‘Luke’s counselling had ended before we met up socially. But he was a former client and there is a strict professional code which establishes . . . ’
‘I don’t see it. He was no longer your client. You were both free agents.’
Lowering her voice, Eva says, ‘The therapist-client relationship must have boundaries.’
‘No need to whisper. Do you think those guys over there care about codes of conduct.’
Eva looks towards the bar. A sun-tanned man is describing a friend’s wedding in Barcelona. ‘Chaos or what? The Spanish celebrant couldn’t even pronounce the name of the bride.’
Agnes takes Eva’s hand. ‘Look, my cousin married her doctor. They had to be discreet for over a year. She changed doctors. He moved to another practice. Got quietly married. No fuss. And they’re very happy.’
‘Luke and I tried to be secretive. But two of my colleagues found out about us and took great delight in making my life hell. And my ex-husband rather enjoyed my predicament.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Mark was a modern languages teacher when I married him. A good one too. But he always had a wish to do something less cerebral. And then he met a girl who was starting her own interiors business and he . . .’
Eva finds it painful to continue. She is relieved to hear guffaws from the bar and the raconteur’s ear-piercing bellow. ‘What’s more the best man was too drunk to read his speech, and a bridesmaid had to read it for him. Now there was this joke . . .’
Agnes says, ‘And so Mark swapped the blackboard and French lessons for expensive paints and curtain-making.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘I suppose she was much younger.’
‘Twenty-two. Mark and I were in our early thirties.’
‘And your daughter lived with you?’
‘Yes. Mark made a token effort at parenthood, but we moved up here and Luke was more of a father. Helen only saw Mark once or twice a year.’
Agnes finishes her lager. ‘I guess this Rhona nonsense digs up all the bad stuff when you and Mark split up.’
‘No. It was too long ago. A different life.’
A salvo of guffaws explodes from the bar.
‘Look,’ says Eva, ‘can we go back to the café?’
It is 1.30pm as Luke approaches Cantisham. Not hungry, he can’t face the lunchtime shop or the silence of 7 Back Lane. On the outskirts of town the superstition reasserts itself that he should, as far as possible, follow Sunday’s pattern. Since on Sunday he dropped in at the Woodcutters and met up with Alf, perhaps it is propitious to go there again. On the other hand, Alf always has lunch at home and will not be at the pub. The superstition is not straightforward: which is more important, the place or the person? After some mental casuistry, he decides on the person and drives round to Alf’s house, a Victorian railway cottage near the long-closed station. And there is a conscience-salving excuse for the visit – Eva’s fence posts.
‘Want some tea, old partner?’ asks Alf at the door.
Luke follows him into the dark kitchen. As his eyes adjust he sees the crockery, old magazines, seed trays and jars of growing cress which cover the table. Both kitchen chairs have pairs of boots on them. Shelves around the room are heavy with homemade pickles and preserves. The floor is spread with newspapers which look in need of their weekly or monthly change. In a corner above an ancient radio is a dusty photo of a family member in First World War uniform. Seeing Alf’s shaving mug and razor standing in a grimy sink, he recalls old Maud’s description of the room, ‘a dead mouse away from squalor.’ But today he loves every unswept corner. The kitchen is all things Alden would hate.
‘Sit you down there,’ Alf tells him, pointing to a shapeless armchair already occupied by Maurice.
Luke takes a step forward and glances towards Maurice who, understanding the protocol, vacates the chair, shakes dust from his coat, and coils onto a blanket under the table. Alf brings over two mugs of tea, hands one to Luke, removes a pair of boots from one of the kitchen chairs and settles down.
‘Suppose you’ve come for them fence posts. They’re in the back yard. Were the old ones set in concrete?’
‘Looked like it.’
‘I can let you have a few spiked sleeves to drive through the old holes. When you doing the job?’
‘Sunday, I thought.’
‘Good plan. There won’t be any rain until about Tuesday. You eaten?’
‘No, I’ve been out delivering a mirror. I don’t have much of an appetite.’
