‘A new morning and soon a new life,’ she says excitedly. ‘Let me tell you about Alden’s imminent exit. Yesterday morning, as I entered the kitchen, I saw him hide away a piece of paper in his file of director’s notes. I was amicable enough as I made myself tea and he was quite chatty about the play and Lynton. But at lunchtime I sneaked a look in his file and found the paper. It was a very neat hand-written list of his financial assets. Money in the bank – rather more than I expected. Shares and investments – nothing substantial. His share of Saffold Farm – the largest sum – we only have a small mortgage. And the value of his one third share in the business. That took up the left column. The right column was sheer delight. It was the cost of a small flat in London. There were also details of an alternative in Paris. Also – more joy and delight – were details of an interest free loan from his brother-in-law to cover any shortfall.’ She shouts, ‘Wonderful or what!’
‘If you need money to buy his share of the house or business, I’m sure I can help.’
‘I’d pay back every penny.’
‘You wouldn’t have to. When do you think he’ll be good enough to tell you he’s leaving?’
‘After the play I would guess. He wouldn’t want to risk ructions beforehand. Not that I would cause any.’
Turning off the road onto a stony track, barely wide enough for a car, she says, ‘There’s a pool on the Solenzara river which will be deserted this time of day.’
The track ends at the edge of what seems like a slow-flowing river, shallow enough to wade across. Leaving the car among a cluster of low oaks, she leads him along the bank, negotiating large boulders towards a bend in the river where the banks steepen. Here the river is narrower and deeper. Climbing to the edge, she smiles, kicks off her sandals and pulls off her dress, revealing a red swimsuit. Luke strips to his swim shorts.
‘Just round the corner,’ she says, easing herself into the river. She begins to swim at a slow breaststroke. Luke follows, shocked by the iciness of the water and trying not to think of its possible depth. He is now beside her. They swim against a gentle current.
‘I once saw a fisherman on the far bank,’ she says.
‘I should have brought my trout rod.’
As they round the bend the banks become sheer. Luke, feeling trapped by the rock walls and with the cold sapping his muscles, wonders how much further she intends to go. He is now a few metres behind her.
‘Almost there,’ she shouts, her voice echoing around the canyon.
Ahead, in the centre of the river, he sees a flat-topped rock and realises that this must be their destination. He catches up with her as they arrive at a submerged platform. Together they wade to its dry upper surface. There is no sunlight but immediately he feels warmer to be out of the water. She sits beside him. He can hear in the distance the sound of a waterfall, but the river surrounding them moves slow and silent.
When they have kissed she says, ‘Now, really tell me about yourself.’
‘Where shall I start?’
‘What was your wife like?’
‘Leonie and I were only married two months. She conserved paintings.’
‘And you would be able to frame them. A marriage made in heaven.’
‘Until a man from hell who owned a smart gallery appeared.’
Rhona places her left arm around him. ‘Dear Luke. Were you devastated?’
‘For months. And then there was the counselling. And Eva.’
‘And you fell in love again.’
‘More than I had been with Leonie. But Eva’s colleagues discovered and the knives came out. She even got letters from one of them going on about relationships with clients never lasting, and that I had clearly transferred all my feelings to my counsellor but the underlying issues had not been resolved.’
‘But you stayed together.’
‘Until now. Now . . .’ He stares down the length of the canyon.
‘What, darling?’
‘Perhaps her colleagues were right, and I’ve lived under an emotional shadow for twenty years. Wasting most of my adult life.’
‘Not wasting – waiting. Both of us. And you and Eva never lived together?’
‘Not under the same roof. Everything but.’
‘I want to live with you. Same roof, same bedroom, same bed. Always.’
‘We can. I’ll do anything, move anywhere to be with you.’
‘Can we make plans? Now.’
‘Come and live with me. Or we can buy Alden’s share of Saffold Farm and I’ll live with you there. Just give me a timetable.’
‘Either alternative sounds perfect. As soon as he’s packed away his last book and left, we’ll toss a coin where to live.’ Rhona looks up to the clear sky. ‘Luke, I feel free now. We only have a few more days to wait before Alden comes clean and tells me he wants an end to this sham of a marriage.’
