First Person (8 page)

I
felt Lewis’ hand on my arm as he pulled me back but we did not run. The thumps
got louder and suddenly steam blew out from the bottom left and right of the
doors. The smell was familiar from my time on the vents, a sort of warm water
smell, tinged with something tangy and stale. The steam subsided and everything
went quiet. I caught sight of Lewis. He looked at me, the scowl back on his
face. I suddenly wondered if he remembered the last words of the fairy tale:
The time of legend will be over when the giants awake and the doors begin to
open.

“What’s
happening?” I whispered in the darkness.

“I
have no idea.”

A
massive bang, from beyond the door, and a hideous scraping sound screeched out
as the doors began to open.

H
er soul is
in my ebook.
When she died, I felt her presence leave the room and the book felt heavier in
my hand. Having been reading to her, at her request for her last hours, it
leaned into my hands as the weight increased. The room, though, was emptier. It
was quieter too, her shallow breathing at an end. Her eyes once looked at me
with love and joy. Afterwards, the focus left them, but not before her eyes
searched the ceiling like she was thinking of something. She took one last
breath and her brow furrowed momentarily. I’d seen this expression before, when
she was making a decision about something. Within her head, a thought would
pull at her forehead. Her eyes would scan, the resolution was made, she would
relax, and she would nod to herself.

She
did this when she died. As her eyelids relaxed and, as she made her final
breath, she seemed to nod and her body sunk into our bed. People say the dead
are at rest but, of course, they mean the body, because the mind goes on, taken
on its journey by the soul. I felt it press onto my fingers as her soul entered
my ebook. Not yet ready to face the book, and not yet ready to say goodbye to
my wife, I placed the device carefully on her bedside cabinet. I let my fingers
run across its leather case as I lifted my other hand to her head.

I
smoothed out her hair. Already, the heat was beginning to leave her head. We
had been prepared for this. My wife encouraged me to listen to the doctor
explain how it would happen, so that I would be ready. She sat quietly in the
room while the doctor whispered to me the process of death. Like Helen thought
it would, I was equipped to face it. Everything occurred as I had been told it
would. There would be no pain for Helen, that she would not suffer, that she
would just disappear. But she did not go. She’s in my ebook.

Her
hair smoothed, I lifted my head and tried to take a mental step back. She
looked comfortable. Had she been alive, she might have found sleep in such a
pose. I pushed the duvet up to her shoulders to keep the warmth within her for
as long as I could. She never did like the cold. I lay down next to her for
some time until I felt it inappropriate to wait any longer to call the
hospital. When the ambulance finally came to take her away, I was left alone
with the book. I took it with me when I went to find our daughter.

Sally
lives with her husband, and his son, across town and it took me almost thirty
minutes to drive there. As I pulled the handbrake, I could see a head bob up at
the window. Perhaps it was Sally herself, I cannot be sure, but whoever it was
must have known it was me, for our daughter appeared quietly at the door. Her
face crumpled as I walked up the path, the book in my coat pocket, and she
lifted her arms as I approached. I held Sally as she sobbed. I saw Kevin take
young Jason through to the back room. He gave a sad smile and nodded
understanding at me. The boy kept quiet, his manners impeccable, as he padded
silently away.

Somehow,
I moved Sally inside and we sat in her front room while Kevin brought us tea.
Sally must have thought I was being brave for her, because she kept stroking my
arm and telling me how sorry she was. I held her hand and told her I was sorry
for her loss and the two of us cried sad tears. I would miss the physical
presence of my wife, of course, but I would have her with me. I felt the book
pull at my coat pocket. Kevin took the garment from me to hang up and I felt a
pang of loss as the book went with it, but how could I tell him? I did not then
tell Sally that her mother’s soul had left her body and was now in my ebook.

Wiping
away the last of her tears, Sally found some resolve and told us both that her
mother had told her to be ready for that this, that somehow I would not be able
to cope, and that she was to help me with the arrangements. I did not argue,
not being a very practical man. Sally said she would take care of the funeral.
I argued that I would take care of the cost. Despite arguing and saying we
would discuss it later; I know Sally will not argue with me over the money. How
can a young woman with a young family be expected to pay for a funeral?
Besides, Helen had left strict instructions about what she wanted.

