Veronica
THE BALLAHAYS
Life has just become a degree more difficult. I tried to comb my hair into some semblance of order this morning, but the mirror in the bathroom wasn’t there. I hurried back to the bedroom only to discover that one has vanished, too. So has the one in the hall and the one in the living room.
I proceed with breakfast, none too pleased with this new and unreasonable state of affairs.
At nine o’clock, Eileen lets herself in.
“Morning, Mrs. McCreedy! What a lovely one it is, too!” She will insist on being exasperatingly cheerful.
“What have you done with all my mirrors?”
She blinks slowly like a frog.
“I put them in the back room, like you told me to!”
“That is absurd! How can I sort out my hair and makeup without a mirror?” She really is an irrational creature. “Would you kindly put them back before you do anything else?”
“What, all of them?”
“Yes, all of them.”
She produces a faint huffing sound. “Whatever you say, Mrs. McCreedy.”
I should hope so, too. I don’t pay her all that money for nothing.
I remember too late that a certain wooden box is still on the kitchen table and she’s bound to want to interfere.
“You haven’t managed to open it yet, then?” she says the minute she lays her eyes on it, assuming this is by incapacity rather than by choice. “I could probably get Doug to saw off the padlock with a hacksaw if you can’t remember the code.”
“I do remember the code, Eileen. My memory is faultless. I can recall dozens of lines of Hamlet from my school days.” She does a quick rolling of the eyes here. She thinks I don’t notice it, but I do. “And I don’t want some Doug of yours tinkering around with my box,” I continue. “I’d be grateful if you’d see to those mirrors without further ado.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. McCreedy. Whatever you say.”
I watch as she drags the mirrors from the back room and hangs them up where they were before, muttering to herself.
Once the mirrors are back, I set about tackling the problem of my hair. There isn’t a great deal of it these days, and it is startlingly white, but I like to keep it tidy. I relish looking at myself very little, though. My reflection isn’t a pleasant sight when compared to reflections of the past. Years ago I was really something to look at. People called me “a true beauty,” “a stunner.” No vestige of that is left now, I observe as I scrape the comb over my thin strands. My skin has become papery and loose. My face is scribbled all over with wrinkles. My eyelids sag. My cheekbones, which used to be so beautiful, jut out at peculiar angles. I should be used to these repugnant physical flaws by now, but it still galls me to see myself like this.
I do my utmost to improve matters with the application of lipstick, powder and rouge. But the fact remains: I am not fond of mirrors.
The wind cuts through me. It is that damp, feral variety of wind one finds only in Scotland. I huddle in my coat and pick my way northward along the coast path. I have always believed in the efficacy of a daily walk, and I refuse to be put off by inclement weather. To my left the sea churns in slate-gray patterns and spits a wild, white froth out into the air.
My cane steadies me over the uneven turf and sand. I have brought my fuchsia gold-trimmed handbag, which is now floundering tiresomely against my thigh. I should have left it on the hook in the hall, but one never knows when one might require a handkerchief or a painkiller. I have also brought my litter-picking tongs and a small refuse sack. It is lifelong habit of mine to pick up litter because of something my dear father once said. It is a small act of remembrance as well as a token gesture to atone for the chaos left behind by the human race. Even the rugged pathways of the Ayrshire coast have been sullied by the carelessness of mankind.
It is no easy task wielding cane, tongs, sack and handbag, especially in this wind. My bones are beginning to complain at the effort of it all. I work out a way of angling my weight to lean into each gust so that it supports me instead of fighting me.
A gull screeches and dips through the clouds. I pause for a moment to admire the beauty of the tempestuous seascape. I have a liking for rocks, waves and wilderness. But something scarlet is bobbing up and down on the billows. Is it a crisp packet or a biscuit wrapper? My younger self would scurry down onto the beach, wade straight in and get it, but now, alas, I’m incapable of such things. The spray blows into my face and drips down it like tears.
People who litter the countryside should be shot.
I push back against the wind and battle my way homeward. I am flagging slightly by the time I reach the front gates.
The Ballahays boasts a substantial driveway and is surrounded by three acres of pleasant grounds. Most of the garden is walled, which is one of the reasons I like the place so much. Within these walls are cedars, rockeries, a fountain, various statues and four herbaceous borders. They are tended by Mr. Perkins, my gardener.
I glance up at the house as I approach. An ivy-clad, late Jacobean–style creation, The Ballahays is constructed from mellow brick and stone. With its twelve bedrooms and several creaking oak staircases, it is admittedly not the ideal home for me. Trying to keep up with its needs is a considerable task. It suffers from crumbling plaster and terrible drafts, and there are mice in the roof. I purchased it back in 1956 simply because I could. I enjoy both the privacy and the views and therefore have not troubled myself to move.
I step indoors, deposit the refuse sack and tongs in the porch and hang up my coat.
As soon as I enter the kitchen my attention is summoned by the box. That wretched box, again. I had almost forgotten. I sit down at the table. I look at the box and the box looks back at me. Its presence permeates the room. It is impertinent; mocking, challenging me to open it.
Nobody could claim that Veronica McCreedy is the sort of person who fails to rise to a challenge.
I make myself do it. Twist the controls and line up the numbers one by one. You will note how perfectly I remember those numbers. One nine four two. 1942. Still engraved in my memory, even after all this time. The lock is stiff, but that’s hardly surprising; it’s been seventy years.
The very first thing that meets my eyes is the locket. Small and oval, a “V” etched into the tarnished silver amidst a design of curling tendrils. The chain is fine and delicate. I run it through my fingers. Before I can stop myself, I’ve snapped the catch and the locket springs open. My throat clenches and lets out an involuntary gasp. All four specimens are there, just as I knew they would be. They are tiny, as indeed they had to be to fit into such a case. They seem so tired and so very, very fragile.
I will not cry. No. Absolutely not. Veronica McCreedy does not cry.
Instead I gaze at them: the strands of hair from four heads. Two are intertwined, brown and auburn. Then there is the dark, dark, luscious sprig of hair that a long-gone version of myself used to take out and kiss so often. Tucked in next to it is a tiny wisp, so fine and light it is almost transparent. I cannot bear to touch it. I snap the locket shut again. Close my eyes, steady myself and breathe. Count to ten. Force my eyes open again. I place the locket carefully back in the corner of the box.
The two black, leather-bound notebooks are also there. I lift them out. They feel horribly familiar. Even the smell of them, the ragged scent of old leather combined with an echo of the lily-of-the-valley perfume I used to wear.
Now that I’ve started I can’t stop. I open the first book. Each page is packed with handwriting, eager, loopy letters in blue ink. I squint and manage to read a few lines without my glasses. I smile sadly. As a teenager, my spelling wasn’t very good, but my writing was considerably neater than it is now. I close the book again.
Read it I must and read it I will, but if my past is about to suck me in, I need to brace myself.
I brew a nice pot of Earl Grey and arrange some ginger biscuits on a plate, using the Wedgwood porcelain with the pink hibiscus design. I bring it all through to the drawing room on the tea trolley. I settle in the armchair by the bay window. I eat two of the biscuits, drain one cup of tea and pour myself another before I take the first notebook into my hands. I do not open it for a further five minutes. Then I put on my reading glasses.
And, like a window opening to sunlight and fresh summer air, it is there. My youth: tender, vivid, spread out before me. And even though I know it will hurt me three times over, I can’t help but read on.