The Mirrror Shop

by Nicholas Bundock

  He cuts a few overlarge courgettes and some leaves of Swiss chard and makes for home with the intention of raking out more joints in the brickwork, a plan thwarted by the absence of his cold chisel from his tool kit. After searching the house, he finds it on the lawn, covered in a film of rust and reproaches himself for this further carelessness. For an hour he attacks another area of loose pointing. Where the mortar is stubborn he imagines it to be the immoveable obstacles between him and Rhona – somehow, against all reason, there must still be a chance they can be reunited. Now he works more energetically. Once the mortar becomes Euan, still the main obstacle. With increased force he strikes the chisel, but the hammer recoils from the blow and sheers off some adjacent brickwork. The recalcitrant mortar remains in place. Rhona seems more distant than ever. Annoyed at his clumsiness he gives up work for the day and retreats to the kitchen for a beer. As he places a leg of lamb in the oven for dinner, he is ruefully aware that he normally would have invited Eva to share it with him. Later, the feeling is deepened as he eats alone in the kitchen. That evening, tired and watching TV, he draws strength from the knowledge that another day has been negotiated, that a routine is establishing itself, that survival has begun. But before dawn he wakes, trembling from a dream which refuses to slip back into unreality. Someone – a policeman perhaps – is in the gulley. The figure bends down, picks up the bullet case and for a long time studies it in the palm of his hand before slowly lifting his head. Luke sits up in bed, looking towards the red lacquer mirror on the far wall where two accusing eyes stare towards him. He tries to blink them away but they remain. Even when, with the first seepage of light through the shutters, they disappear, their presence haunts the room.

  Late that morning a brief hour of equilibrium in the shop is disturbed when, looking through the invoice book, he sees Rhona’s name above the purchase details of the needlework. Feeling his confidence implode, he forces himself to the workshop where he attempts to drive her away by burnishing the Empire frame. The efforts are futile, at best reminding him of the absence of Russ who would perform the task so much better. He lays down the agate and returns to his desk where thoughts of her bombard his efforts to read the local paper.

  The next day, market day, is worse. The bustle of the stalls outside the shop, the faces of visitors, are reminders that it was on a Wednesday, unseen and unheard she had first appeared in the shop. He goes to the door, praying that he will see her moving among the crowd. She is not there, but returning to his desk he remains facing the far wall staring into an overmantel mirror, and clinging to the hopeless belief that in the reflection he will see her enter as silently as on her first visit. At last, dispirited, he turns back to the empty shop. Occasional glances into the market place further sadden him. Near the post office a police car is parked in its customary place. He trembles, wondering if he will ever be able to accept that he is truly free.

  Over the next two days the knowledge increases that it is not simply her company, her voice and perfume, her touch, her laugh and making love with her that he misses, but the freedom she gave him to think afresh and, despite the near fatal consequences, to do or risk anything, whatever the danger. She has gone and with her that liberation – vanished, replaced by daily tasks which bind him to a present in which he has no confidence. He has independence, financial security but feels no freedom in possessing them.

  At his desk on Friday he wonders if he should seek help. But he is done with that business too. The years with Eva have immunised him against therapy. He thinks of Rhona, buttoning her dress on the heath. He can hear her say, ‘Psychotherapy and counselling are minefields best avoided. And for creative people they can be fatal.’

  ‘Have I wasted half my life?’ he had asked.

  ‘No, stupid,’ she had told him, ‘nothing’s wasted now that you and I have met.’

  Gazing out through the bay windows, he feels that not only has his past been wasted but that all hopes for his future have been destroyed. Yet he cannot regret having met her. She had brought him to life, if only for a few weeks. In the afternoon he thinks he sees her walk into the deli on the far side of the market place. Rushing out, he runs towards the shop and bounds up the steps, but the woman with dark hair looking at loaves is not her. Embarrassed and angry at his stupidity he retreats to his own shop. His memory has recently proved unreliable; now his powers of observation are failing him.