‘Rubbish.’ Alf gets to his feet. ‘You’ve got to eat in the middle of the day. You’re one of them who eats dinner at night, aren’t you? Night-time’s for drinking – ask the vegetables.’ He pulls out a thick-cut loaf from a chipped enamel bread bin.
At the sight of Alf’s dirt-encrusted hands Luke searches for an excuse to avoid the sandwich, until he pictures Alden’s slender, white fingers. ‘That’s very good of you, Alf.’
Between slices of bread Alf layers Cos lettuce leaves, cress pulled from a jar, two thick rectangles of Cheddar, a coating of homemade chutney and more lettuce leaves. He is about to pass it to Luke when as an afterthought he takes it back to the table, selects a jar of pickled onions from a shelf and forks one onto the side of the plate. ‘Set you up for the afternoon that will. You want to get down to your allotment later. Looks like some bug’s been having a nibble at your runners.’
The uncut sandwich in front of him seems to Luke like a small handmade brick, complete with the thumb imprint of its maker, but lifting it with two hands he is determined to enjoy it down to the last bite of acidic onion. ‘Shall I give them an organic spray?’ Luke asks.
‘Don’t waste your money. Nothing a dousing with soap and water won’t cure.’
To Luke’s surprise the first mouthful of sandwich encourages his appetite, which he takes as confirmation that his decision to come here and not to the Woodcutters was well-judged. When he has finished his sandwich and after a refill of strong tea, all obligations to superstition honoured, he knows the next meeting with Rhona will be favourable. Meanwhile, day-to-day life can resume. When he and Alf have loaded the fence posts and spikes into the van, Luke drives away, warmed to the prospect of some DIY work in Eva’s garden: it won’t ease his conscience, but at least it will occupy a day when he cannot see Rhona.
12
If I hadn’t known he was embarking on an affair, I think by now I would have guessed,’ Eva tells Agnes.
As promised, Agnes has phoned first thing Monday morning – first thing by Agnes’s reckoning being 7am. For Eva, wide awake since the early hours, it is not too soon. She looks out into her garden where a blackbird sounds its warning notes. ‘We went to an exhibition opening on Friday night,’ she tells Agnes, ‘but instead of the usual Indian meal afterwards he had booked a table at a new restaurant on the coast about ten times as expensive.’
‘So it’s not all bad.’
‘I’d prefer an honest curry to phony lavishness.’
‘And the weekend?’
‘The Saturday routine. Walk up to the shop mid-morning. Chat about nothing to Luke and Russ – that’s his restorer. The trouble is that chatting about nothing is avoiding everything. It’s a game and I hate it.’ She watches the blackbird, silent now, dart into the laurel bush.
‘So tell him what you know. You’ll feel good for five minutes. And however he reacts, you’ll spend the next few months wishing you’d kept your gob shut.’
‘I wish I could talk to my clients like that.’
‘Perhaps you should. Look, I guarantee the whole thing will be over by the end of the year.’
‘Didn’t someone say that in 1914?’
‘That was a new sort of war. This is Rhona playing the same old game.’
‘By the end of the year?’
‘At the latest. Might even be before September Fashion Week. And she’s abroad with Alden for the second half of August – I’m going with them. No way it will last. If it�
��s even started.’
‘But it might be six months?’
‘I thought you were good at being patient.’
‘I am with clients. This is different.’
‘Did he spend Saturday night with you?’
‘Yes, but he was all in, having started taking down part of my garden fence after work. He just managed to stay awake for supper, but a stubborn fence post had totally knackered him, so he was asleep almost before he got into bed. Looking at him lying there, dead to the world, I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or smother him with a pillow.’
‘Which did you do?’
‘I had to keep him alive to finish the fence. He crawled back to his own home Sunday evening.’
‘Did you go to the concert?’
‘Concert?’
‘In the church. Monteverdi.’
‘I forgot about it. Anyhow, I had to see my fence finished.’
‘Great. You sound in charge. I’ll phone again tonight, by which time I will have spoken to Rhona. Any news and I’ll fill you in.’ Agnes rings off.
