The Mirrror Shop

by Nicholas Bundock

  ‘Somewhere down there must be Santa Marta,’ says Russ.

  ‘Perhaps they have the binoculars trained on us.’

  ‘If I were Alden I’d be thankful we’ve made it this far.’

  ‘We’ll take a different route when we return. I couldn’t do this again. Shall we stretch our legs before heading down?’

  For a few minutes they stand by the car to absorb the view and inhale the aromatic mix of pine and mountain herbs.

  The descent proves longer than they had judged from the summit, but the road, despite its twists and variable widths, has fewer potholes than its counterpart on the ascent. The danger is not so much the occasional steep drop at the edge, but fallen branches which have partly blocked the road. On a hairpin bend, they are halted by a stubborn goat, hind legs rooted to the road and front legs on a bank, its head pulling at tufts of grass. At a junction, a kilometre further on, they see a signpost. One arm points to Zonza. It seems more a walker’s path than a road. The other arm indicates Santa Marta.

  ‘So it does exist,’ says Russ.

  ‘Could you doubt Alden?’

  Russ opens his eyes wide and looks towards the sky.

  It is the top of the church tower which they see first, pinkish brown where it is struck by the sun, an arched upper chamber without louvres or bell. For a minute it disappears among trees, but soon reappears above the rooftops of a village in a natural bowl almost completely surrounded by mountains. Before they enter the village the road ceases to be tarmac, and they rumble over a surface of rough flags and cobbles until arriving at the corner of a square. Stone bollards prevent vehicles from entering. On three sides of the square are buildings. The partly ruined church is in one corner. The fourth side is rough ground. It borders a gulley with woodland beyond.

  ‘La Place des Pèlerins. And that must be the summer school,’ says Russ, pointing to a large heavily-restored building on their right. ‘And beyond the terrace next to it must be Lynton’s house. The church, what remains of it, is next door. Alden’s notes say Les Puits is at the lower end of the square.’

  Luke drives down a back road behind a range of buildings, all clearly of great age but like the summer school converted to their present use. One is now a small hotel, another a restaurant. Further down, beyond a car park, they see a sign forbidding vehicles. ‘Ignore it,’ says Russ. ‘We park beside Les Puits.’

  As they round a right-angle bend at the end of the road, Russ directs Luke through a wide entrance between gateposts topped with weathered stone balls and into a yard dominated by an ancient olive tree. There are no other cars. To their left is a large granite house of three floors, all of whose irregularly-placed windows have dark green shutters. A massive arched double door is closed, but a smaller door to one side is half open. Les Puits is carved into one of its stone jambs. Luke parks beyond the tree by a wall covered in flowers of morning glory.

  Before they are out of the car the small door opens and Rhona appears in a long-sleeved white linen dress and red sandals which match her fingernails, her hair tied in a messy bun. Beaming and lifting both arms in welcome, she runs towards them. For a moment Luke is too excited to move from his seat and Russ is first out of the car. Rhona greets him with a hug and kisses him on each cheek.

  ‘You look lovely,’ says Russ. ‘I would say you look like you’ve stepped out of a Venetian painting, but I won’t, since not everyone would take that as a compliment.’

  As soon as Luke steps out of the car Rhona gives him a prolonged hug. ‘I’ve missed you so much, I’ve done nothing but count down the hours before you join me. The others have gone off to Bonifacio today for a boat trip and I’ve been glad of some peace, away from all their madness.’ When they have kissed she says, ‘Now tell me about your journey. I always worry when Alden gets people to drive over the mountains on that impossible road.’

  ‘There was a moment when we thought it had vanished.’

  ‘He took me that way on my first visit. To scare me, I think.’

  ‘It terrified us,’ says Russ.

  ‘I’ve said I’ll never do it again.’ She turns to Luke and says softly, ‘Mind you, if it were just you and me and you insisted . . . Come and see the house.’

  Inside, Luke and Russ stand in the cool of a large stone-paved hallway and blink as they adjust to the dark interior. There is no furniture apart from a rustic bench and a painting of a saint holding a book. Russ examines its gilt frame.