  27

  At the end of August and with the changing season Luke’s sadness increases. The year is declining and part of him, alive as never before in summer, is dying also. One evening, guilty that he is exploiting Alf’s friendship, he goes to the allotment and weeds for the first time since returning from Corsica. Not that there is much to be done. Alf has cared for everything and must be thanked now that his help is no longer required. On the second Saturday of September, outside the shop door he frowns at his forgetfulness in not having turned the sign round from open to closed when locking up yesterday. Worse, trying to turn the key in the lock he discovers a more serious lapse: yesterday afternoon he failed to lock the door. In panic he walks in and looks around to see if any stock has been stolen.

  ‘Coffee coming up,’ calls a voice from the workshop.

  Doubting his eyes and sanity he sees Russ appear with two mugs, one of which he sets down on the desk.

  ‘The new coffee was in the top cupboard,’ says Russ.

  Luke continues to stare in disbelief.

  ‘I’m finishing off the Empire mirror,’ Russ says. ‘The top rail might want redoing and . . .’ He drops onto a chair. ‘Italy didn’t quite work out.’

  ‘Russ, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I think I’d like to stay on. If that’s alright. Unless you’ve made other arrangements.’

  Luke hugs him. ‘Russ, I am so pleased to see you. I’m really sorry about you and Matthew, but . . . of course I’ve made no plans. It’s all I’ve been able to do to open the shop in the morning. I’d say welcome back, but part of you never seemed to have left.’

  ‘I think that was the problem. I belong here. Paestum was very beautiful and Matthew’s friends were very welcoming, but I knew after the first day I didn’t belong.’ In silence Russ stares into his cup as if divining what future he may have had in Italy.

  ‘We’ll have an early lunch today in the pub and drown our . . .’

  ‘Dreams. They were never more than dreams.’ Not looking at Luke, he returns to the workshop.

  Luke wonders if “dreams” also referred to his own dissipated hopes. There are questions Russ might be able to answer, but they must wait. He sets about the pile of letters on his desk, first checking, contrary to reason, that none is addressed in large, childish handwriting.

  Later in the morning a parcel is delivered. Seeing its French stamps and the sender’s name and address, he feels a wave of excitement tempered by apprehension. It is from Lynton. Nervous, Luke unwraps three sketchbooks of drawings and watercolours, along with a few loose-leaf works. He wants to call Russ and to share the pleasure of them with him, but after admiring two landscapes he turns to a series of drawings of soldiers with rifles, wounded comrades, bodies. He closes the book and places it with its companions in a drawer of the desk; he is not yet ready for them. A note accompanies the parcel:

  My dear Luke,

  I am sorry about the imbroglio which made your stay with us shorter than planned. You must return.

  I so enjoyed our conversations. As promised, here are the three remaining sketch books which I know you will care for. Show them to no-one while I’m alive, but when I am dead feel free to do with them as you wish. My good wishes for your future,

  Lynton.

  Luke puzzles over the word “imbroglio” – how much of the truth did Lynton know, or, for that matter, the brigadier-chef? He folds the note and places it in his wallet, doubting if he will ever return to Santa Marta. But staring at his desk it occurs to him that he could ignore Lynton’s wishes and use the drawings as a way back to Saffold Far
m. Alden would be keen see them, however annoyed he might be that Lynton’s generosity had been extended to a rival and not to himself. More importantly, Rhona would love to look at them. The prospect excites him. This small group of drawings, made by a child eighty years ago, might provide the means whereby they could become close again. What better pretext for contacting her? He imagines Rhona and himself in her studio, looking at the drawings one by one as he arranges them on her plan chest. He stares at the phone, repeating the mobile number he could never forget. But after some minutes of painful deliberation, loyalty to Lynton’s wishes holds sway and prevents him from dialling. The decision gives him no pleasure.

  In the pub Russ looks up from his steak pie and pint. ‘The best and worst thing about being involved in a play is that it brings you so very close to people for a short time. But when it’s all over you can never recapture that moment, the excitement.’

  ‘Perhaps not until the next play,’ says Luke.