‘Will you be suitably shocked. Outraged?’
‘No. I’m beyond that. And he knows it. The last thing I want is to give him a rough time and make him have second thoughts. God, I was so worried when he and Lou had that spat. I had visions of him slinking back like a tom-cat returning home after an adventure. I should have kicked him out after his first affair not long after we were married. But in those days I was susceptible to his charms. He’s got this compelling charisma.’
‘I’ve noticed – I felt it when he was he persuading me to close the shop for a week’
‘It’s a form of control. At its worst quite scary. Remember that look on his face when he told the story of therapist Neville’s suicide? It was bad enough he was glad Neville was dead, but . . .’
‘He really believed he had triggered it.’
Rhona shivers. ‘Let’s swim back. It won’t take so long. The current will be with us.’
Eva leaves her room, aware that ahead of a demanding day she has had no sleep. But through the exhaustion, the pain of loss gives way to thoughts of a new beginning in her life. Guilt that she should feel this way is softened by Barbara’s letter, spread open on her bed. It is almost 7.00am. She is ready for a St. Anthony’s breakfast, but first she must email Helen. She picks up her mobile but the battery is flat and she places it on recharge. Leaving her room, she goes to the library, a spacious room next to the entrance hall and almost immediately below Barbara’s room. Here she is alone, but she detects a lingering whiff of tobacco smoke which brings to mind the cheroots Barbara used to smoke while fishing. Perhaps last night a resident had flouted the strict no smoking rule – or perhaps, Eva thinks, Barbara’s spirit, at the very last . . . No, the idea is absurd. She opens a window and enjoys the early morning air until, invigorated, she sits down at a desk in front of one of the two communal PCs. She emails Helen with the news of Barbara’s death, telling her not even to think of flying back for the funeral. Next she informs Annie. Lastly she emails Luke, forbidding him to entertain any idea he might have of curtailing his holiday.
Eva again looks out to the garden, knowing that Barbara will never again see these once-familiar lawns and flowerbeds. She feels she is about to cry, but the imperative, Do not grieve, makes her look to the future. She turns to thoughts about her own garden and longs to be back there. Soon the sounds of voices and trolleys in the building tell her St. Anthony’s is beginning a new day. She thinks of Barbara’s body in the room above her and wonders if the doctor has already called and left. Should she go up again? Why? Hasn’t she already said goodbye? ‘Live life to the full,’ she says to herself as she walks to the dining room.
Over breakfast Sister Cyra comes to her table to offer condolences. ‘I’ve had a word with Father – the funeral can be on Monday.’
‘So soon?’ Eva is astonished.
‘We seldom have that long wait you sometimes have in England. I suggest today you register the death at the office in Ennis. Someone can accompany you, if you wish.’
‘I must do this alone.’
Later, while Eva waits for a taxi to take her to the register office, her rech
arged phone rings. It is Agnes.
‘Agnes, you really don’t need to do this. Please don’t phone again.’
‘I just wanted to keep you in the loop. How is your aunt?’
‘She died last night.’
‘Oh Eva, I am so sorry, I shouldn’t be phoning you. My condolences. I was only going to tell you . . .’
‘I don’t want to know. In fact you needn’t phone me again.’
‘I understand. I only thought I was helping.’
‘I’m not sure you are. I’ve been up half the night with a dying woman. Luke hasn’t figured much in my thoughts.’
‘So you don’t want me to contact you again?’
‘No.’ Eva pauses, regretting her curtness. ‘Perhaps we can meet up when you get back. And as far as Luke and me are concerned . . . There is no Luke and me.’
‘Don’t let Rhona win.’
‘She’s welcome to him. I mean it. Goodbye, Agnes.’ Eva rings off, knowing for the first time that she has little interest in Luke’s future, and is surprised at her lack of concern. In the light of Barbara’s death he has drifted to the periphery of her life, and it is in the duteous spirit of contacting a friend that she emails him again: Funeral Monday. No flowers. E.
