The Mirrror Shop

by Nicholas Bundock

  ‘These are wonderful.’ Luke points to the easel. ‘What are you working on at the moment?’

  ‘The Girl with Red Hair. Every artist must paint her. Have a look.’

  Luke moves to the easel and turns the painting round. He sees Cassie, older than her years, more serious, more attractive, in a pale blue dress, seated by the studio table on which stands a seventeenth-century vase. The purple lustre of its glaze plays with the colour of Cassie’s hair and dress.

  ‘She is very lucky to have been painted by you.’

  ‘I am not sure if she likes it. ‘Do I really look that old?’ she asked me.’

  ‘Perhaps you saw into her future – how she will look a few years ahead.’ Luke walks over to the shelves and examines some small pottery figures. At the end of the shelf is a small jade brush rest. He lifts it up and studies it. ‘This is quite valuable, I think.’

  ‘I forget where it came from – a present perhaps.’

  Luke strokes the surface with his fingers. Some green pigment rubs off on his palm. He looks at the mark. ‘I see you do watercolours.’

  ‘No, no. It must have been used by a student. Now you must excuse me. I have work to do.’

  Luke goes to the door. ‘Thanks for the . . .’

  Lynton waves a dismissive hand.

  In the courtyard the others have been joined by Agnes.

  ‘You were there a long time,’ says Mathilde. ‘Visitors are normally given a minute, then thrown out.’

  ‘He made it quite clear when it was time to leave.’

  As they sit and chat Luke longs to be alone again with Rhona. The presence of Agnes is disturbing. He feels he is being assessed and found wanting. Meanwhile, Russ amuses them with stories of a holiday to Portugal which Luke has heard many times before. He looks around the courtyard. With Rhona-like stealth, Lynton has appeared and is now sitting between them and the studio door, a drawing pad on his lap, and a cigarette in his mouth, but by the time they leave he has once again retreated to his studio.

  Outside, Agnes slips away to the summer school while Russ, mumbling an excuse, heads for the hotel. Rhona picks a flower from a bourgainvillea near the front door and drops it into her bag. ‘We each seem to have lost our chaperones,’ she says.

  Back at Les Puits Rhona says, ‘I need a short siesta, then I want to take you for a walk.’

  Alone in his room Luke lies on his bed and looks up at the uneven ceiling. Running his eyes over the cracks in its old plaster which spread from each side like an irregular web, he remembers he has not checked his messages. He reads the email from Eva and for a moment wishes he were with her, sharing in her bereavement. He tries to phone her but the number is unavailable. He settles for an email, sending his love and sympathies and ends with a row of guilty kisses which he deletes, replacing them with a single one before sending the message. Wondering whether he should ignore her instructions and make an effort to fly to Shannon as soon as the play is over, he falls asleep.

  On Friday afternoon, with the arrangements for the funeral made, Eva moves out of her guest room to Barbara’s flat. To be among the familiar furnishings and to sleep here until the funeral will be both a farewell and an opportunity to sort through the contents. A phone call to Barbara’s solicitor had confirmed that all her aunt’s affairs are in order and that everything in the flat may be disposed of as Eva wishes. But the task, envisaged to occupy the weekend, is completed within two hours. Having often counselled the bereaved that handling and sorting through a loved one’s possessions can be a harrowing and at the same time a helpful part of mourning, she is surprised how easy she finds it. Of course, she tells herself, the full force of bereavement can take months to strike home, and initial sadness is often absorbed through the business of funeral arrangements. And yet, as she sifts through papers and old post cards, she finds the presence of Barbara so real and her encouragement not to be sad so strong, that she has doubts whether there will come a time when she will wake to feelings of desolation.

  Of the furniture she decides she will keep only Barbara’s mahogany desk and its chair. Of smaller items she sets aside the paper weights and a dozen books, mainly scarce editions relating to angling. These she places in a box, along with two albums of photographs. And she will keep Barbara’s jewellery – a modest group of old pieces in a small leather box which can be taken home on the plane with her. Two brooches are damaged, and the bands of the rings are worn down almost to threads of gold. From among them she chooses a Victorian amethyst and pearl ring to wear at the funeral; it had been one of Barbara’s favourites.