Eventually,
I was allowed to leave and I went home to my own house. Accompanied by Sally,
who slept in the spare room for the first few nights, she insisted on changing
the bedclothes as apparently it would be odd not to. I would rather have
slipped between the sheets one last time with Helen’s scent, not the perfume
which Sally thought I meant, by spraying a few drops on the second pillow, but
her actual smell. Familiar with it my whole adult life, I would have enjoyed
breathing her in one last time.

After
bidding my daughter good night, I lay in the bed with the lamp on. I opened the
cover of my ebook and flipped the switch. I plugged my headphones in and tapped
the commands on the screen to enable speech to text. Helen’s voice filled my
head as she spoke the words. If you were listening, and had I allowed Sally by
my not using the headphones, you would hear only the metallic robot sounds of
these devices. But below the surface I could hear Helen. Her soul sang out the
words on the page.

At
the funeral, we stood round the grave side. It was a beautiful day, with the
sun shining warmly upon us. There was a curious tension in the air as the
coffin was lowered into the ground. We’re not used to this type of funeral
anymore, and you could feel people position themselves to see better. No longer
able to pull off such physical feats, Kevin, our daughter’s husband, kindly
took my place. Finally, Helen was at rest as the vicar concluded his part. I
threw the first pieces of earth onto the coffin and at that, I broke down.
Sally helped me away. My ebook flapped in my jacket pocket.

At
the hotel, where we held the wake, I took a chair by the window to receive
visitors like an ancient king. I loosened my tie as Helen’s sister sat next to
me. Mary leaned on me slightly, as is her routine, to indicate her physical
presence. It was reassuring and I patted her on the arm. She has perhaps taken
it harder than anyone now that her beloved sister is gone. At that point, she
was trying to be strong for me, or so she said. Leaning on me was to let me
know she was there. Further, as our relatives came up to pay their respects,
she fielded some of their thoughts while I stayed quiet. Every now and then I
would reach inside my coat pocket and touch the ebook. Sally watched me
carefully.

Back
home, I settled myself in front of the fire. I didn’t need it lit, though the
warmth of the day had receded. Kevin made tea while Sally and I sat in the
front room. Jason kicked a ball in the garden. Before Sally had entered the
room, I had placed the ebook on my side table, ready for a listen later when I
was alone. Sally’s eyes had fallen on it the moment she came in. She looked
like she wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Over
tea, we discussed the service and how Helen would have approved. My daughter
was exhausted and when Jason came in, he flopped down on the sofa next to his
father, he too being tired after a long day for a small boy. I told them they
should go home and rest. Kevin agreed, ruffling his son’s hair. Jason
complained in the way that tired boys do by moaning at his father, who tried to
shush him. I found it rather amusing to have a small domestic incident in my
lounge. Eventually, Kevin was allowed to take Jason home, and Sally insisted on
staying another night despite my protestations.

As
the evening progressed, Sally and I shared reminisces about her mother. We
spoke of long ago holidays by the sea, Helen’s bridge club, and the time my
wife decorated a cake for one of Sally’s birthdays. My daughter told me she had
had a happy childhood and thanked me for it. I was stunned. One doesn’t think
of childhood as being one thing or another. Isn’t it all just jam and long
summer holidays? But to hear my daughter’s gratitude for something she ought to
have taken for granted, though Helen and I did try to make a happy home, to
feel the way she did was a marvellous gift to give me that night.

I
became rather overcome as did Sally. We sat for a while, listening to the clock
on the mantle tick away. Finally, Sally asked me what her mother would say
about us crying like old fools. She blew her nose and managed to calm herself.
I managed to compose myself and I reached for my book. I leaned over to Sally
and asked her if she would like to hear what her mother would say about us.
Sally was taken aback and asked me what I meant. I told her about the ebook, a
present from Helen, and how at the moment of her death, her spirit had entered
the device. Sally went very still. She asked me if I was sure about this. I
told her I was.

