Pausing to examine an unfamiliar fern on the verge, she asks herself, why am I reflecting so much on the past? Is it Barbara’s critical condition, or my relationship with Luke, or a combination of the two? Is the unconscious asking me to review my life, to prepare for loss, to face the need for change?
Walking from the road down to the lake, the present reasserts itself. Nothing seems to have changed here since earlier visits. But now it looks uncared for. A rowing boat on the stones near the water’s edge is in need of repair and a coat of varnish. Close to this spot, on that first visit, Barbara had placed a rod in her hands and taught her the basics of casting. Later, she and Barbara had fished here from a boat, and it was here she had first seen her aunt land a brown trout. The following year, on this lake at night, she herself had caught her first fish. Are there still trout here? she wonders, looking out over the still surface. To her right she looks at a modern house standing on a promontory but seeming to hang over the lake. She can hear her aunt’s disparaging voice, ‘It should never have been built.’
Eva looks out towards the island, hoping she might see a fish rise. The surface remains undisturbed. Walking on she sees a dead fish lying on the grey stones. Close inspection shows it to be a small pike which, she suspects, had been caught by a disappointed trout fisherman and not returned to the water. The sight depresses her. There is a beauty here, but it is not the lake of her memories.
Each evening Luke receives a short email from Eva, telling him that there is no change in Barbara’s condition. Each night he waits in his study for Rhona’s call. Their conversations are never long enough. On Tuesday she ends the call with an abrupt, ‘Alden’s coming. Must go. Love you.’ He had wanted to tell her about Russ’s latest rehearsals in the shop, annoying at first but soon a cause of hilarity. And he was going to mention his plan to go fishing the following morning to relieve the pain of her absence.
At 3am on Wednesday Luke drives into the empty car park at the top of the cliffs at Overstrand, pulls on his waders and checks his fishing gear before making his way down the steep path to the beach. In one hand he holds his rod, in the other a heavy water-filled container of sand eels with its battery-powered aerator. As far as he can see, east towards Sidestrand and Mundesley and west towards Cromer, the beach is deserted. He meets only a fox scavenging near the bend at the bottom. It looks up, startled, suspicious, then darts ahead, losing itself in the scrub of its own cliffside path, but leaving behind a foul odour which lingers in the air. Apart from birds feeding near the water’s edge on the incoming tide, the coast is silent and still. On the horizon he can make out the yellow lights of boats, but in the greyness before sunrise it is impossible to tell how big they are or how distant. He stands on the beach and looks out to sea, knowing that in one direction there is no land before the Arctic Circle. Far away, in a different direction, near another sea, Rhona is waiting.
He trudges over the shingle in the direction of the dull outline of Cromer Pier, and having passed all the breakwaters, halts at a favourite spot where he and Eva had sometimes fished. Will we ever do so again? he wonders, looking up to the cliffs, unstable masses of geology in slow surrender to the sea. A recent landslip has exposed an acrid black silt which is leaching to the beach, a wound in the coastline. As he walks away from the foot of the cliffs towards the sea, the cries of the feeding birds become louder, but when he approaches they rise and move away from him further along the shore. He wades into a sea less calm than at Waxham two and a half weeks ago, but the breakers are gentle, negotiable. Under his feet the shingle is uneven.
Having checked that his sand eel is secure on the hook, he casts. The line snags. He loses balance and falls. Salt water fills his mouth. Gasping, he tries to stand. Water is filling his waders. In panic he pulls himself above the surface. At last on his feet, he finds he is still holding his rod. His hand is in pain. He sees his right knuckle is bleeding. It must have struck a stone when he fell. He staggers to the shore, each step wrested from the damp weights round his legs. On the beach he removes his waders, pouring out the sea water. He removes his wet socks and wrings them out. For some time he sits on the shingle, looking over the leaden sea which had almost claimed him. The sun rises and the outline of the pier becomes sharper. Out to sea a crab boat appears, moving parallel with the coast. He carries the container of sand eels to the water’s edge and releases them. Walking back to his van, he does not dwell on the morning’s failures. His thoughts are only on Rhona.