During the morning rehearsal Luke gives the play no more than superficial interest. He trails Russ’s Smee, his mind focused on a life with Rhona. There are no practical difficulties and money is not an obstacle. He finds himself half-heartedly joining the pirates in their yo ho chorus. And Rhona is right. He and Eva, as a couple, have never been completely . . .
‘Prompt,’ shouts Felix.
‘Hang on,’ says Luke, thumbing through Hook’s lines.
‘We can’t wait on the night,’ barks Alden. ‘The dress rehearsal’s this evening and by now we should at least know the bloody words.’
‘Stow that, Starkey . . .’ says Russ, giving Felix a nudge.
‘Thanks, Russ,’ says Luke. He longs to leave and be back with Rhona.
He now gives the rehearsal full attention, remembering his three lines and duly screeching offstage when dispatched by Peter.
By midday a seering sun has made an oven of the courtyard and the rehearsal ends.
‘Dress – eight, on the steps. And in costume by half seven,’ orders Alden before disappearing to the hotel to talk lighting with Matthew. Most of the others disperse to the café or summer school.
Luke and Russ find Rhona at their side. ‘You must meet Lynton and Mathilde,’ she says.
Leaving through the cloister gate, they walk up towards the school. Luke is struck by the tranquility of the village, so guarded from the outside world by mountains, maquis and forest, that even the voices from the café and hotel barely disturb it.
Russ notices Agnes and Dan following at a distance. ‘I think your employee has found an admirer,’ he says
‘I would reprimand her for cradle-snatching,’ Rhona says, ‘but in the circumstances . . .’ She gives Luke a gentle punch on the shoulder.
As they enter the summer school’s main building Luke is reminded of a village hall, except the walls and floor are stone. Seated in an arc in the centre of the room are nine students at their easels, drawing or painting a woman with long grey hair, wearing a floral print dress and seated on an imposing Italian armchair.
‘That’s Mathilde,’ says Rhona. ‘She often sits for them.’
Luke notices, last of all, a small old man in loose blue denim trousers and khaki shirt, carrying a walking stick and bent over a student’s work, pointing to an area of the canvas.
‘Lynton?’ asks Luke.
‘Still teaching at eighty-nine,’ she says.
They watch him move to another student’s work, pause, examine a drawing and at last walk towards them. Luke sees that despite his age he retains most of his hair, white over bushy eyebrows which meet above a long nose, giving the impression of a wary animal peering out from beneath a hedge.
‘Rhona,’ he says, ‘you must introduce me to your guests.’
Rhona introduces Lynton to Russ and Luke who finds the handshake warm but cautious.
‘You must join us for lunch,’ Lynton says. ‘Mathilde will descend from her throne in a few minutes. Go ahead. We’ll catch you up. Open some wine, Rhona.’
Rhona, leads them to the house next door, a smaller version of Les Puits. In the courtyard, instead of pots of herbs, there is figurative and abstract sculpture. She shows them into a kitchen, modern, apart from its stone floor. Luke looks at Rhona.
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘Alden had this in mind when he fitted out ours, God help us.’ She goes to a fridge. ‘Rosé alright?’
When Mathilde and Lynton arrive Rhona helps prepare lunch. Lynton sits with Luke and Russ.
‘So you deal in mirrors,’ he says. ‘And do you frame pictures too?’
‘A little,’ says Russ, ‘when we have to. But mirrors are the core business. We buy, sell and restore them.’
‘That’s good,’ smiles Lynton. ‘The professional framer is always an artist manqué. A difficult breed.’
‘And artists can be difficult too,’ says Mathilde, approaching them with an assortment of bread in baskets.
‘I won’t argue,’ says Lynton. ‘Those days are over.’
Rhona joins them, bringing salad and cold meats.
‘Are you looking forward to Peter Pan?’ asks Luke.
‘I shall enjoy it, yes. A much better choice than a Shakespearian tragedy which ends in death. I’m almost ninety. Do I need reminding of mortality? Now Peter Pan was forever young.’ He laughs. ‘Like I pretend to be.’
‘And you’re still painting?’ says Russ.