Eva stares at her phone. ‘Land line . . . life line,’ she says to it, and looks out again to the garden where the blackbird is now on the lawn stabbing at a worm.
‘Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life,
The flag of skull and bones.’
It is 10.00am Monday. Luke gently closes the shop door.
‘A merry hour, a hempen rope,
And hey for Davy Jones!’
‘Morning, Russ. You’re an impressive baritone.’
‘I’m trying to enter into the pirate spirit. Alden phoned me last night to tell me how he sees the role. I’ve booked our flights. Southampton to Bastia – couldn’t find anything better. Coffee?’
‘I’ll book a taxi and hotel for the night before. ‘Expensive, but since Alden’s paying the air fares and car hire I don’t mind treating ourselves.’
Luke follows Russ into the kitchen. ‘I still haven’t spoken to Eva about Corsica.’
‘Or about Rhona,’ Russ murmurs into the cafetière.
‘I’ll tell her today. About Corsica, that is.’
‘It’s none of my business, but in my limited observation of these matters, the sooner the better seems the best policy.’
‘You’re right, of course.’
Humming yo hos, Russ pours the coffee. Luke notices a copy of the play on the workbench. ‘Do you know all your lines?’
‘Those which Alden hasn’t cut.’
‘Shall I run through them with you?’
‘OK, but I’ll simply say them. No expression. Definitely no actions.’
In the shop Russ sits on his usual chair where, cued by Luke, he continues unfalteringly through each scene as edited by Alden.
At the end Luke applauds. ‘Word perfect, Russ.’
‘I may be now, but put me in a costume and tie a sword round my waist and I’ll forget the lot.’
‘I’m sure you won’t. So what else did Alden have to say?’
‘He mentioned that some of the cast are staying with him this week.’
‘I wonder which ones.’
‘A few of the main roles apparently: Peter, Wendy, Hook and Tinkerbell who’s going to be a dancer, not the old-fashioned light darting around the set. Years ago I saw a production where . . .’
Luke pretends to listen, but thinks only of how to break the news to Eva. When Russ pauses to drink the last drop of cold coffee Luke says, ‘Am I being a bastard, Russ?’
‘It’s not as if you’re married.’ Russ is less convincing than in his role as Smee.
‘I’ll tell her about Corsica this afternoon. She’s at home this morning. It may not be the whole truth but it’s all I can manage for the moment.’
Russ raises his eyebrows.
‘No, Russ. Nothing much has happened between me and Rhona. Look, I’m trying . . .’
‘I understand.’ Russ carries the empty mugs to the kitchen.
Eva, already exhausted by the day, makes a half-hearted effort to attend to some domestic bills, when the phone rings. She seizes the handset.
‘Eva, this is Agnes. I’m at work. I can’t talk long. I’m on my mobile. I’ve slipped out from the studio. A minute ago Rhona told me something you’ve got to know. Luke apparently has agreed to join her and Alden in Corsica in August.’
‘What?’
‘Alden’s producing a play out there. Luke’s agreed to help out.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s an amateur production. Peter Pan.’
‘You’re joking. What the hell’s going on?’
‘I’ll phone again tonight when I know more.’
‘Don’t bother. I’m going straight round to the shop to find out what he’s up to.’
‘Don’t. Please don’t.’
‘Why not? I saw him Friday night, on Saturday, on Sunday. He said nothing about it. Now I’m going to have it out with him.’
‘That would be a mistake.’
‘Why?’
‘First, it won’t make any difference. Second, they’ll soon work out we know each other, and you’ll lose the upper hand. Third, an argument between you and Luke is precisely what Rhona would love.’
‘So what am I meant to do?’
‘Nothing. Be glad you know what’s happening. And if he really is joining us in Corsica, I’ll be on the spot to know if anything’s going on. I’ll keep in touch with you and you’ll always be ahead of the game.’
‘I feel ten moves behind.’
‘No, you’re not. Believe me. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll phone tonight. Meanwhile, be strong and don’t do anything stupid.’
