The Girl in the Mirror (25 page)

‘
P
lease be seated,’ the Reverend said. He waited for absolute quiet before continuing. ‘We are gathered here today to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of William Anthony Edwards. Born on 11 November 1922, he was the first child and only son of Emily and Wilfred Edwards. Despite a bout of scarlet fever which put the five-year-old William in hospital he grew into a fine and sturdy young man…’

Mandy looked at the Reverend standing behind the lectern as he continued with the tribute – the words of appreciation for Grandpa’s life. Then she looked over to the coffin and tried to rid her mind of the image of Grandpa as she had last seen him, emaciated and dependent on others. She tried to replace it with the image of the man the Reverend now spoke of; the man Grandpa had been before he’d fallen ill. The man who at the age of nineteen, the Reverend said, had been one of the first to sign up to fight for his country when war had broken out in 1939. The man who, not one to wait around, had quickly courted and married Lizzie, his childhood sweetheart, on returning home in 1946.

‘He was a successful businessman and proud,’ the Reverend was saying, coming up to date, ‘but kind, loving and loyal; a family man. The last time I saw William was when I visited him in hospital and he asked me to make special mention of his granddaughters, Sarah and Mandy.’ Mandy looked again at the Reverend
and swallowed hard at the mention of her name. ‘In a society which doesn’t always value the family as much as it should,’ he continued. ‘it is heart-warming to learn of the special bond which developed between Grandpa, as he was affectionately known, and his granddaughters. His love for Sarah and Mandy was unreserved, as I know theirs was for him. Even when the girls were away at university they phoned and visited regularly just as they had always done. Sarah fondly remembers the afternoon not long ago when she taught her grandpa to use his new and highly sophisticated mobile phone, for he was quite determined modern technology wouldn’t leave him behind.’ A murmur of agreement ran through the congregation and Mandy smiled. ‘It was fitting, therefore,’ the Reverend continued, ‘given that special bond between him and his granddaughters, that when William’s life on earth was coming to its natural end one of his granddaughters, Mandy, should help nurse him. Indeed she was with him at the end.’ Mandy met the Reverend’s gaze and swallowed hard. ‘How lovely for a man who placed so much value on his family to leave this world surrounded by those he loved and cherished. I’m sure he knew his family were there, and appreciated it. It would have meant a lot to him in his final days to hear the voices of those he loved; to feel the warmth of their hands as they comforted and nursed him.’ The Reverend paused and looked first at Sarah and then at Mandy, addressing them personally: ‘I know how painful it is to lose a loved one, but please find comfort in the knowledge that your dear grandpa lives on in you both. Let us all now spend a few minutes in quiet reflection as we think of the life and lament the passing of William, beloved husband, father and grandpa.’

Mandy lowered her head and closed her eyes as the rest of the mourners were doing. She felt her tears run freely down her
cheeks and drip unchecked on to her hand as she thought of Grandpa and all she had lost. Dear, dear Grandpa, I hope you know how much I love and respect you. Life isn’t the same without you; it never will be. I miss you dreadfully. I miss so many things about you. The sound of your voice on the phone when I called every Tuesday at 6 p.m. All those discussions we had that went on for ages, when Gran was so worried about my telephone bill she made you phone me back. If I was speaking to you this Tuesday I’d tell you about the ring Adam has given me and how we are moving in together. I know you’d be pleased.

I remember my visits to you, Grandpa – as a child with my parents, and then as I grew up, alone. You always greeted me in the hall with a big hug and the same words: ‘So what’s my little Mandy been up to? Come in and tell me all.’ I can hear you saying it now; I can still hear your voice, it’s very clear. And I remember how we’d sit together, either side of the hearth in winter, or beneath the apple tree in summer, and I’d tell you what I’d ‘been up to’. And you’d listen carefully and then advise me. Strange, I never minded you giving me the benefit of your advice, indeed I welcomed it, but for years if my parents tried to give me advice I rejected it out of hand. I guess that was part of the special bond you and I had. How I wish I still had it.

And I remember your wooden pipe which you kept polished on the mantelpiece although you hadn’t smoked for twenty years. I was intrigued by that pipe. As a child I used to put it in my mouth when you left the room and pretend I was smoking. I wonder if you ever knew? You never said if you did.

And the tie you always wore. Casual dress for you still meant a shirt and tie – even when you were pottering in the garden you wore a tie and your cap. It was always important for you to look smart, until the very end, when you were too ill and hadn’t the
energy to dress, let alone wear a tie. When you lay in bed, often in pain, wanting to be at peace. And now you are, my Grandpa, at peace. I haven’t forgotten the promise I made when I knelt by your bed and stroked your hand, which was so thin and frail I thought it might break. I haven’t forgotten my promise and I will start tomorrow, I promise I will. I’ll make you proud of me, as I was of you.