  ‘I’m only an amateur dabbler – I’m sure professionals rise above it – but for me every last night is a loss – that sadness when the actors take their final bow. I’ve often felt it after a play, even as a member of the audience, when I find myself outside on the street, leaving reality behind in the theatre. I always think forests and mists are more real at the Royal Opera House than on any country walk. Once, after Swan Lake, I touched a grimy brick wall in Floral Street to make myself believe this outside world was real. I’m not sure I was convinced. Matthew and I had a trip into the hills last weekend, but whatever I felt when we were working on the play had already gone and I was already missing . . . He looks around the pub towards three girls in unrestrained laughter at a nearby table. ‘All this: somehow not quite real, but familiar, comfortable. And of course, the camaraderie of a production is not the same as . . . making a lasting friendship.’

  Russ drains his Guinness. When Luke returns with another pint Russ says, ‘I’m sorry about you and Rhona.’

  ‘Did she ask about me when you got back to Santa Marta?’

  ‘Everybody asked if you were OK, and said I’m to give you my best wishes when I see you next.’

  ‘But nothing especially from Rhona?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  Russ shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry.’ He looks away. ‘I suppose she and Alden are back here now. You haven’t heard . . . ?’

  ‘No.’

  They drink in silence until Russ says, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Eva.’

  ‘We did meet up, but . . .’

  ‘I guessed as much.’

  ‘Russ, after you took me to the airport there was no more contact with the police, was there?’

  ‘None I heard of. Were you expecting any?’

  ‘No. No, not really.’

  ‘When I found you at the police station, I hardly recognised you – you looked like a ghost.’

  ‘I nearly became one.’

  ‘That reminds me. I’m meant to be doing the scenery for Blithe Spirit in November, unless word got out that I’d moved and they’ve found someone else. I don’t know if Alden will be involved.’

  Luke feels a tremor of excitement at the thought that Alden could be part of the play, that Rhona might be in the audience and that there would be an opportunity to see her, to talk to her. But the hope is weakened by the memory of last week’s stolen glimpse of her, of another man and worst of all the laughter from which he was excluded – so different from the laughter in the courtyard of Les Puits of which he had been a part as much as any of the others. ‘I’ll miss the Peter Pan gang,’ he says. ‘Josh, Cassie, Felix – even Lou.’

  ‘We had our moments of fun,’ says Russ.

  Luke sees a wistful smile rise and fall on Russ’s face.

  By 5.00pm when Luke leaves the shop there is a light drizzle. He goes to the grocer’s, buys a bottle of Scotch and a card for Alf and walks to the allotments. Alf is not there. He considers walking round to Alf’s house, but the rain has become heavier and he has no coat. He leaves the thank-you present hidden behind the primus stove in Alf’s shed. With rain now hammering down on the pantile roof, he decides to wait before returning home, and making himself comfortable on Alf’s chair, watches the downpour, while at the back of the shed a drip, intermittent at first, then regular as a clock tick, pings into a metal bucket. The gutter above the door soon overflows and spills down the window, blurring the allotments to a watery green; he might be looking down into a lake. A dribble of water moves slowly down the window, reminding him of the gentle flow of the Solenzara river as he and Rhona sat together on the rock. He sighs and closes his eyes, breathing in the atmosphere of seed trays, damp sacking and paraffin. In this other world there is a comfort which cannot be found at home, in the shop or over a beer with Russ.

  On waking he sees that the rain has stopped; perhaps it was the cessation of the steady rhythm of drips which woke him. Easing himself from the chair, he reaches forward and with a hand wipes a porthole through the condensation on the window, revealing his allotment where the evening sun is catching the red flowers of his late-crop runner beans. He lowers his eyes to the dark earth and the white plastic plant label marking the end of the newly-sown row of cabbages: Alf has deserved his whisky. At that moment a dog appears, sniffing along the row before defecating. It is not Maurice. It must be a stray.

  Springing from his chair, he throws open the shed door releasing a shower of droplets, waves his arms and shouts, ‘Get the hell out of here.’

  The dog seems not to hear and kicks up earth behind its mess, uprooting a plant.

  ‘Bugger off,’ Luke shouts again, running towards it.

