Girl in the Mirror Page 4

  ‘What’s your name?’

  A long pause. ‘Judith.’

  An accident. It was an accident. No signs. No such thing.

  ‘Well, good day to you …’ He couldn’t say the name. Not yet.

  He argued in court that day that hypnotists, pyschologists and other alternative-medicinal practices should also be closed down on the same ‘mind-altering’ grounds he was being accused of. He questioned Dr Freud’s theories of the unconscious mind, the defence mechanism of repression, his transference and his clinical practice of psychoanalysis, until they were all tired of listening to him. He altered peoples’ minds no more than they. He won the case, though he would not know that until some weeks later.

  The following day, he returned. It was not to see her, but because that was the route he must take. Though he had thought about her all night. He stopped beside her. She looked up.

  ‘Did you forget your umbrella?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean your umbrella?’

  ‘I gave it to you, it’s no longer mine.’

  ‘Well it’s not mine either. I sold it.’

  She wasn’t sorry nor did he think she should be.

  ‘Aren’t you angry?’

  ‘It was yours to do with as you wished. How much did you get for it?’

  ‘A half-penny.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You just said I could do as I wished,’ she said, defensively.

  ‘Indeed. But it was worth a great deal more.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Well I needed a half-penny.’

  He thought she needed a lot more than that.

  ‘You don’t have a cup.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A cup. For begging.’

  ‘I’m not begging.’

  ‘Then what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m just sitting here.’

  ‘Do people give you money?’

  ‘Sometimes. Sometimes they give me umbrellas.’

  He smiled. ‘Would you like to work for me?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Administration. Taking in the post, reading letters, making appointments, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Why would you ask me?’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘If you think there’s a reason why I shouldn’t, you should be kind enough to tell me.’

  She looked thoughtful, then looked him up and down and he got a sense of what her life must have been like up until the moment she met him. ‘What do you want in return?’

  ‘Nothing like that. Just exactly what I’ve asked you to do.’

  She studied him for a long time. She appeared older then, her mind accessing the memories from which she has learned to make decisions.

  ‘Okay.’

  And so she began working for him. Others that saw her come and go assumed incorrectly that she was a housekeeper; company, though paid, marked the end to one aspect of the old man’s self-appointed purgatory. But in reality she learned that the old man did not live an empty life, because it was filled to the brim with the ghost of his past with whom she worked alongside everyday.

  She didn’t know what he did initially but she learned as time went on and not from asking him questions. She never once asked if she could use the machine and he admired her for that because he could imagine there would be many memories she would like to change. She never asked him any questions and he didn’t ask her any either. They were just two people who did what they did in the moment. They rarely spoke. She opened mail and without discussion he discovered she had learned his way of doing things. One evening, when she had left after the day’s work, he sat at the table and read through the letters she had left behind. He took it up with her the following day.

  ‘Why didn’t you make an appointment for this man?’ he asked.

  He wasn’t angry. He was never angry. He was merely interested and felt an answer would give him more of an insight into the workings of her own mind rather than why the man had not been granted an appointment.

  She didn’t look up as she hung her oversized coat on the hook on the back of the kitchen door and placed her - new - shoulder bag on the floor. She was looking much better these days.

  ‘I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘But you don’t know which letter I’m referring to.’

  ‘I do. The man whose wife died in a road accident.’

  He swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t believe him.’

  She looked at him pointedly then and he became a little flustered. Unusual for him and it was only slight, but it came over him all the same. He averted his eyes, was momentarily knocked off course, but if she noticed she didn’t show it. She opened the large desk diary that he’d bought for her and looked through the appointments. He needed to cover up his obvious discomfort. He pointed to any letter on the table.

  ‘And this woman, what about her?’ He saw that his hand had a slight shake.

  She sighed.

  ‘Are you going to question every letter I refuse? Because if so, there’s no point in my being here. You could just go back to doing this yourself.’

  He nodded then stood. A cup of tea before the first appointment of the day. He placed a cup of tea, three sugars, lots of milk before her. She liked it in a mug, not a cup and saucer like he. He had to buy her one and this mug was the only one in his home. He considered it hers.

  ‘She writes gossip,’ she said then, after taking a sip.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I don’t read it of course but I have seen her page before. A high-society woman. She finds everything a nuisance.’ She put on a fancy accent. ‘Writes about who is seen having afternoon tea with whom. I didn’t think you would want her here.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I won’t ask you any more.’

  The office was the kitchen. Judith based herself there from eight a.m. until four p.m. every day. She rarely moved from her chair at the table, never looked around, rooted in the drawers, barely looked up from her desk diary to take in her surroundings. She sat on her chair at the table with the letters and the appointment book as though it was the driest part of the room.

  The door bell rang. He opened it to a young man in a suit, dark circles under his eyes, a sensible hair cut, cleanly shaven, aftershave emanating from his skin in waves. He was a banker of some sort, an accountant. Something to do with numbers and straight lines. He removed his fedora hat and looked left, right, and both again before stepping inside, nervous to be seen at this address.