  It is the sight of a rail of Barbara’s clothes in the Victorian wardrobe which bring tears to her eyes. Each dress and skirt recalls a day when the two of them were together – shopping in Limerick, at a restaurant in Galway, or fishing from a lakeside or boat. To touch a sleeve or hem is to relive those moments. She strokes the green tweed cloth of a jacket, takes it from its rail and shaking it releases into the air a trace of her aunt’s perfume. Cautiously, she places one arm in a sleeve, then the other, and straightens the collar. To her surprise it fits. She looks into the mirrored door of the wardrobe and for a moment sees Barbara staring at her. Quickly, she turns away and removes the jacket.

  She is wondering how best to dispose of other clothing when the flat bell rings. Opening the door, she sees the St. Anthony’s gardener.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about Miss McKelvey. She was a grand old lady.’

  Eva invites him into the flat. ‘I apologise for the chaos,’ she says. ‘My aunt always loved the garden here.’

  ‘And I often used to lean on my spade and talk roses with her.’ The gardener looks around the flat. ‘If you need any help with any of this furniture, I can have a word with my cousin – it’s his line of business.’

  For an instant Eva is aware that this is a situation Luke would handle better than she. But she smiles and says, ‘How soon could he come round?’

  At 4pm the cousin arrives. Eva makes him tea and aware that the tactics of negotiation are required, steers the conversation to the weather, fishing, the economic climate and any subject except the business in hand; lessons from Barbara and Luke have served her well.

  At last the dealer says, ‘Now might you be thinking of selling a piece or two of the dear lady’s?’

  After the mutually-expected haggling, Eva agrees on a price for everything she does not wish to retain, and is delighted to discover that the dealer’s son will be attending a fair in the Midlands in a few days’ time: he might be persuaded to make a detour and deliver the desk and chair to her, but he would have to collect them tomorrow. After some further discussion about the price of this extra work and the cost of clearing all residual contents, they shake hands on the deal.

  ‘And of course I shall be at the funeral,’ he says on leaving.

  As Eva closes the door she realises that she has been imagining an empty church on Monday morning – herself, the priest, the funeral director, perhaps the matron from St. Anthony’s. But the gardener had already said he would be there, and now his cousin too. She feels a spotlight on herself as chief mourner in a filling church and wonders what she should wear. At first she regrets that in her haste to leave for Ireland she had not packed the black dress she had worn for the dinner at Saffold Farm. But on reflection, would she want to wear it, if she had it with her? Wasn’t it bought in an atmosphere of uncertainty and under the shadow of Rhona, a presence unwelcome at a celebration of Barbara’s life? She empties the case of clothes she has brought with her onto the bed, wondering what among them she could wear. Dismissing them all as too casual, she turns her eyes to the wardrobe.

  She runs her hand along the rail of dresses. The act, reminding her of the encounter with Agnes two weeks’ ago at the discount store, prompts further thoughts about Luke, but today all anxiety with the pain of suspicion has gone. He now has his own life, she hers. Dismissing three black dresses as too sombre, she unhooks a midnight blue dress with a narrow broderie an
glaise collar, which had previously escaped her notice. Trying it on, she finds that it is a near-perfect fit. She changes into a pair of her own dark shoes and stands in front of the mirror, appreciating a further advantage of the dress: she cannot remember Barbara wearing it.

  Luke is woken by Rhona’s gentle tap on his shoulder. She has changed into a simple brown linen dress.

  ‘I’ve heard from Eva,’ he tells her. ‘Her aunt died in the night. I sent my condolences.’

  ‘Luke, dearest, I’m so sorry.’ She hugs him. ‘Did you know her well?’

  ‘We visited her every year. She and Eva were very close.’

  ‘Do you think you should join her?’

  ‘She was adamant I stay here.’

  ‘I had an idea for this afternoon, but if you prefer . . .’

  ‘No, whatever you’ve planned.’