‘Let us pray,’ the Reverend said, breaking gently into their thoughts. ‘The Lord’s Prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven…’ Mandy pulled a tissue from her pocket and quietly blew her nose and wiped her eyes. She could hear Sarah crying further along the pew. Others were sniffing and blowing their noses too as they began quietly saying the Lord’s Prayer.

When they came to the end of the prayer everyone looked up and towards the front. The Reverend turned to the coffin and made the sign of the cross. There was silence as he began the Committal, the final words of the service: ‘Almighty God, our heavenly Father, we praise you for the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life…’ Mandy braced herself for what was coming next. How could she bear saying her last goodbye? They stood as the organ began to play sombrely in the background. The large velvet curtains either side of the plinth on which the coffin rested moved slightly then slowly began to close; slowly, very slowly, as the Reverend spoke: ‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God…’The curtains drew steadily towards each other, relentless and unstoppable. Goodbye, Grandpa, thanks for everything you did for me. I won’t ever forget you. I love and miss you so very much.

The curtains closed, the coffin disappeared from view, and Mandy leant on the handrail and cried openly.

S
he awoke with a start; her heart was racing and her senses were alert. Then she remembered where she was and that there was no need to be afraid. This panic on waking had begun soon after she’d remembered what had happened and continued since. It didn’t happen every morning, but was troubling enough to be one of the issues she was going to work on with her therapist.

With a small sigh of relief Mandy turned on to her side to look at the alarm clock: 6.35 a.m. She could hear water running in the bathroom. Shortly Adam would return to the bedroom and apologize for waking her, just as he did most weekday mornings. After five weeks of living together they’d fallen into a routine and the predictability gave her a warm glow; it made her feel safe and secure.

A minute later Adam came into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. ’Sorry I woke you,’ he said, coming over and planting a kiss on her lips.

‘It’s OK, I need to be up. I want to make the most of my last two weeks.’

Mandy climbed out of bed and slipped into her kimono. Adam met her in the centre of the room. Sliding his arms around her waist he drew her to him and kissed her again firmly on the lips. ‘Are you sure you want to accept that job?’ he asked. ‘You know you don’t have to. We can last longer on my income.’

She smiled. ‘I know, thanks. But it’s an opportunity too good to miss. Working in an art gallery and being able to show one of my own paintings! It’s beyond my wildest dreams.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ With a final lingering kiss, he let her go and began to dress.

She went through to the kitchen, which still appeared huge and luxurious after the kitchenette of her bedsit, and filled the kettle. At least she now knew where everything was. In the first couple of weeks she’d kept stowing things in cupboards and forgetting where she’d put them. Now, switching on the radio, she reached easily for the bread to make toast, and the butter and honey they both liked for breakfast.

The kettle boiled and she poured the water into the cafetière as Adam appeared in the kitchen dressed in his suit. She passed him his toast and he sat at the breakfast bar and began eating, while she waited for the coffee to brew. ‘So what are you going to paint in your last two weeks of freedom?’ he asked.

‘You!’ she returned with a grin.

‘You’ll be lucky,’ he laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be able to sit still long enough.’

‘Then I’ll use a photograph, like I did for Grandpa’s portrait. I’ve decided I’ve got a flair for portrait painting.’

‘Absolutely!’ he agreed, nodding as he ate. ‘The likeness is incredible. I don’t know how you did it. It’s so realistic; you’ve made him come to life.’

She smiled, pleased, and pouring the coffee into two mugs joined him at the breakfast bar. ‘I’m going to have it framed today, then we’ll give it to Gran on our next visit.’

‘She’ll be in tears,’Adam warned. ‘It’s bound to stir up a lot of memories.’

‘Good ones, I hope.’

He nodded and, draining the last of his coffee, stood, and kissed her a long and reluctant goodbye. ‘See you tonight then,’ he said. ‘Have a good day. Friday, thank goodness. Lie-in tomorrow!’

She went with him to the front door and saw him off as she always did, waving until he’d turned the corner and was out of sight. Closing the door, she returned inside, but instead of showering and dressing as usual, she continued to the second bedroom: her studio. As she entered she felt a rush of excitement. The novelty of having her own studio was still fresh and exhilarating. A real artist’s studio! She took it all in, savouring the moment again, as she did every morning. Her paints, brushes, palette, canvases, cleaning fluids, sketch pads and so on littered all the available work surfaces in bohemian disarray. It was fantastic; she loved the organized chaos. On the easel positioned for the best light in the centre of the room was the finished portrait of Grandpa, ready to be taken to the framers.

