Back inside the house, he carries a glass of water through to her sitting room and sinks into the sofa. The cottage is silent. At the window to his left, a branch of a climbing rose brushes the glass, a sound which intensifies the stillness. He stares at the wood burning stove and remembers helping to fit it, making the register plate himself. In front of the hearth is a Turkish rug which Eva bought at an auction they attended together. On the windowsill is a photograph of Helen, Eva and himself on Helen’s graduation day. Despite the warm day, the room feels cold, adding to his unease, as if the house is telling him he no longer belongs here. Resisting the suggestion, he looks up to the painting on the chimney breast, an impressionistic scene of grazing cattle, a present from him the Christmas after she had moved here. He quickly stands, goes upstairs to the landing where he opens a window for ventilation. He takes a deep breath and returns downstairs. It is not until he locks the cottage door behind him that he exhales and breathes in the air of the garden.
At home that evening, waiting for Eva’s call, he decides he must join her in Ireland. If Barbara is dying he must be there. Eva may be in Corofin for days, perhaps several weeks, and he must be at her side. He will leave at first light tomorrow and drive to Holyhead. And he will take the van – it may be useful later. And Eva may need more clothes than she managed to cram into a suitcase. Russ can go to Corsica without him. When Rhona phones tomorrow he will explain. That will be the hardest part, but she will understand. Online he goes through ferry times from Holyhead to Dun Laoghaire and makes calculations of distances and driving times. The journey can easily be done in a day; two years ago he and Eva had driven home from Corofin in well under twenty hours. He will be with her late tomorrow. Arrangements can be made for keeping an eye on her cottage. He is packing his own suitcase when Eva phones.
‘I won’t hear of it,’ she insists above the noise of Shannon airport. ‘I have all I need. You and Russ must have your holiday.’
‘My things are packed. I’ll leave before dawn.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘What extra clothes of yours shall I bring?’
‘I’ve everything I need.’
‘You don’t know how long you’ll be over there.’
‘Barbara may make a quick recovery. We’ve had false alarms before. I might be back in a few days. Now I must find a taxi.’
‘All the same, I’m more than happy to join you.’
‘And I’ll be more than happy if you can ask Annie to keep an eye on my garden. I’ll email you tomorrow.’
‘Give Barbara my love.’
Eva’s phone cuts out and Luke stares at the half-packed suitcase. Surely Eva cannot be clear-headed after such a fraught day? Perhaps he should ignore her wishes, seize a few hours’ sleep and leave for Ireland. He continues packing and carries the suitcase downstairs. At the foot of the stairs he looks through the open study door. He can hear Rhona’s voice when she walked in, ‘Ah, your man cave.’ If he is to go to Ireland he must phone her. Russ too.
In the kitchen he dials Russ’s number. There is no reply. He leaves no message. He will phone again later. Should he now phone Rhona? Vacillating, he stares into the garden. There is weeding and dead-heading to be done, and a hundred other tasks demanding attention in Eva’s garden. He phones Annie.
Part III
16
In the subdued light of Barbara’s room Eva sits at the bedside. When she first entered, the head on the pillow seemed to belong to another patient, and she had wanted to ask the nurse if she had been shown to the right room. It was only after some moments of shock that she had accepted that this frail woman with thin hair, life registered by the occasional quiver at the lips, was her aunt. The forehead on which she had pressed a kiss had felt like cold parchment. She thinks back to her last visit, in March, to the old but active, alert, woman with the rounded face beneath thick grey hair, who had joked outrageously about her neighbours in the other flats.
Eva looks around the room, its small wardrobe, chest of drawers and bedside table, so different from the flat in the residential wing where Barbara had crammed the possessions of a lifetime into a comfortable but confined space. On the table a shaft of light through the green curtains catches a silver photograph frame which a member of staff must have brought from the flat to the nursing room. Eva studies it. Taken, she guesses, in the 1930s, it shows Barbara standing between her parents in the garden of the family house in Limerick. Returning it to the table, she notices a painting of the same house propped against the wall on top of the chest, but not quite in the centre, and she remembers the exact place where, until recently, it hung in Barbara’s flat. Walking over to it, she adjusts its position and returns to her chair. Strange, she thinks, how people are defined by the objects around them, and sometimes with the advance of years by fewer and fewer. ‘What things define me?’ she says aloud.