Agnes rings off. Eva remains in her chair staring at the handset. No, Luke must be confronted once and for all. She taps in the first four digits of the number, hesitates, winces and cancels the call. Perhaps Agnes is right. ‘I cannot get you out of my head,’ she says quietly to an unseen Rhona, ‘but you will not win. Nor will you reduce me to helplessness.’ Her eyes turn to the utility bill crumpled in her hand.
Standing near the shop door, Luke surveys the market place: the hotel, two private houses, pub, the other shops. He sighs at the thought he knows all the proprietors – even the names of the three people queuing at the greengrocer’s. ‘And they all know my name,’ he says aloud. ‘How did I become a provincial shopkeeper?’ Recoiling at the admission, he turns round to face Russ holding a restored fret mirror.
‘You’re hardly a shopkeeper,’ Russ says. ‘Not like Barry over there with his ironmongery and overpriced turps. Where shall I hang this?’
‘Sorry, I was mumbling to myself.’
‘I do it all the time as I work, but you never hear it above the sound of the radio. The mirror?’
‘Anywhere you can find wall space. Do you ever miss London?’
‘Not on the evidence of my last visit.’ Russ walks to the back wall of the shop.
‘You don’t feel trapped in this small market town?’
‘You can get trapped in London.’ Russ hangs the mirror.
Luke sits in the centre of the shop on a Hepplewhite chair. ‘You’ve never had my dilemma, have you?’
Russ leans against the marble top of a console table. ‘I did go through that involvement with Derek.’
‘Who?’ Luke sits up at the revelation.
‘Didn’t I ever mention him? The picture restorer in Nassau Street.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘It’s water long under the bridge now. We went to a few concerts together and things might have moved on, even though this was the early ’60s when so much was illegal. What I didn’t know was that there was someone else, a wealthy architect.’ Russ looks up in silence at the newly-hung mirror. ‘Let’s just say I was glad to extricate myself. But it taught me that triangles can be tricky.’
‘I’m in more than a triangle. There are four of us involved and two are married.’ Luke stands up. ‘Any more of that coffee? And if there’s a drop of Scotch in th
e kitchen cupboard . . .’
While Russ is out of the room Luke paces the room, looking at his stock with displeasure. The business has become a trap. Why continue it? There’s enough money in the pot to survive. The phone interrupts his thoughts.
‘Hello,’ he snarls at the headset.
‘Luke,’ says Alden, ‘we’d be delighted if you and Russ could join us for dinner on Wednesday. Short notice I know, but there are some of the cast I‘d like you to meet, and do bring . . .’
Luke hears Rhona’s voice in the background say, ‘Eva’.
‘Eva,’ echoes Alden. ‘We’d love to meet her.’
‘That’s very kind. Let me have a word with Russ.’
Luke bursts into the kitchen. ‘Russ, it’s Alden on the phone inviting you, me and Eva to dinner on Wednesday. What the hell shall I tell him?’
‘Accept of course,’ says Russ without looking up from the bottle of uncorked Talisker. It might make things so much easier all round.’ He pours a generous measure into each of the mugs in front of him.
Before they have sat down in the showroom Luke looks out into the market place. ‘My God, Russ, it’s Eva. Coming this way. What shall I say to her?’
Without answering, Russ scurries to the workshop. Luke goes to the door.
‘Darling, how strange, I was about to phone you.’ He kisses her. ‘Coffee for Eva,’ Luke shouts towards the workshop.
‘You know, you sometimes treat Russ like a servant.’
Luke detects a hint of reproof in her voice.
‘You’re right – which is partly why I was going to phone.’ Luke points her to Russ’s chair and says quietly, ‘Russ works far too hard, so a few days ago when a newcomer in his drama group raised the possibility of a trip to Corsica for an amateur production of Peter Pan, I told him to seize the opportunity – ‘Take an extra holiday, you deserve it.’ And when I discovered the dates overlap with your week in Birmingham, I jokingly said to Russ, ‘No chance of me joining you, is there?’ And I thought no more of it until Russ tells me this morning that it’s all fixed up. It rather took me by surprise.’
The Mirrror Shop Page 15