17
‘Come on, give it some beans,’ says a man in the seat behind Russ, as the plane accelerates for take-off.
Luke looks out through the porthole on his left, then to his right at Russ, head in a book but eyes closed, as the plane lifts above the runway.
‘Up, up and away,’ sings the unseen passenger.
Russ winces, his lips atremble as if uttering a prayer. Luke wants to ask, ‘If you’re like this now, what are you like on one of your flights to Canada?’ but decides not to disturb a suspended animation, so different from yesterday’s backseat chatter in the taxi on their way to Southampton.
The plane gains height and turns south, the cabin crew begin their sales and Russ steels himself to look towards the porthole before quickly returning to his paperback. Luke smiles; now is clearly not the time to resume conversation. It is only later, when the captain announces that they are skirting Paris that Russ looks up. White-faced, not risking a view of the clouds, he glances at Luke.
‘I can’t abide looking out of the window,’ says Russ. ‘Especially if I see the wing wobbling up and down. I know it’s meant to, but it still scares the life out of me.’
Luke closes the porthole shutter.
Russ’s colour is restored when Luke buys him a coffee, but in turbulence some is spilt on his red and white Hawaiian shirt. Twenty minutes later, in further turbulence, he drops into feigned sleep, punctuated by more mouthed prayers.
Luke reopens the shutter and gazes down at the clouds, relishing the freedom of being hundreds of miles from home, the shop, customers, and . . . Eva – the name seems to have attached itself to the list by mistake, as if someone else has added it. He wants to delete it. How can he be glad to be away from her, when he should be at her side in Ireland? He eases his conscience by recalling her words to him in her last email: Enjoy yourselves and don’t waste money phoning. I’ll see the photos when you get back.
As he looks at the mosaic of browns and greens below, the feeling of release from all things familiar reasserts itself without qualification. Rhona – it is so long since they were together. Their phone calls have always been too short, the shadow of a relationship. Above the drone of the jet engines he can hear her voice. He tries to recapture the moment when, sitting with her in the parlour, he wondered if her presence would summon a butterfly. He closes his eyes. He sees her hand on her white towelling robe. He feels her stroke his head.
As soon as the plane touches ground Russ closes his book and with relief takes in the view of Bastia airport. Disembarking, he is quick down the steps. He looks up in gratitude and smiles as he inhales a heat shimmering with aviation fuel. As they trail through arrivals and are waved through passport control Luke, unable to keep up, loses him among other passengers, only rejoining him at the baggage carousel.
‘This always reminds me of some mechanical giant vomiting indigestible food,’ says Russ. ‘And my case is always last through its epiglottises – is that the plural?’
‘Ask Alden. He’ll know.’ Luke finds himself echoing Rhona’s disparaging tone.
With retrieved luggage and after a search for the car hire desk and a longer search the car itself, they head out of the airport. Luke is at the wheel of the Peugeot 207. Russ clutches a Michelin map and Alden’s directions.
On the N198, before they switch on the aircon, Russ leans through the window. ‘Just smell the maquis,’ he says. ‘The guide book was right.’
‘I bet it will be even more pungent when we leave the coast road,’
says Luke. On the horizon to their right he makes out the silhouettes of mountains.
‘Aren’t those cork oaks?’ says Russ, pointing. ‘This reminds me of Majorca.’ He launches into an account of a past holiday.
Luke barely listens to Russ’s story of losing his wallet in Palma. He throws occasional glances past Russ’s head. Somewhere among the mountains is Santa Marta. And Rhona.
‘Don’t you agree?’ asks Russ.
‘Sorry, I was concentrating on the road.’
‘Always keep wallet and passport with you.’
‘Of course. When do we turn off?’
‘Not until Solenzara. I’ll tell you when. Now my favourite trip that holiday was to Pollença . . .’
Luke’s mind returns to Rhona until Russ directs him to the D268 where the sharp bends of the mountain road demand full concentration. Russ is now silent.
Late morning on Thursday, at the bedside Eva watches Barbara open her eyes, dull at first, but within a minute alert, like embers rekindled.
‘I want you to do one final thing for me,’ Barbara says.