After twelve hours of travel there is a profound peace. Part of her is still driving to Stanstead, checking in, boarding and flying, travelling by taxi through the late evening along the main roads to Fountain Cross before taking the R476 to Corofin. In the silence of the room the journey recedes. After half an hour Barbara’s breathing becomes more audible. It is an encouraging sound. Again Eva thinks back to her last visit here. Was it only four months ago? It seems much longer. Then, Barbara had enjoyed long, slow walks around the gardens with the aid of a walking frame. And one afternoon she had insisted on being pushed in a wheelchair for over a mile, talking all the while and never content with a mere ‘Good morning’ to any passer-by.
A nurse enters. ‘You must get some sleep yourself now, dear. It’s been a long day for you.’
With some reluctance Eva lifts herself from her chair, bends over the bed and kisses her aunt. As she leaves the room the nurse says, ‘She’s very weak but you’ll be able to have a chat with her in the morning.’
Eva goes to her room on the ground floor. It has a wardrobe and chest identical to those in Barbara’s room, but its en suite shower room and drinks-making tray bring to mind a Travelodge, which is, she thinks, what St. Anthony’s has now become for her aunt. Unpacking, she realises Luke was right – she could do with more clothes for what is an open-ended visit, but dog tired she decides this minor worry can wait until morning.
She falls asleep playing through mental pictures of her many visits to Barbara, first at her house, later at her flat here at St. Anthony’s, the fishing trips to Lough Corrib, the outings to Galway and Coole . . . the flow of images is briefly interrupted by a picture of Luke and the dinner party yesterday evening, but her thoughts move to a springtime walk with Barbara in the garden where they paused at a clump of narcissi.
In the morning she is woken by a knock on the door, followed by the appearance of one of the kitchen staff.
‘It’s eight o’clock, darling, and your aunt is as bright as a button. Now matron has given me strict instructions that you’re not to go galloping upstairs before I’ve seen you eat a proper breakfast.’ She raises a finger. ‘Now take your time. There’s no reason to rush.’
Eva’s first instinct, despite her orders, is to run up and see Barbara, but the tone of admonition restrains her and she lies in bed, blankly staring at a print of the Burren. Turning her head, she becomes aware that last night she failed to draw the curtains. For some further minutes she looks out into the garden and beyond its stone wall into the County Clare countryside, acutely aware how different this place is from the ordered arable flatness of East Anglia. Ten minutes later, as she walks to the kitchen, she passes two residents in the corridor, both of whom greet her and seem ready for a chat. But not yet at one with the rhythms of St. Anthony’s, she smiles and heads towards the obligatory breakfast.
At a small table in a bay window of the dining room, a huge plateful is placed in front of her. It reminds her of one of the many breakfasts she and Luke had enjoyed in the fishing lodge at Rutland Water. Again she wonders about him and Rhona, but cannot allow such thoughts to figure high in her emo
tional priorities. It is difficult enough today eating alone, when all her meals at St. Anthony’s have previously been with Barbara, either in her flat or more recently in this same room with other residents. Luke had often accompanied her – Luke who now, she realizes, has receded in her life. She feels the loss, but it is a distant sadness which has been overtaken by a preparedness for a greater bereavement. She looks out to the formal front garden. It is divided by a gravel drive leading to the front door. The side nearer her is a rectangular lawn edged with standard roses. In the centre, a stone pedestal supports a bronze portrait bust of the founder. The opposite lawn is pegged out for croquet. If one has to end one’s day in care, she thinks, St. Anthony’s is no bad choice.
‘Eva. Eva, they said you were coming,’ are Barbara’s first faltering words. As they exchange a kiss and a hug, Eva is shocked at her aunt’s fragility.
‘I flew over as soon as I heard. I’m sorry to find you so unwell.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I know how things are.’ Barbara’s voice regains some of its familiar strength, and a glint appears in her eyes. ‘As we say, I’m ready to be reeled in.’