  ‘Home from home,’ says Luke.

  ‘This used to be the old monastery’s guest house,’ says Rhona. ‘Lynton moved here when it was the only habitable house in a deserted village. Mathilde hung that painting as a gesture towards the house’s origins. After he rebuilt the old monastery buildings, they kept this for friends to use at a nominal rent.’ She sees Russ examining the bench. ‘Alden says that’s made of solid walnut.’

  ‘Well, I hate to disagree,’ says Russ, ‘but I’m sure it’s chestnut.’

  ‘Oh, do tell Alden that – he hates to be corrected.’ Rhona throws open another door.

  Russ and Luke find themselves looking into an internal courtyard, half of which is covered by a vine shading a large refectory table and a dozen rush-seated chairs. The far wall is cloistered. Beyond its central arch Luke sees a door, partly open, through which La Place des Pèlerins is visible. Dotted about the courtyard are earthenware pots of herbs. In one corner is a stone well.

  Rhona bends and runs her fingers through some stems of basil. ‘Herbs are doubly fragrant here. This is where we eat in the evenings.’

  ‘And if it rains?’ asks Russ.

  ‘The basil smells even better,’ she laughs. ‘And we can eat in the kitchen. Follow me.’

  She walks back across the courtyard, pausing to point at a large green lizard high on a wall, before leading them back into the house to a kitchen with a single tap above a stone sink under the room’s only window. On the sill stand pots of marjoram. The only furnishings are an old food cupboard, a small fridge and odd chairs round a kitchen table on which is a jar of white flowers whose scent fills the room.

  ‘Not many mod cons, I’m afraid,’ she says. ‘And no hot water, but we do have an electric kettle. The tap water’s fine to drink, but the water from the well is fantastic. There used to be another well outside but that’s been filled in.’ She points to a jug on the table. ‘Felix has taken it upon himself to keep the jug topped up. He’s the only one of us who enjoys winding the bucket up and down.’ She pours them each a glass. ‘Now don’t look for the bathroom because there isn’t one, but we do have a shower – only cold of course. But there are, amazingly, two loos.’

  When they have each finished a second glass of water, she says, ‘Let me show you your rooms.’

  At the top of a stone staircase on the first floor Rhona shows Russ to a small room with his name chalked on the pine door. ‘You have a view of the stream – quite dry at this time of year – and the old stone bridge, and if you strain your neck you can see the church. The tower’s the only old bit. What’s left of the interior is now a gallery for the school.’

  Leaving Russ in his room, Rhona leads Luke up a wooden staircase to the second floor. On the landing she opens a plank door on which, as with Russ’s room, his name is chalked in Rhona’s writing. Inside the bedroom she goes to a window, draws back the white curtains and pushes open the shutters. ‘You get a great view of the mountains.’ Together they gaze through the window.

  ‘My favourite time here is early morning, before everyone is up, and before holiday-makers arrive. It’s the best time for a swim.’

  ‘Can I join you?’

  ‘I insist on it. We’ll tiptoe out at six. Now, over here . . .’ She goes to a small window on the opposite side. ‘Here you can look down on the courtyard and listen to any late-night gossip.’ She points to a window with half-open shutters. ‘That’s my . . . our room. Thankfully, Alden and I have single beds.’ She takes hold of his hand and gently pushes him onto the bed and sits beside
him. ‘It’s only the thought of you joining me which has kept me sane. But to be away from Alden right now I’d settle for a Blackpool boarding house, as long as I could share it with you.’ She kisses him passionately, runs her fingers through his hair, then strokes the shoulder of his navy shirt. ‘I thought this was linen but it isn’t, is it?’

  ‘Hemp.’

  ‘Really? Can we put it to another use?’

  ‘The label says, This fabric cannot be smoked.’

  ‘If ever a warning were a challenge . . .’ She kisses him. ‘I had this nightmare when you were away that you were drowning.’