I
opened the cover and flicked on the device. It came to life and I chose the text
to speech option. Out came Helen’s voice. Oh, you could hear the metallic, some
say robotic, voice that the device uses but beneath it, above, through it and
around it you could hear Helen’s voice. The sounds rang out around the room.
Words and words and words buzzed around me, spoken by Helen, my beloved wife. I
would never be alone with Helen here to speak to me. Her voice soothed me the
way it did all these years. There was comedy too, a small joke here, and a pun
there. And tragedy. All of life is contained in a book and all of Helen was
contained in this book. It brought me joy. I looked over to Sally to see her
reaction. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“
Y
ou’re not the
first person to admire it, you know.”

Miss
Holland smiled at me each morning while I dusted the mirror she kept at head
height in her lounge. I always smiled back and said, “It’s a very lovely item.
What’s the story behind it?” She always crinkled her nose up and pointed at the
air as if to say I would never catch her out. With this mirror, Miss Holland
liked to hint at its secret and tantalise with hints. As her home help, I was
the only one she saw with any regularity and I was happy to play along. In
truth, I wasn’t all that interested. It was just a mirror, shoulder width
across, some black spots at the edges and framed in paint flaked metal spirals,
the sort of things you can see in houses all the time.

I
arrived at her house one morning to find Miss Holland in such a state. She was
waiting for me at the door and waved at me as I parked the car. It took me a
while to find a spot because there was a blue car in the space in front of her
house. By the time I opened the gate and was walking up the path, she was quite
panicked. When particularly stressed, her Scottish accent came through quite
thickly. “Come in, dear. Quickly. Hurry and find out what he’s doing.”

Trying
to take my coat off, I said, “What on earth has happened?”

Miss
Holland tugged at my coat, as if to help me, but I just got tangled. She kept
telling me that I needed to find out what he’s doing, whoever he was. Her hands
touched my arm and they were very cold. I said, “You’re freezing. How long have
you been at the door?”

“Since
he got here, dear,” she said. I had to take my coat back off her as she was getting
all bundled up inside it. She was not at all steady on her slippers and her
head sat an awkward angle because of spine problems. The last thing she needed
was a winter coat dragging her to the floor.

We
were standing in the hall, with weak morning light at my back. As I closed the
front door to preserve what was left of the heat, I stopped. Floorboards
creaked from up the stairs. A shadow moved across the top landing. A man’s
voice called out, “Good morning. I’m Simon. From Walker Antiques.”

“He’s
here for my furniture, dear. Don’t let him take my mirror.”

Heavy
footsteps on the stairs thudded to meet us as is this Simon came down. He was
quite young but had that fuddy duddy thing some young people have. He wore an
old suit and nervous smile. I was hesitant about what to do. When I had heard
his footsteps I had been nervous but he was just some guy. I said, “What are
you doing here?”

Simon
looked from Miss Holland to me. “I was asked by Mr Holland to appraise some of
Miss Holland’s things.”

“Mr
Holland?” I asked him. “You mean Jack?”

He
nodded quickly. “Miss Holland let me in. I don’t mean to cause distress.”

It
took me some time but I was able to piece together the story. Jack Holland was
Miss Holland’s nephew. I had met him a few times. He seemed nice enough but he
always sort of looked around the house like he was sizing it up. This Simon,
from Walker’s Antiques on the High Street, had been contacted by Jack and
arranged the appointment through him. Anticipating his client would have spoken
to the aunt, Simon had parked out front and been let in by Miss Holland. This
is something I hear about all the time in my job, old people letting strangers
into their homes. I was a bit cross with this Simon. He hadn’t bothered with
Miss Holland’s distress until her home help had arrived. So, when he apologised
and said he had all he needed anyway, I let him make his excuses and leave.