  The dog, some sort of collie, darts across the row towards the greenhouse and slips through the open door. At that moment Luke sees the back of a figure, presumably the dog’s owner, stooped alongside the greenhouse bench and pouring liquid from a bottle into a red watering can.

  Luke strides to the door shouting, ‘Your bloody animal was shitting on my plot. Don’t you know dogs are banned here?’ The owner, in a crumpled combat jacket and canvas hat, ignores him and continues pouring, while the dog cowers under the far end of the bench. Luke sees the label on the bottle. ‘And glyphosate’s forbidden. Don’t you know the rules?’

  Getting no response, he shouts, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Unconcerned, the figure puts down the bottle and screws on the top. ‘Maud has passed on her allotment to me.’ It is a woman’s voice. She unbends and turns to Luke, ‘Sorry about the dog. What will you do? Try to shoot it? You’d probably miss.’

  ‘You? . . . You?’ Luke stares at Agnes.

  ‘Maud said I’d see you here before long – I’m her new neighbour. She warned me about the organic mafia.’

  ‘What did you mean – try to shoot your dog?’

  ‘Maud says she always hits the bindweed with this stuff. On the quiet, of course.’ Agnes shrugs. ‘Oh dear, now the secret’s out. Apparently its roots can go down over a metre and . . .’

  ‘What did you mean – try to shoot it?’

  ‘I know,’ she says.

  The two words freeze him. He stares at her, his mind in desperate playback. How can you know about the rifle? When and where could you have seen me? At the same time his eyes search hers: are you guessing, bluffing? The questions give way to conflicting imperatives: get out of here, this is my world; stay and tell me about Rhona.

  ‘What exactly do you know?’

  ‘Pretty much everything.’ Slowly, she removes her hat and straightens her hair. ‘First, the gun you found in the store room and borrowed – or rather stole. How much detail do you want?’

  He moves further into the greenhouse, confronting her. ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘Only me and Dan, but forget about him.’

  ‘And Rhona?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What about Alden?’

  ‘He only remembers the crack of a rifle – a boar hunter’s gun they
all thought. Except me. He recalled falling from the bridge, but only had a vague memory of staggering along the gulley and finding his way up to the gallery.’

  Shuddering at her unemotional tone, Luke sinks to the bench and stares at the brick floor.

  She sits beside him. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve no plans to tell anyone.’ She pauses. ‘Not yet.’

  He shivers, ‘So it’s money, is it?’

  For some seconds Agnes doesn’t answer. The dog moves out of hiding and looks in Luke’s direction. Agnes says, ‘Fifty thousand. A lump sum for my silence. You have three days. But I’ll start with a couple of mirrors for my new cottage. And a new car. An Audi I think.’

  Luke, looking up and turning his head, is unnerved by her smile. ‘You’re mad. You can’t prove anything.’

  ‘Mad? That’s rich from a would-be murderer.’ She throws back her head and laughs. ‘As for proof, to begin with there’s the bullet case you left behind with your fingerprints all over it.’ Agnes begins giggling. ‘That must be worth at least as much as the price of a house. Fifty grand’s cheap.’

  Luke feels the dog brush past him as it makes its way to the door where it sits on guard.

  Agnes looks towards the dog. ‘And for insulting Kirby you can tend my allotment. I’ll tell you what to grow and . . .’ Scornful laughter almost stifles her voice. ‘. . . you must keep it well weeded. No creeping thistle, ground elder, bindweed. And don’t you . . .’ In manic hysteria, eyes squeezed shut, she rocks to and fro, ‘And don’t you dare use any chemicals.’

  Luke sees her turn towards him, open her eyes and pull back her lips in an attempt to suppress a further outburst. As their eyes meet she looks down to the ground. ‘Oh, and I’ve always longed to have some handmade shoes.’ She releases a suppressed guffaw.

  He is certain she is insane.

  When the outburst subsides she throws her arm in Luke’s direction. He feels the heel of her hand strike him like a fist on the biceps. Again and again she hits him – he does not resist – but the blows have diminishing force, until he realises she is making fun of him and has no thought of blackmail.