‘Please don’t talk like that.’
‘Why not? I’ve heard so many people here ask, “Am I dying?” and here I am lucky enough not to need to ask. I know, Eva, I know.’
Eva feels tears in her eyes, and takes Barbara’s hand.
Barbara in her turn grips Eva with a firmness she finds surprising.
‘You must be happy for me,’ says Barbara. ‘I’m quite ready, you know. Now give me your news.’
‘Helen is still enjoying Sydney. We spoke the other day . . .’
Eva, watching Barbara close her eyes, continues with updates on work, garden and fishing, omitting any reference to her doubts about Luke, until Barbara relaxes her grip. It seems she has fallen asleep. But the grip tightens and Barbara opens her eyes.
‘You haven’t mentioned your mirror man.’
‘Haven’t I?’ Barbara mustn’t be burdened with Luke and Rhona.
‘The cancer hasn’t got to my brain yet. What’s wrong between the two of you?’
‘Things are a little difficult. In fact . . .’
‘The fact is it’s a wonder you and he have lasted so long. I’ve never said so before, but now . . . well, there won’t be another chance.’
Barbara moves her right hand towards Eva as if she would like to hold it, but cannot find enough strength. Eva takes it in her own. In silence they exchange smiles.
After a minutes Barbara closes her eyes. ‘I suppose it’s another woman,’ she says.
Too upset to speak Eva squeezes Barbara’s hand.
Luke’s not a bad man,’ says Barbara, ‘but all those years ago wasn’t he the stick you beat Mark with for leaving you? You were more upset at the time than you knew – far too angry to fall in love with anyone.’
That’s not true, thinks Eva – the drugs have affected her reason.
‘It was a long time ago,’ Eva says and feels Barbara’s fingers tighten.
‘There you were – Mark runs off with a pretty young thing about to start her own interiors shop, and you are suddenly with Luke, king of the mirrors, three generations ahead of her in a similar line of work. You couldn’t have hurt them more with a shillelagh.’
Eva wants to protest but feels Barbara’s fingers loosen, as if the outburst has weakened her.
A nurse says, ‘She’s sleeping again.’
For a minute Eva describes yesterday’s journey, finding her voice has hushed with the slow acceptance that this is not a visit to a sick woman but a vigil of uncertain duration.
Two hours later Eva leaves the room to allow a doctor to make an examination. In the matron’s office he tells them, ‘There is an obstruction in the kidneys. We could admit her to hospital for investigations and perhaps surgery, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘The change of environment and any procedure would be too much for her,’ adds the matron.’ My advice is that she should remain here.’
‘How long,’ asks Eva, ‘do you . . . ?’
The doctor and matron exchange glances. ‘Mentally she is very tough,’ says the matron, ‘and you’ve seen how she has her lucid moments, but she tires quickly. She’s in no pain, thanks to the morphine patches. But the prognosis? A few days.’
Through heavy rain Luke walks to the shop. Any dutiful notions that he should follow Eva to Ireland have been subsumed by the thought that today Rhona flies to Corsica – already she is in the air. He stops abruptly, repeating the three words. Hasn’t she always been “in the air” – ethereal, elusive? Of course she is physical, practical, but isn’t there a thread in her her, the most loveable part, which is always just out of reach – furtive as the angel’s tears in the clefts of the brickwork? He consoles himself with the knowledge that this evening she will phone him. How he will bear the six days before he will see her again he has no idea.
Mid-morning in the shop Russ insists on an unnecessary run-through of Smee’s lines. Word perfect, he now gives them more dramatic emphasis, at one point forgetting his workplace sotto voce, much to the bewilderment of a customer entering the shop. Luke is amused – like himself, Russ, for his own reasons, is eager to be in Santa Marta.
At 5.00pm in steady drizzle, Luke walks to Eva’s cottage. It should not be a long visit: her greenhouse tomatoes will need watering, but after the rain the garden can be left for a day or two. Looking through the glass door of the porch and seeing some letters lying on the floor beneath the letterbox, he lets himself in and leaves them on the kitchen table.