  Carrying a denim shoulder bag with a bottle of water, she leads him from the rear of the house along a path in gentle ascent towards the mountains. They walk in silence between olive trees, Luke enjoying the mystery of their destination. After a few minutes the path divides. In the centre of the left hand fork is a large notice: DANGER ACCES INTERDIT.

  ‘That goes to the ravine,’ says Rhona. ‘Even climbers and potholers avoid it. We turn right.’

  Their path climbs higher among the shrubs and low oaks of the maquis. In the late afternoon, in places where they are not shaded by trees or the mountain side, it remains fiercely hot. Several times they stop to drink. After negotiating a particularly steep rise, Luke is about to turn round to see how far they have come, but Rhona says, ‘Don’t look back until I tell you.’

  Further on, the oaks give way to pines, but soon they are ascending between sheer rocks where vegetation is scant. Here the shade is welcome, but after two hundred metres the path twists as the rock face on their right gives way to a wide shelf. Halfway along is a low, flat rock. ‘We can sit down here,’ she says. ‘Now you can look back.’

  Luke turns his head and gasps at the view over the treetops, across the roofs of the village and the church tower towards the sea. He looks for the coast road but it is lost in the forest. ‘It’s even more spectacular than yesterday’s view, driving over the mountains.’

  ‘That’s because today you have walked and earned it.’

  She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. ‘And being on a remote footpath makes us part of the landscape.’

  Luke watches the rise and fall of her linen dress as she breathes the mountain air. He sees that the path continues ahead and knows that this is only a short break in a longer walk. He closes his eyes. A distant dog bark deepens the silence.

  After a minute Rhona says in his ear, ‘Not far now, but you have to do the next stretch without thinking.’

  They continue along the shelf until it becomes no more than a narrow ledge. Luke, seeing a precipitous drop to their right, quickly looks away and follows Rhona, hoping to assume some of her nerveless confidence. After about a hundred metres the path meets a fissure in the rock almost a foot wide. Without pausing or looking down Rhona steps over the chasm. Luke does the same. After another bend the path widens.

  Rhona looks back and smiles. ‘The last stretch is easy.’

  It is now wide enough to allow them to walk side by side. The drop on their right is less sheer, and to their left are deep crevices in the rocks in which are nestled small shrubs, whose presence, by softening the path’s starkness, makes it seem safer. A final bend and gentle slope bring them to an isolated group of low pines taking advantage of a small hollow in a hostile environment. Beyond, the mountain towers in an impenetrable wall. The path cannot possibly go further. Rhona leads Luke through the trees to the far side.

  Ahead Luke sees a rock face scarred by a vertical crack, the bottom of which is darkened by damp and in parts green with algae. It seems like a dried-up spring. However, as they approach, he notices that every few seconds a drop falls towards the ground where a low, semi-circular, man-made stone wall surrounds what he assumes is a pool. Coming closer, he sees that there is only an area of damp earth beyond the wall. Rhona steps over the wall and beckoning, leads him towards the foot of the rock face where she holds out a palm. Soon a large drop strikes her hand. She licks the wetness and offers her hand to Luke who does the same. It is ice cold with a metallic taste.

  ‘It’s called La Font des Fleurs,’ she says. ‘The spring is believed to bring luck to lovers. Now we have tasted the water we have to leave a gift.’

  Luke notices some dried stalks on one end of the wall and more on the ground, clearly the gifts of other visitors. Rhona reaches into her bag and produces the bougainvillea flower. She lays it where the ground is dampest.

  ‘It never completely dries,’ she says, ‘even in the hottest summer. But Mathilde says in winter the pool overflows and it’s dangerous even to attempt to come here.’

  Luke studies the semi-circular wall. ‘I would have liked to have seen this being built – it’s been done with such care. Look, each of the stones is slightly curved.’ He takes Rhona’s right hand and places it on the inner surface of the wall. ‘They must have been shaped elsewhere and carried up here. The spring clearly meant a great deal to them.’

  ‘A labour of love. I adore this place.’

  Rhona sits on the wall and looks towards the damp rock face. Luke sits beside her. He is hot and cannot understand why he is shivering.

  ‘Do you believe in sacred springs?’ she says.