  ‘I almost did.’

  ‘No.’ She grasps his arms. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Yesterday, early in the morning, I was bass fishing. I lost my footing, wading near the shore.’

  She grips him tighter.

  ‘I was under the water. My boots were filling, weighing me down. I had to fight to stand.’

  ‘Poor darling. But how did I know?’ She brushes his forehead. ‘Do you believe in telepathy?’

  ‘When I reached the shore I thought of you.’

  ‘Thank God you’re safe.’

  In the cool of the shuttered room her perfume has gained a muskiness he has not sensed before. He is desperate to make love but knows this is not the time.

  ‘We’d better find Russ,’ she says. ‘I’ll make us some proper drinks before the hordes return.’

  As they go downstairs she says, ‘I’ve been drinking gallons of white wine spritzers, but the others stick to beer, or some local aperitif mixed with fruit juice which I can’t stand. I’m surprised Alden drinks the stuff, but since Lynton likes a glass at lunchtime, I suppose that makes it acceptable.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting Lynton.’

  ‘You’ll see him tomorrow.’

  In the stone-flagged kitchen Luke and Russ sit and chat with Rhona, enjoying spritzers and slices of almond cake, until the tranquility of the house is disturbed by the sound of two cars entering the yard, followed by the slamming of doors and loud voices.

  ‘Russ, Luke, great to have you here,’ says a tanned and perspiring Alden in long white shorts and white seersucker shirt. He pumps their hands. ‘How d’you like the road over the mountains? Amazing views, aren’t they?’ He picks up the jug of water and drinks from it.

  ‘Where the road ends near the top was a challenge,’ says Luke.

  ‘It deters all but the most doughty and protects us from through traffic.’

  The others, familiar from the dinner at Saffold Farm pile into the kitchen, greeting Luke and Russ with the sort of hugs which, Luke thinks, might be reserved for long-lost friends, not people they have met only once. In the mêlée, he watches Rhona slip away.

  ‘I’m Agnes,’ says a girl in baggy yellow shorts and orange shirt. ‘I’m helping Rhona with the wardrobe.’

  ‘We call her the head prefect,’ laughs Felix.

  ‘So watch your behaviour,’ says Josh.

  ‘Ignore them,’ says Agnes. ‘I do.’ She looks Luke and Russ up and down. ‘I think the costumes we’ve got for you will fit. You can try them on later.’

  Luke returns to his room and lies on the bed. Closing his eyes, he recovers from the journey. Slowly, he is aware of a preternatural stillness in the house, undisturbed even by the sounds of movement and voices elsewhere in the building. Has he ever, even in the seclusion of his own home experienced this degree of quiet? Perhaps, in the old greenhouse at the allotments, there have occasionally been hints of it but here the feeling is so much deeper, as if Les Puits is making him part of itself. He must explore.

  The rooms near his, by the names on the doors, are occupied by Felix and Josh, but round a corner at the end of the corridor is a brown-painted door on which is pinned a notice: STORE – PRIVATE. The two words ignite in him the inveterate inquisitiveness of the dealer. He tries the handle but the door is locked. He looks both ways along the empty corridor before running his fingers along the head of the door frame where he feels only dust on its thick moulding. Noticing that the architrave has partly moved away from the wall, he again runs his fingers along, this time probing with his fingertips the cavity between architrave and wall, a hope rewarded by the feel of a key tucked in the recess. It proves impossible to prise out with fingers alone, but with the help of his car key he lifts it from its hiding place. From its age and rust he suspects the door lock might have changed since the key was hidden, but despite these doubts he inserts it through the door’s iron escutcheon. Repeated attempts fail to turn the lock. Perhaps his suspicions were correct and it is the wrong key. Or the lock is too rusty. Risking more force he makes a further attempt. This time the key turns and with such ease that he imagines some unknown helper on the other side of the door has oiled the lock for him, an impression reinforced when without noise the door swings opens. He removes the key and enters. The imagined assistant has not materialised and he finds himself in what seems to be a windowless room, but as his eyes adjust he sees blades of dusty light stealing through a small shuttered arch on his right. There is no sign of an electric light or a switch on the walls near the door. After a final look over his shoulder, he pushes the door until it is almost closed, leaving only a small gap through which a faint light seeps from the corridor.