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘You haven’t brought your rod with you, I suppose.’
‘I dashed over here with no more than a suitcase.’
‘Never mind. If you go down to my flat you’ll find one.’
‘You want me to go fishing?’
‘I want to see you cast one last time. Go out onto the lawn down there and I’ll watch you from the window.’
‘You want to see me rod in hand?’
‘With line and fly as well.’
Eva looks out of the window towards the front garden.
‘Now move my bed round a little and I’ll see you perfectly.’
Eva moves the bed a few inches to give Barbara a clear view. ‘Give me five minutes.’
Before going down to Barbara’s flat Eva calls into the matron’s office and explains Barbara’s request.
‘That solves a mystery,’ says the matron. ‘In the night she was mumbling incomprehensibly about you and fishing. We thought it might be delirium.’
‘No-one will mind if they see a strange woman dry casting on the lawn?’
‘I doubt if anyone here will give it a second thought.’
In the flat Eva is disturbed by the sight of familiar furnishings, somehow different now that Barbara is not among them. It is as if each chair, table and picture is in a state of waiting. Above a desk, a rectangle on a wall, a shade lighter than its surround, marks the place where the painting of the Limerick house had hung. She drops onto the sofa, unable to suppress the thought that on her aunt’s behalf she is saying goodbye to these furnishings. Her eyes rest on a Victorian bookcase filled with rows of books on angling and gardening. Three rod bags are propped up against one end. She wants to set about her duty but the atmosphere in the flat compels her to remain seated. She looks at the desk chair which speaks of its owner through the wear on the upholstered seat and arms. The cushion, covered with old Aubusson tapestry, is shaped and frayed by years of use. When she dies, thinks Eva, this chair will also lose its spirit.
She forces herself towards the three rods. Although following Barbara’s instructions, to untie their canvas bags is an intrusion, but as soon as she handles them she is aware that this is a duty which must be performed with due respect. Having laid them on the floor, she selects the newest. In a fishing bag hanging in the kitchen she finds a reel with line. A fly line and leader are still attached. Deciding that there is enough space in the flat for the task, she slots the two parts of the rod together and threads the line. Examining the contents of two pouches of flies in the fishing bag, she sees that some of them have rusted hooks or are dishevelled beyond recognition. As she stares at the bright-coloured rows of hair, feather and fur in front of her, she hears Barbara telling her as a child, ‘Any colour as long as it’s black.’ Eva pulls out a zulu fly which, with its black body obeys the old adage, but with its red tail should make it visible on the grass for herself, if not for Barbara. She ties it on, and with a pair of nail scissors from the bedroom cuts off the loose end from the knot. Having checked that the knot is tight, she slips the scissors into the back pocket of her jeans.
Duty overcoming a sense of the absurd, Eva leaves the flat and walks to the lawn, positioning herself where, she judges, Barbara can see her. Her calculation is confirmed when, looking up, she sees the matron’s head appear at the window, followed by a thumbs up. Eva looks around the front garden, glad no-one else is in sight. She stands to one side of the founder’s bust and targets the far end of the lawn. It takes time to adjust to the unfamiliar rod, but after letting out what seems to be sufficient line, she finally lets the fly drop. It falls about three metres short of the intended spot. Eva frowns, flicks up the line and drawing out some more backing, casts again. Once again, the zulu falls short, and the third cast is no better. The fourth is effortless, and the fly drops at the very edge of the lawn. Eva turns round and looks up to the window. This time she sees the matron extend her hands in front of her and applaud. Eva lays the rod on the lawn and goes to join them.
‘Did you see me?’ Eva asks as she enters Barbara’s room where the bed has now been moved back and the matron has left.
‘I did, and you have remembered everything I taught you.’
Eva sits down on the bedside chair.
‘Apart from one thing,’ continues Barbara. ‘Never leave your rod where someone might tread on it. You don’t want one of these old fools round here standing on it and breaking the tip. Now go and put it away.’