Despite the open landing window, the cottage feels airless and oppressive, as if it begrudges him oxygen. It also has an atmosphere of disturbing unfamiliarity, so strong that he is reminded of houses visited when asked by a local solicitor to carry out a probate valuation of contents. He feels he should be searching for overlooked rarities. And yet he knows this cottage well, is familiar with every item of its furnishings. Here there is no forgotten Chelsea plate at the back of a cupboard, no silver coffee pot black with neglect in a sideboard, no seventeenth-century wine glass hiding among empty Kilner jars in the larder. He goes upstairs to open another window.
In Eva’s bedroom the open wardrobe doors and clothes flung on the bed speak of her hurried departure. He surveys the room, as familiar as his own bedroom. Two of his books are on his side of the double bed, and in the wardrobe he can see a line of his shirts. He clears a space on the bed and sits down, head in hands. When he looks up he notices the row of china rabbits Eva collected as a child. Various costume necklaces are draped around their necks. The largest has bangles hanging from its blue ears. Between the rabbits is an assortment of pots of cream. The domestic untidiness is both reassuring and disturbing. Doesn’t he belong here, not in Rhona’s world? For a second he sees every object at Saffold Farm as a prop in a drama written and acted out by Rhona and Alden, where even a spontaneous word or action seems, on reflection, to have been scripted. Yet yesterday afternoon was sheer magic, and the thought of hearing her voice again this evening is almost unbearably thrilling. He gathers his shirts from the rail and the books from the bedside table.
At home that evening he reads an email from Eva: Barbara very weak. She may have only a few days. Thanks for your offer to come over here – and for the watering. I can manage things here. X E.
He welcomes the matter-of-fact tone; a more effusive message might have been painful. He replies in similar vein.
It is almost midnight when at last Rhona calls. ‘Luke, Luke, Luke, I’m missing you millions,’ she says. ‘We left before it was barely light this morning. Drove to Heathrow. Flight to Paris. Change. Flight to Figari. And Alden was impossible. Always fretting we’d be late. Why aren’t you out here? It’s usually so lovely. But without you . . .’
Luke hears a series of kisses. ‘Here summer disappeared with you,’ he says. He describes his day and Eva’s departure to Ireland.
‘If you feel you should be ove
r there supporting her, of course I would understand,’ she says. ‘It would be awful not to see you, but you must do what is best. And never mind this stupid play – I’m already sick of it.’
Luke hears a long sigh.
‘But Luke, darling Luke,’ she says, ‘I’m hoping against selfish hope that by some magic turn of events you’ll soon be with me.’
‘Russ and I are both definitely coming. We’ll be with you late afternoon Thursday.’
For Eva the weekend sees no change in her aunt’s condition. In the mornings Barbara is able to drink a little and exchange a few words, but any hope of a conversation has faded with the old woman’s strength.
On Sunday, after an institutional roast dinner in the residents’ dining room, Eva is about to return to the bedside, when a nurse says, ‘You must look after yourself, dear. Now go for a walk and enjoy the air, or we’ll be treating you for mental exhaustion.’
Without protest Eva obeys, but to leave St. Anthony’s is like an act of truancy. At the top of the drive she looks back, worried, towards Barbara’s room. With sad reluctance, she turns and continues with her walk, with a plan to visit the museum in the old St. Catherine’s church. But a burst of sun changes her mind and slinging her coat over her shoulder she heads for Lake Inchiquin. It is a walk she has enjoyed before. The last time was in March – she remembers comparing the stone built houses, walls and wild flowers to their very different equivalents at home. But today she finds herself recalling her first visit here when she was twelve. Her parents had seen her onto the ferry. Barbara had met her at Dun Laoghaire and driven them in her ancient green Singer Estate to Naas where they had stopped for tea. Then on to her house on the Ennis road. She retained vivid memories of its clutter of furnishings brought from the much larger Limerick home she had never known, but felt she knew well from Barbara’s fund of anecdotes and the photograph albums in the bottom drawer of her mahogany bureau.
The Mirrror Shop Page 21