When
I finally got Miss Holland into her chair in the living room, I made us both a
cup of tea. She liked me to sit with her after some moments of drama. I didn’t
have the time really. I’m supposed to be doing some domestic work, not
socialising with the customers. She sat back in her chair next to the gas fire
and breathed like she’d run a marathon. Sunshine filtered through net curtains
and I could feel its warmth but I put the fire on anyway.

“Not
too fierce, dear,” Miss Holland said, meaning not to put the fire on too high.
Her accent was sliding as she calmed down and caught her breath. She was funny
sometimes. In normal conversation, her Scots accent faded. And she always
called me ‘dear’.

“So
how do you feel now?” I asked her as she took a sip from a china cup.

“Better
thank you,” she said. “I’m really cross with that nephew of mine. These are my
things. He can get them when I’m gone and not before.”

I
gave a sympathetic nod. Her house was full of old furniture but doubted it
would be worth much. I caught sight of the mirror on the wall to her right. It
was set low for her head height. You could see where previous nails had been in
the faded wallpaper. As Miss Holland travelled through the years, it had been
adjusted down for her. She always looked into the mirror before she left the
room. I had seen her do it.

“You’re
not the first person to admire it, you know,” she said to me.

I
smiled, relieved at her being back to herself. “Really? What’s the story behind
it?”

Expecting
her to give the usual cryptic answer, she surprised me when she said, “I was
given it when I was a young woman. By a cavalryman. When I first came to
Oldham.”

When
she said ‘cavalryman’, Miss Holland’s eyes flashed open for a second. I’m no
history expert but I was sure there were no cavalrymen when Miss Holland was
young. I didn’t challenge her on it, though. Why would I? I did ask her to tell
me a bit more, but she pointed at the air again which told me she didn’t want
her secrets prised out.

Eventually,
she fell asleep in her chair. The smell of burning gas made the air muggy and
soon she was sleeping deeply, by which I mean snoring. I put a blanket over her
knees and turned off the fire. There was still time before the next job so I
took to straightening her place up. After washing the tea cups and the few
dishes, I ran a duster over the surfaces in the living room. While Miss Holland
grabbed some sleep, I had a look at the mirror, having to bend down to see. Its
spiral frame drew you in. I saw myself looking tired. I pushed my bottom lip
and had a look at my chin.

A
shadow fluttered over the surface of the glass, startling me. I stood up and
looked behind me at what had caused the shadow. Half expecting Miss Holland to
be glowering at me, all I saw was her peaceful living room and her still asleep
in her chair. Sunshine still made its way onto her worn carpet. Another shadow
flickered. Birds, I realised, birds were flapping by the window causing
shadows. I breathed again.

Simon
from Walker’s antiques didn’t visit again while I was there and Miss Holland
never mentioned him. Her nephew Jack was noticeable by his absence and again he
was never mentioned. Each day I was there, I just did my job. But details of
this mirror leaked out from Miss Holland over time. She had moved from Oldham,
along with her brother, when his firm offered him promotion. Their parents were
long gone and she kept house for her brother. I suspected there had been an
Edinburgh sweetheart left behind by Miss Holland, because there was a brief
mention of a ‘Sandy’ but I might be wrong. Her brother married and, as was the
norm back then, Miss Holland continued to live with them, even when their son
Jack came along. This is where her cavalryman came in.

The
story came tumbling out of her as I did my job one day. She followed me from
room to room and when I went upstairs, she stood in the hall calling up. Sure
enough, this boy was a cavalryman. I imagined the red coats and plumed helmets
on fancy occasions but she described him as wearing a dark uniform with shiny
buttons. Yellow patches on his shoulder and collar showed his regiment, which
was some local outfit still using horses. She didn’t describe his face, even
when I asked if he was handsome. Over a cup of tea, she touched fingers to her
chin and trailed off when she tried to speak about his face.

I
let her go quiet but then she said, “He went off to Malaya but before he went
he gave me the mirror as an engagement present. We stood side by side looking
into it and he said that every time I brushed my hair I would see him right
next to me.”

How
sweet, I thought. “And when he came back from Malaya?”

