. “I’ve seen enough tragedy and violence in my life,” he told me. “I don’t need any more.” And as ever Lynton was right.’

  Rhona turns to Luke. ‘Alden’s always rather lionised Lynton,’ she says.

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Alden. ‘Ten years ago a university friend introduced me to him . . . ’

  ‘A girlfriend,’ says Rhona.

  ‘An old girlfriend. But ever since Lynton and I have remained friends.’

  ‘But you’re always saying what an inspiration he is, how he changed your life – showed you that art, whether painting or writing,’ she turns to Luke, ‘or even my humble rag trade,’ she fixes on Alden, ‘is the most fulfilling thing in life.’

  ‘He inspires me.’

  ‘And, darling, we await with eagerness your great play or biography.’

  Luke sees Alden’s fair skin turn beetroot. It is time to rescue the maligned husband. ‘So which play is to replace Othello?’

  Alden lowers his feet from sofa to floor and extends his right arm, ‘Peter Pan.’

  Luke feels he should make a response to this changed choice of play, but before he is able Rhona says, ‘At least it’s not heavy with deep meaning.’

  ‘Not at all,’ says Alden. ‘In fact it’s been argued that Peter Pan was influenced by Shakespeare. One could, for example, compare Tinkerbell with Puck in The Dream. Added to that . . . ’

  ‘Here we go again,’ says Rhona. ‘As far as I’m concerned it will be much more fun than boring old Shakespeare.’

  Alden looks up to the ceiling in disdain.

  ‘Oh, darling, that look would be perfect for Captain Hook.’

  Alden looks down at the floor while Rhona attempts to suppress a laugh, a failed effort which Luke finds irresistible.

  Ignoring her, Alden raises his eyes towards the central ’50s lampshade. ‘The choice of Peter Pan was Mathilde’s. She saw it as a child and has always wanted to see it again.’

  ‘Mathilde is Lynton’s lovely French wife,’ says Rhona.

  ‘Two drama students,’ says Alden, ‘and a professional dancer, are taking the leads. Other friends, amateurs but gifted, complete the cast. I’m directing and playing the pirate Starkey. Unfortunately, an old friend who was to play Smee has cried off. Added to that I’m still short of a pirate who was to double as prompter.’

  ‘It’s a farce before it’s started,’ says Rhona.

  ‘You should speak to Russ, my restorer,’ says Luke. ‘In fact you may have met him at the local drama society.’

  Alden lowers his eyes. ‘Russ? Oh, yes. Not sure if we exactly hit it off.’ In sudden excitement he raises his arms. ‘Why don’t you both come? Have a part each. Russ would make a good Smee, and as pirate Cecco, you’ll only have three lines, apart from joining in with the pirate song.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Luke.

  ‘Close the shop for a week or two like they do in Paris in summer. Make it a working holiday. I’ll pay for the flights and hire car and your accommodation will be free. I’ll show you some photos of Santa Marta. It’s a great place.’ He leaps off his sofa and leaves the room as if Luke has already agreed.

  ‘Don’t let him twist your arm,’ says Rhona. ‘And don’t get taken in by all his theatre talk. You wouldn’t guess he’s a solicitor would you?’

  ‘I thought he was a writer.’

  ‘God, no. Probate solicitor. On and off. He’s opted for locum work so he can spend more time on his creative ambitions.’ Rhona looks to the door and says quietly, ‘Never mention the legal thing to him. It earns him money but he’s embarrassed he has to do it. Mind you, it was his decision to read Law at university and then train with some London firm. Deep down I’m sure he would have rather done English or Drama Studies.’

  Savouring the confidences, Luke allows himself a question: ‘Have you been to this Corsican village?’

  ‘Five times. It’s very pretty, but it might best be visited without Alden.’

  ‘Where do you stay?’

  ‘A wonderful old house – Les Puits. It has seven bedrooms and has never been modernised. It was where Lynton lived before he restored the abbot’s house, which is where he lives now. Some of the rooms overlook . . .’

  ‘Look at these,’ says Alden entering the room holding a photo album. He sits on the arm of the sofa next to Luke, and turns a few pages. ‘Here’s the centre of Santa Marta. Isn’t it wonderful? There’s the old church. Here are some of the other houses.’

  Luke sees photos of stone buildings with green shutters, pine-covered hillsides and a river running through a rocky gorge. Pretty, he thinks, but almost anybody’s holiday snaps. At the end of the album is a large photo of an old man at his easel in a studio.<
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  ‘Lynton,’ says Alden. ‘The old monastic buildings next to his house are now accommodation and a large studio for his summer school students. They are providing most of my cast and set-builders. Beautiful isn’t it? Have I tempted you to join us?’

  ‘You can’t expect an instant reply,’ says Rhona. ‘Anyhow I’m sure Luke needs to speak to his partner first and also to Russ.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Alden is back on the opposite sofa. ‘All three of you can be my guests.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ says Luke, ‘until I’ve spoken with Eva. As for Russ – at such short notice . . .’

  ‘Your Russ would be great for Smee. Oldish, balding, a little rotund – he’s made for the part.’

  Luke feels his left hand squeezed by Rhona. ‘I think it could be fun. Why don’t you mull it over?’

  Luke looks at her, knowing he couldn’t refuse those blue eyes if she suggested leaving for Corsica that afternoon. ‘What are the exact dates?’

  Alden answers for her. ‘We’ll be over there from the fourteenth. We only have a week for rehearsals. The play’s on Saturday the twenty-second. Why don’t you fly out a couple of days beforehand and stay for as long as you like? It doesn’t matter if you miss the first rehearsals. Let me know as soon as you can.’

  Alden stands and Luke finds himself standing too, Rhona next to him.

  ‘Of course,’ Luke says, aware that this is the moment to leave.

  As he walks from the back door to his van he commits to memory the number of the blue Citroen. Before he climbs into the driver’s seat Rhona hugs him and gives him a very gentle but protracted kiss on the cheek, followed by the lightest touch of her lips on his. Luke wonders if Alden has seen this from the back door of the house. And if he cares.

  Driving from Saffold Farm he tells himself that the idea of closing the shop for a week or more is ridiculous. And anyway, Eva is at a conference in mid-August. But before he has reached the top of the lane he asks himself, who draws up the holiday schedules? And if Eva is away . . . Before he passes the church his mind is made up.

  Luke looks at his left hand on the steering wheel. When Rhona squeezed it there was a message in her touch which had nothing to do with Alden’s production. And the message was underlined by the kiss. His head is awhirl. Too much has happened. He is elated. He is also driving too fast. He can still feel Rhona next to him on the sofa, giggling as she mocks Alden. He can see the curve of her spine, smell her. And those moments of silence. Best of all the silence. He and Eva could sit in a room and not speak, had done many times, usually reading in her cottage, or the silence of fishing. But silence, doing nothing at all and still feeling they were living to the full – had that ever happened? I hate these comparisons, he tells himself. But I can’t help drawing them. No, they draw themselves. His van almost collides with an oncoming Volvo. The two vehicles swerve up their respective roadside banks to avoid a crash. The Volvo driver mouths obscenities at him. Luke knows he is at fault and raises a pacifying hand.