  The floor is a clutter of cardboard boxes, piled two or three high, through which there is barely space to move towards the window, or to the wall on his left. Where the walls are visible there are patches of decayed plaster. Opening the box closest to hand, he finds it packed with books. He removes a few and reads their titles, all crime novels by Gaston Leroux and Georges Simenon. To handle them is to be accused of trespass. He moves to another box near the centre of the room. It is full of art books and catalogues of old exhibitions. He pulls out a Matisse exhibition catalogue of 1910 and thumbs through it, wondering about its value. He replaces it with care on a pile of other catalogues of equal rarity. The remaining boxes contain only old curtains and kitchen ware.

  Moving to the window he stares through a chink in the shutters and finds he overlooks the courtyard where he sees Alden, standing near the well with Louise. She has exchanged the shorts he remembers her wearing in the kitchen for a salmon pink dress. They are deep in conversation, but he cannot hear their voices. Louise rests a hand on Alden’s forearm and leads him away from the well and out of vision.

  Turning away from the window, he notices on the opposite wall a faint glimmer from an object almost totally hidden behind plastic crates. Moving to them he sees they are full of old shoes. Behind them he finds the single side of a small tabernacle frame. He lifts it and examines its gilding and back. Replacing it, he notices a double cupboard fitted into the far end of the wall. Stepping over a heap of old rugs, he opens the door to see that half the cupboard has shelves heavy with old tins of paint. In the right-hand unshelved cupboard are some worn-out hand tools, but in front of a long bundle strapped in canvas he finds the three companion sides of the frame wrapped in torn brown paper. He smiles, wondering whether a little dealing might be combined with the holiday. He crouches and inspects their condition. Pleased to find there is little damage, he rewraps them with care. He is about to investigate the canvas bundle when he hears sounds from the corridor, perhaps footsteps. He freezes. The footsteps pass by. When all is silent he closes the cupboard. Careful to make no noise as he negotiates the piles of boxes, he moves to the door and looks out into the corridor. It is empty. He steps out, locks the door and replaces the key where he found it.

  As he returns to his room he imagines a conversation with Lynton, and sees himself driving from Les Puits in a week’s time, the four sides of the broken frame neatly packed in the top of his case, along perhaps with the rare catalogues. But as he sits on his bed he hears Eva’s words on the way to dinner at Saffold Farm, ‘Always the dealer,’ and remembers a tone in her voice, unregistered until now. It was less joking than critical. Perhaps she already knew about him and Rhona.

  18

/>   When the evening rehearsal is about to begin Luke stands by the well, script in hand, nervous. Not yet in total shade, the courtyard is a reservoir of heat. He is encouraged by the fact that few of the others are carrying scripts – a sign perhaps that they have no need of his prompting. Felix and Josh, shirtless, push the table back against a wall to make an acting space. Louise, wearing a diaphanous dress over a bikini, is flexing and stretching. Luke looks towards the opposite corner. Russ, now in khaki shorts, is going through his lines with Agnes.

  ‘Odd couple, aren’t they?’

  Luke sees Rhona beside him, placing a large jug of iced water and some plastic beakers on a flagstone. ‘Ban on alcohol until after rehearsals,’ she says.

  ‘Still appearing from nowhere?’

  ‘Shall I stop it?’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  Rhona again looks towards Russ and Agnes. ‘Russ has a new friend.’

  ‘Agnes gave me an odd look when she introduced herself. Does she know about us?’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter – she’s discreet and she can’t stand Alden.’

  ‘Where is the great director?’

  ‘In the kitchen, slicing local salami and talking to Matthew. That’s the guy who’s doing the lighting and special effects. Sensibly, he’s booked in at the hotel.’