Mandy crossed the room and stood in front of the portrait: Grandpa as he’d asked her to paint him when she’d sat by his bed and held his hand. Aware he was dying, he’d smiled sadly and said: ‘Paint a picture of me, will you, Mandy, and give it to your Gran. Something to remember me by when I’m gone. But not like this. Paint one of me young and handsome – when she fancied me.’ Mandy had begun the painting, as promised, the day after the funeral, and had just finished it, six weeks later.

She looked from the portrait to the photograph clipped to the side of the easel. It was a wedding photograph, lent to her by Gran, which she’d used for the likeness. Grandpa, in his mid twenties, dashingly handsome in a dark suit, standing tall and proud beside his Lizzie on the steps of the church where they’d just married. Mandy was pleased with the result – as apparently was the subject, for despite Grandpa’s serious expression in his
wedding photo, she’d painted him smiling, and he seemed to be signalling his approval. Not only because she’d done a good job, she thought, but also because the portrait had started her painting again. Painting like a professional – focused and dedicated. She was sure he would be proud of her.

Turning from the portrait Mandy moved slowly across the studio and past the sketches – ideas for future paintings – which were pinned to the cork-board mounted on the wall. She’d had lots of ideas which she would paint up in the evenings and at weekends after she’d returned to work full time. Adam had been right about the light in the room – the natural light coming from the window fell at exactly the right angle and was ideal for painting. It had allowed her to work on Grandpa’s portrait from first thing in the morning after Adam had left for work until 6 p.m. when he returned home and she made dinner.

Mandy came to a halt in front of another large canvas, propped on a wooden chair and hidden by a dust sheet. As soon as she’d taken Grandpa’s portrait to the framers Mandy knew she must return and complete this painting before she began any more. It had remained unfinished for too long – utterly forgotten until she’d found it at her parents’ in the move to this flat. A chill gripped her as her thoughts returned to the day she’d started the painting, as a second-year student at university. It had been a Sunday evening and she’d suddenly been overcome by the need to paint: an overwhelming desire, as though her very life depended on it. It was after 7 p.m. and she’d gone alone to the art studio where she’d set up a canvas and mixed paints. She’d painted furiously, frenziedly, for five hours, until midnight, interrupted only once by the caretaker. Only when she’d finally stopped, exhausted, her arm aching and her fingers cramped around the brush, did she actually see what she’d painted, and was horrified.
At the time she’d quickly wrapped the unfinished portrait in a dust sheet and put it away, not understanding what she’d painted and too afraid to confront it – until now. Now she understood.

Mandy stood in front of the covered portrait and tentatively reaching out, took hold of the edge of the dust sheet and slid it from the canvas. For an instant she felt the same revulsion she had done four years previously when she’d finally stopped painting and had seen what she’d created. She was shocked not only because the girl in the portrait looked grotesque with part of her face missing, but because of the message Mandy now realized her deformity contained: the message sent through the medium of her paintbrush that she hadn’t understood until she’d remembered what had happened.

Mandy looked into the sad blue eyes of the girl she’d seen in the mirror at Evelyn’s house. The portrait was of her, and was complete apart from the mouth, which was a gaping hole, the edges ragged and bleeding, where the mouth should be. The girl with no mouth, silenced for all these years, unable to speak until Mandy had remembered. Now she remembered, and as soon as she returned from the framers she would paint in the mouth and finally release the girl from silence.

With a small sigh of satisfaction, Mandy moved away from the painting and picked up the dust sheet. Carrying it to the table she cleared a space and then spread it open, the edges hanging loosely over the side. Going to the easel she carefully lifted down the portrait of Grandpa and, setting it in the middle of the dust sheet, wrapped it securely, ready to take to the framers. She thought she’d have the frame made of walnut, something ornate, with decorative inlaid wooden leaves. Grandpa would like that; he had other pictures with similar frames. But she’d have to ask for two frames to be made, identical, for Gran wanted her portrait painted
too. ‘Can’t have Will sitting up there on the wall alone,’ she’d said. ‘Paint my picture, love, to put beside him, and I’ll pay you for your trouble.’

Mandy said she would – her first commission, although of course she wouldn’t be charging Gran. ‘A labour of love,’ she said to Gran, and somewhere close by Grandpa quietly agreed.