  He stepped away from the doorway to welcome the man in.

  ‘My name is Jack Collins.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He left the door open and turned and walked down the hall for him to follow. Jack hesitated at the door, rethinking the entire situation. How much did he really need to be here? He took in the empty hallway, the original tiles, some cracked, faded, a smell of mould that any amount of bleach and spray could not remove, the bare walls and he stepped inside.

  Jack followed the old man into a small room. A machine. The machine. Two old armchairs. A fireplace. Unlit. It smelled of damp. It felt cold.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  The old man was already sitting down.

  Again, Jack hesitated, weighing up his options. Then he sat.

  Jack placed his briefcase on the thin cold carpet and looked around for a place to lay his hat. The old man offered no help. He settled on hanging it from the handles of his briefcase. He opened the button of his suit jacket, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as though about to negotiate a deal and he didn’t want the fireplace to hear him. A salesman, the man guessed.

  ‘So,’ Jack said.

  ‘So, I attach these here.’ He ignored the impending small talk and attached three wires with suction pads to the man’s temples, and forehead. The mind’s eye.

  ‘Begin,’ he said, not looking Jack in
the eye. Waiting.

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘You just describe the memory as best you can, colours, smells, sounds, expressions of those around you. Speak clearly please.’

  ‘How does this work?’ Suddenly he looked unsure. Not of himself but of the machine. Of the hype surrounding it.

  Did it ever matter how it worked? The old man had debated this endlessly in the beginning years. It was like before turning on the wireless wanting to be told how exactly it works. Or before getting into an automobile wanting to know the exact workings of its engine. It never mattered. ‘Do you want me to tell you how it works or do you just want it to work?’

  Once again Jack hesitated. He studied the old man, not liking his attitude, not having imagined it would be like this at all. An old machine in a damp, run-down room with an old man with a chip on his shoulder. It was short of magical. But he seemed to question his predicament again and then surrendered.

  Jack cleared his throat.

  ‘I was away at the weekend. Or at least I told my wife I was.’

  He paused for a reaction. He didn’t get one. The old man didn’t flinch, didn’t react, didn’t appear to judge.

  ‘In fact I didn’t leave the city.’

  Again no reaction. He sighed.

  ‘I met someone and I’ve never done it before but I …’ his voice cracked slightly. ‘I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I know I made a huge mistake. But I know I can’t lie, I just can’t. Every time she looks at me I just know she knows. She asks me about the weekend away, the one I was supposed to have and I just freeze, I get confused. I want to close my eyes and make it all go away, I want to see the weekend I should have had.’

  They mistook him for a counsellor all the time. That’s not what he was there for.

  ‘Do you need to know all this?’ Jack asked, his eyes wet.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I thought you were getting to it. You just need to tell me the memories.’

  ‘The ones I want to put in my mind?’

  The man nodded. ‘And you know this does not erase memories, it merely adds new ones. I’m not in the business of deleting memory files.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Jack moved his hat to the armchair rest, reached into his briefcase and retrieved a brochure.

  ‘This is where I should have been. A sales conference. In a hotel in Kerry. That is the hotel there. That is the bedroom. They have extensive grounds, with views over Kenmare Bay. I would have spent time walking there. I enjoy walking. The climate enables a subtropical woodland to grow. They have eucalyptus trees. The air smells sweet. Fresh.’ He swallowed. ‘My colleague told me about it.’

  The old man motioned for him to continue.

  ‘The sales conference was in the hotel. That I don’t need help with, it’s just another conference room in another hotel. But there was a tour around the Ring of Kerry. My wife always wanted to take that trip. I should take her but I can’t now. She’ll realise I’ve never been there but maybe after this …’ He looked at the old man again needing encouragement to continue. The man helped him go through the finer details, how the clouds cast shadows on the mountains, how the air smelled fresh from eucalyptus, sweet with rhubarb, and salty from the sea, how he felt the sun on his face, how his room looked, how he had no cash to tip the man who brought his luggage to his room, how his shirt was crumpled when he took it out of his case, how he should have put it in a suitbag just as his wife had said. They talked about how he’d bought her and the children presents not from Dublin’s Grafton Street on the way home from his city-centre hotel, but from the railway station as he awaited his delayed train. How he’d phoned his wife the bathing pools during a break in their conference instead of when the woman he was with had momentarily left his side in bed in that city hotel.

  When Jack was finished the man removed the pads from his forehead and temples. Jack blinked a few times then looked back at him.

  ‘Goodness.’

  The old man turned the machine off. Jack seemed relieved, jovial, cocky even.

  ‘Saved me money on travel, that did. Should have said I was in Fiji.’

  The old man stood up and began his goodbyes. ‘Yes, well, it sounds like it would have been a beautiful trip. Shame you didn’t go on it.’

  Jack’s smile faded.