  ‘In the past I’ve always been sceptical about them. And I’ve rather joked at Russ when he rushes to the holy well at Walsingham for a cupful before his annual medical.’

  ‘But now?’

  ‘There is an atmosphere here . . . I’ve never felt it before. It’s very powerful.’

  Rhona places an arm round him. ‘I knew you would sense it. Alden calls this place a superstition not worth the climb, but then he has no soul.’

  The return walk is less daunting. Even the fissure seems to have shrunk in size. When they arrive at the place where the path runs between pine trees they pause to rest in the shade, listening to the sounds of insects and the occasional far-off voice from the direction of the village. Luke feels he has known Rhona a lifetime.

  Before the dress rehearsal, Luke watches some of the summer school students erect the simplest of scenery on the steps in front of the former church. A cubist pirate ship is positioned to one side, the lost boys’ underground home on the other. The alleys either side of the building have been curtained off to provide additional entries and exits. Meanwhile Matthew is testing wires and lighting, including two floods sited in the upstairs windows of Lynton’s house. Russ is a more than willing assistant, darting about as if personally responsible for the whole set. At one point he appears on the balustraded balcony above the old church’s main door, from which a large screen has already been suspended, and busies himself with ropes and fixings.

  At 7.00pm Luke joins the others in the gallery converted from the church’s ruined interior. It is a simple rectangular space, its walls covered by the unframed canvases of students. There is an atmosphere of quiet professionalism. Rhona and Agnes are busy with costumes. When Luke is in costume, Rhona appears at his side and without eye contact adjusts his pirate headdress. ‘You’ll do,’ she says, brusque, unemotional. Through a gentle nudge between his shoulder-blades he feels another message.

  Soon everyone is in costume and standing in small groups, talking quietly. In a corner, Louise in fairy costume goes through a strenuous routine of stretching exercises before moving to the three mermaids, topless and with wigs of long golden tresses. She gives them some final instructions. By the far wall of the gallery, Russ stands by himself, deep in thought and looking up, as if imagining the building’s lost baroque interior.

  Luke, Russ and the other pirates assemble in one of the alleys awaiting their appearance in the second act. Through a gap Luke sees a growing group of inquisitive villagers and holidaymakers at the foot of the steps. More
are attracted as the song of the mermaids begins to play. From his vantage point he can hear but see nothing of the first act, performed on the balcony, but he cranes his neck to watch the flight to Never Land, a descent by ropes, apart from Louise’s Tinkerbell who, when the others have safely landed, makes a rotating fall on aerial silk to the applause of the uninvited audience.

  Luke assists his fellow pirates in dragging Hook on his raft to centre stage, but in doing so feels a seam in his coat split. From the corner of an eye he is able to appreciate the full extent of Matthew’s technical wizardry: a frozen river projected on the screen slowly changes to woodland by a tropical lagoon. He ignores his torn coat and attempts to be part of the drama, but he is self-conscious, out of place; unlike Russ, he is a stranger to acting. He is also disturbed to be on-stage with fellow-pirate Alden – joined with him in a world of pretence and make-believe, knowing that offstage both are conspirators in real deceptions. He is glad when the act ends. Again there is applause.

  In the gallery, between acts, Rhona appears at his side with safety pins. ‘It was because you weren’t relaxed,’ she says. ‘Now sit down.’ She points to a chair and produces a can of beer. As he drinks it, they listen again to the haunting mermaids’ song which heralds the third act.

  When they hear Alden speak Starkey’s lines, he sees Rhona wince. ‘Why does he overact?’ she says. ‘Dear old Russ makes him look like a pitiful amateur.’

  Unrequired until the end of Act Four, Luke stands behind the screen, script in hand, following the cast’s word-perfect lines. Once or twice Rhona appears beside him in silent encouragement.

  The rehearsal continues without mishap or the need for prompts. At the end of the play prolonged applause encourages the cast to take an unscheduled bow. As they return to change in the gallery’s cool interior Russ tells Luke, ‘Matthew has invited me to dinner tonight at the hotel. Apologies to Alden and the others if my absence is noted.’