Glad to see Barbara returned to her familiar self, Eva goes back to the lawn and reels in the zulu which bounces towards her like a tiny, obedient pet. She lifts it and cuts it off the line. As she dismantles the rod, the two pieces part with the familiar sound of rushing air. She has a sudden memory of holding a flag at a girl guide parade when she was eleven. Afterwards, taking the pieces of the pole apart, one end had come out of its tubular brass socket with a similar noise. Wondering why this distant memory of another ritual had resurfaced, she walks back to the building.
In the flat, with a sad finality, she replaces the rod in its canvas bag and returns reel and fly pouch to the bag on the kitchen door. Before leaving, she sits at Barbara’s desk, looking at the clutter of objects on its ink-stained green leather top. There are two millefiori paper weights she remembers from an early age. She lifts one up to her eyes and stares into the flowerheads imagining, as she did years ago, that she is a diver above a coral reef. Before leaving, she pauses by a small blanket box near the door. Kneeling down, she lifts the lid and inhales the smell of camphor wood, unsurprised at her desire to renew yet another childhood pleasure. Inside the box are old newspapers and postcards. Quickly she closes the lid. There will be a time to examine the contents. Not today.
When Eva returns to Barbara she finds her tired, as if the simple act of looking through a window has exhausted her. In silence Eva sits with her until lunchtime when she helps feed her, but Barbara takes only a few mouthfuls. Eva reaches for the glass of water.
‘At least have a drink,’ Eva tells her.
‘Not yet. I am ready you know.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’ Barbara pauses and only with effort continues speaking. ‘Everything is in order. I’ve left all of it to you. This place has taken a slice of the cake, but there’s still plenty left and I want you to enjoy it.’ She struggles to take a breath. Rasping, she says ‘The sister has some final instructions, but don’t bother with those until the time comes.’ Barbara’s head sinks back on her pillow. She closes her eyes.
After Luke has negotiated twenty kilometres of steep ascent, skirting the Solenzara river, Russ announces, ‘At the next bend we take the road on the left. Alden’s note says, Ignore the road signs.’
Through thick woodland, Luke turns down a side road, uneasy as they pass a Route Barrée sign. He lowers a window and is struck by the smell of the maquis. They follow a seri
es of signs prohibiting lorries and coaches and giving warnings of falling rocks. The road, potholed and badly surfaced, rises steeply. Near the top of an incline is another, much larger, Route Barrée sign.
‘Are you certain this is the right road?’ Luke asks.
‘Alden says in his notes that we are to forget the signs and keep going. Worth it for the views, even if it’s longer than the other way. Personally I think we should have ignored him, but there’s no turning back now.’
Near what seems to be the highest point of their climb, the road, barely more than a track, disappears in a clearing among pine trees. Since the main road they have not seen another vehicle. Luke stops the car. He and Russ look at each other, bewildered by the remote place where Alden’s directions have left them stranded. Towering over them on the left is a forbidding rock face. Above its knuckle-bone summit a bird of prey hovers, a black line against a pale blue sky. Apart from a whisp of breeze, the clearing is silent.
‘Over there,’ says Russ, pointing to a gap between the pines. ‘Alden says that near the top the road almost peters out. This must be it.’
Unconvinced, Luke restarts the engine and cautiously moves over the rough ground. As they near the trees he sees, in an opening, a partly tarmacked track and bumps his way towards it. After about two hundred metres the track becomes a road which dips through a dense forest before climbing again, with sheer drops first on one side of the road, then the other. Russ, in pointed silence, clutches his seat. Levelling, the road continues through a gorge, the rock face almost vertical on each side. There are no passing places. Luke dreads an oncoming vehicle. To his relief there is none. After a few minutes they arrive at a sharp bend beyond which the road widens. Open-mouthed, he stops the car. In front of them the mountains fall down through forests of pine and oak. In the far distance there is a glimmer of sea. At intervals the zigzagging road is discernible in spectacular descent before being lost among a range of lower mountains. There is no building in sight. The view is flanked by walls of rock rising out from the trees and with vegetation diminishing towards jagged peaks. The summits to their left glow yellow in the afternoon sun. Luke struggles to accept that a few hours earlier they had been at Bastia airport whose noise and concrete have now receded to a distant past, old memories of another holiday.
The Mirrror Shop Page 22