Miss
Holland shook her head. “He never came back from Malaya, dear.”

She
let that just hang in the air. I knew what she meant though. Miss Holland
looked around the room and I imagined her thinking of all the years from then
to now. She touched fingers to her chin again and leaned forward. “Mirrors are
magical things,” she said. “They have a flat surface but you can see into them.
Objects which are far behind you can be seen in the distance, beyond the
mirror. Same goes for people. Those who are far behind are beyond the mirror
too.”

Sadly,
Miss Holland died not long after that; weeks it was. I got the call from my
supervisor telling me to give that address a miss. That’s how you find out.
There was no will, but Miss Holland left a note saying I should have the
mirror. Her nephew Jack was happy for me to have it, but my employer was cagey
about accepting such things. You can see their point. It looks dodgy if you’re
looking after them in their old age and they leave you things. I ended up
buying it, though, from Walker’s Antiques on the High Street. In the shop,
Simon was very pleased with the thirty pounds he prised out of me. It was sad
to see a few of her other things amongst other dusty memories of peoples’
lives. Ninety pounds he wanted for Miss Holland’s chest of drawers.

I
took the mirror home and found a spot for it in the hall. Black spots around
the edges, and with its spiral metal frame, the mirror actually looked pretty
above the phone table. I could check my look before heading out for the night.
As I stood back and admired it, and myself, a shadow fluttered across the
glass. I looked over to the front door, the top half being frosted glass
covered in a net curtain. There were no birds this time.

Thinking
perhaps it was me, I turned back to the mirror and leaned forward. I looked
tired and pulled at my cheek to expose a bloodshot eye. In the background of
the mirror, I could see my upstairs. A shape moved around up there. Blood
drained into my legs. I could feel it. A sick churning in my stomach plunged
downwards. The shape moved to the top of the stairs and I could make out it was
a man. My throat contracted and bobbed once. I could hear myself breathing out.
Moving down the stairs, the man was dressed in a military uniform; dusty
leather boots, dark trousers with a yellow strip up the seam and a dark coat
with tarnished metal buttons.

All
this I saw in the mirror, with me still pulling at my cheek. He stepped to the
bottom of the stairs and his face was murky, blotted out almost, by a mist. I
let go of my cheek and looked to the side, without moving my head, away from
the mirror. No-one there. Turning back to the mirror, the man had moved closer
to me. He was still there, in the mirror, but not in the room. A shiver ran
across my shoulder and I heard myself breathing out again with no memory of
breathing in.

He
stood closer to me, this man with an obscured face and military uniform. It was
like we were standing side by side, lovers blinking a snapshot for our
memories. He paused for a moment, as if hesitant, but then he moved closer to
the glass, closer to the real me and his face darkened further. A rage seemed
to boil up inside him. He raised gloved fists and started hammering them on the
inside of the glass. Despite not seeing his face, I had the sensation of tears,
not through anger, but from fear. His fists continued to pound on the inside of
the mirror yet I could not hear anything. I was sure he was screaming, yelling
his pain, but I could not see the expression on his face, or hear the sound.
Imagine dying on a foreign battlefield and leaving this storm behind, an echo
in a mirror. I reached up to touch the glass.

But
then he was gone. He just evaporated like water spots from a bowl. I breathed
in again.

Later
that afternoon my own daughter came to visit. As she took off her coat, she
caught sight of the mirror. She gave it an odd look and smiled at me as if I
had said something funny. I said to her, “You’re not the first person to admire
it, you know.”

“Where
did you get that, mum?” she asked, following me into the kitchen.

I
filled the kettle. “Your Dad gave it to me before he went off.”

She
pulled in her chin and screwed up her face. “I’ve never seen it before.”

I
plugged the kettle in, and we sat down at the kitchen table. She took out her
phone and started fiddling with it. “I know you don’t remember him, love. But
he loved you. And he loved the horses.”

My
daughter rolled her eyebrows as she scrolled through her phone. “Horses.
Right.”

“And
he gave me that mirror before he went off,” I told her. “He was a cavalryman.”