‘A few canvases a year. When I was younger I was more prolific. And I would have insisted on a part in the play. A pirate perhaps.’ He pauses, as if reminiscing. ‘Pretending to fight.’ He squeezes his eyes shut and eases himself out of his chair. ‘You must excuse me.’ He unhooks his stick from the back of the chair. Halfway to the door he turns round. ‘Look into my studio before you go.’
‘You must forgive him,’ says Mathilde. ‘As he gets older, thoughts of fighting take him back to the 1930s. He was living in Spain, in Asturia, when the Civil War broke out. As a child he saw unspeakable atrocities. After he and his parents returned to England painting landscapes and portraits was his way of forgetting. But seventy-five years later the nightmares returned. Even by day they haunt him. Until a few years ago he used to hunt boar with his friends. Then the time came when he couldn’t handle his gun without trembling with thoughts of old horrors. He’d loved his old rifle, but he gave it away to a friend.’
‘Does he ever paint his memories of the Civil War?’ asks Luke.
‘Never, but he has notebooks full of drawings he did as a boy. Carpet bombing by the Nationalists, the massacre of nuns by the Communists, sketches of nightmares. He seldom allows anyone to look at them.’ Mathilde rises from her chair. ‘Let’s move to the courtyard.’
In the shade of a wisteria arbour, they drink coffee. To Luke’s right, standing on a low pedestal is a bronze portrait bust of a young woman.
Mathilde smiles, ’She was a student of Lynton’s. Every year he paints or sculpts one or two.’
‘The artist’s muses,’ says Russ.
‘Nothing so exotic. The landscape is Lynton’s inspiration. Come and look at the other pieces.’
While Russ and Rhona are lingering by a group of small stoneware figures on a low wall, Mathilde says to Luke, ‘Go over to the studio.’ She points to a door on the far side of the courtyard. ‘Catch the old rascal before he goes to sleep.’
Luke pushes open the iron-studded door and is met by the smell of French tobacco. Lynton, cigarette in hand, is sitting on a scuffed leather chair in a room far tidier than Luke’s idea of an artist’s studio. He glances round. On his right is an easel supporting a canvas placed back to front. Against a wall are two neat stacks of paintings. To one side is a table where artist’s equipment is neatly arranged. Shelves either s
ide of the door are arranged with maquettes and other ceramics. Luke’s eyes rest on two large maiolica chargers on the wall behind Lynton’s chair.
‘Savona,’ says Lynton. ‘I have always promised myself to try my hand at tin glazes, but perhaps now it’s too late.’
Luke looks to his left towards the studio’s one window, half-open and commanding a view over treetops which seem to stretch to the sea.
‘I paint with my back to that window, otherwise I become distracted. Now sit down.’ He points to a chrome armchair with black upholstery. ‘So what have they told you about me.’
‘Alden greatly admires you as an artist. Rhona says you are equally skilled as a teacher.’
‘That is very kind of them and diplomatic of you. But neither is true. I am an escapee. Cigarette?’ He offers a packet of Gauloises.
Luke shakes his head. ‘What are you escaping from?’
‘My parents escaped with me from Spain in the 1930s, and I escaped from England in the 1950s because I hated the publicity which followed my first exhibition. Not because it was hostile. It wasn’t – they loved me. But the adulation felt hollow. I hated it. My work was affected. I wanted to paint unpressured and in peace.’ He waves an arm round the room. ‘This is my escape from the past.’
‘But you still exhibit.’
‘Occasionally in Ajaccio or Genoa. London galleries used to bully me to show with them. I always refused.’ He cranes his neck with a mischievous glint, ‘Alden would like to write my biography, give details of all I saw in Asturia – he has even suggested it would make a great film. But no. It would be more publicity, more intrusion. And I am lucky enough not to need the money.’
‘Can I see some of your work?’
Lynton points to the stack of canvases. ‘Have a rummage.’
Luke walks over to the paintings and looks at them one by one. The first group are all landscapes. The palette is bright, with some areas – a rock formation, or a branch of a tree – given a subtle degree of greater detail without disturbing the overall balance. The next stack are mainly paintings of the studio in different lights. Some look through the doorway and into the courtyard. One looks through a window. All include a figure, usually Mathilde.
The Mirrror Shop Page 25