  They are nearing the gateway of the park. Out of the green oasis and back to the concrete city, though he doesn’t mind. It’s a beautiful day. The best day of the year, they wonder. They walk under the trees, a light chill now as they are sheltered from the sun. She shivers slightly and he holds her hand tighter as though by doing so he can keep her warmer. He wants to make everything perfect for her all of the time, even when he knows it’s impossible. The smell of moss fills his nose, tickles again. The damp floor to which the sun’s rays can’t creep is thick in the air. It is refreshing and they say so. He steps aside to allow her to walk through the gate before him. She thanks him and waits for him to join her. They look at one another, prepare to part and already his stomach churns at having to leave this dream and go about his work day.

  Thanks for last night, she says. There is a shyness about her now, though not an ounce of it last night. He loves this about her but he does not say. He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable. They make arrangements to meet again tonight. Dinner in the Shelbourne perhaps. Yes. That would be nice. Perhaps an early night. She laughs again, the shyness gone. Of course, my dear. Of course.

  ‘A cheating husband?’ he said to Judith as soon as Jack Collins had left.

  She didn’t look up.

  ‘He loves his wife.’ She sounded bored by it. But the boredom was too forced. He knew she cared.

  ‘So he said.’ He sighed.

  ‘You didn’t believe him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But you don’t approve of him?’

  He didn’t want to answer. He wasn’t supposed to judge his clients. He never usually did.

  ‘Everyone deserves a second chance,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not in the business of helping people lie.’

  She looked up then. He saw doubt.

  ‘Making new memories is not lying,’ he said a little too forcefully. ‘That appointment was a mistake,’ he said, more gently.

  ‘Okay,’ she shrugged.

  He sat with Judith. They ate cheese sandwiches as she continued to read through the letters. He watched her but tried not to make it obvious. Her facial expression didn’t change. He couldn’t tell whether she was impressed or not by any letter her eyes moved over. She put them into two separate piles. He tried to figure out which was which pile. She finished another letter, took a bite of her sandwich then put the letter in the pile on the left. He still couldn’t tell.

  There was never any conversation, but never any awkwardness either. Their previous conversation about Jack was about as long or as intense as it had ever reached. He realised then that he rather enjoyed her company, he who had spent the last forty-one years on his own. He realised that he quite looked forward to her morning arrival, that for the few hours after she left, he felt … well, he missed her. The house was hollow again. Carved out like a tree. Now he felt he was waiting, always had an expectant feeling, for someone to arrive, for something to happen. He hadn’t wished that for a long time. That feeling had long since been with him. He stopped chewing, put his sandwich down.

  She didn’t look at him. ‘What?’

  She ripped open an envelope.

  He didn’t say anything.

  She looked a little uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m trying to discern which pile of letters is the one which moves you beyond belief.’

  She looked at him then, aware he’d made a joke. Then she stabbed a finger on the pile on the left. ‘This one.’

  He smiled. He wouldn’t have known but it made him feel good. He may not bore her entirely. He looked at his pocket watch; he always left an hour between appointments.
He only saw two people a day, sometimes one depending on the memory. He returned to the machine.

  ‘It’s been twenty-five years since he died,’ Mrs de Lacey spoke with her neck arched out like a swan, her skin stretching and pulling tight around her muscles. The pearls on her necklace nestled into the dips in her craned neck. She was trying to appear strong but he could sense that she was flapping wildly below the surface.

  ‘I can remember lots of things about him, lots of things we did together, lots of things he said but—’ And now her resolve weakened, her tough exterior crumbled just a little. He neck shortened, her skin loosened, her shoulders lapsed and she appeared to fall in on herself, sobbing.

  ‘Mummy.’ Her daughter reached out and touched her mother’s arm, surprised and more than a little embarrassed by the display of emotion.

  He didn’t say anything.

  The daughter looked at him uncomfortably, as if he had the ability to stop the water works.

  ‘But his face,’ her mother continued, truly sobbing now, forcing the words out whether anybody liked it or not. ‘His face when I close my eyes.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I can’t see him. I just can’t.’

  ‘Mummy, just stop now. What on earth are you talking about? Give yourself a moment to compose yourself.’ Her daughter’s cheeks were flushed.

  ‘It’s like a blur,’ she continued, her eyes streaming. ‘I can see him but not closely, not exactly and he keeps changing. Changing age, changing expression. I can’t seem to hold on to one memory, to one perfect moment.’

  The daughter rummaged in her handbag.

  ‘Here, Mummy.’ She shoved a handkerchief into her clenched, angry hands. ‘Your nose,’ she said, with a little disgust.

  ‘I know what his eyes look like, I know his lips.’ She touched her own lips sensually, remembering. The daughter looked away, shocked, further embarrassed. ‘But all together I can’t see him. It’s like I’m looking too close, I need to move further back, to see the entire picture.’

  She squeezed her eyes shut, wrinkles tense. Then she opened them again, disappointed he wasn’t there.