Original features

Iris had never really been fond of living close to the park. In summer, the shouts of over-excitable children carried across the lawns and through her windows in uninvited echoes. And in winter, the trees turned skeletal and pointed, seeming to lean closer to the house, as if they wanted to come in rather than watch from outside through the twilight. But, regardless of those irritations, the place had still been her home and she supposed she would miss it when she left.

The house itself was a modest post-war semi with a pebble-dashed front and stout iron gate. The privet hedge was unruly at best and an overgrown monstrosity at worst, the garden shears having remained in the shed since Douglas had passed away. Inside, it was a typical two-bedroomed house of its time. A narrow hallway led to a small kitchen at the back where Iris had cooked for over thirty years - the faded linoleum worn with footsteps of the living and the departed. In the living room, the pale blush carpet was accented by the cream tiled fireplace and large bevelled oval mirror above it, hung from a sturdy chain, where it had watched the comings and goings ever since the house had been built.

When the estate agent had come to photograph the place, he’d fussed over the 1950s features. The original light switches, the checkerboard white and green tiles in the hallway, the old fire-surround and electric fire with bars that would glow orange and fill the room with the smell of burnt dust. Even the mirror was admired, which Douglas had always said was too firmly fixed to ever take down.

“You’ll have no trouble selling this, Mrs Holden,” the estate agent had said as he jotted down notes on his clipboard, though Iris suspected he said that to all the widows.

Over the weeks, a steady trickle of strangers came to view the house. Iris would drift behind the viewers, silent and invisible in her own home, offering tea and coffee that no one accepted, hearing her life and the walls where she’d spent so a large part of it, discussed in square footage and resale potential.

There were nervous young couples who spoke in hushed tones, self consciously moving from room to room, young families who whispered how they’d knock through here, maybe extend into the garden there, get rid of the fireplace. Then the affluent viewers from the south, looking for a second home, who would exclaim in loud voices how you could get so much more for your money in the dear old north. One man said he liked the way the park was ‘perfect for the dog and grandchildren in the holidays’. Iris shuddered and was glad that she wouldn’t be there to witness it.

Then, one Thursday afternoon, they arrived. Iris had just got back from the shops and was about to unpack her bags in the kitchen when there was a sharp knock at the door. She put down a box of cornflakes, and wondering who it could possibly be, ‘the insurance man isn’t due until next week…’ she opened the front door.

A couple stood on the door step. The man, tall and angular with slicked back dark hair and a pinstriped suit, held out his hand.

“Mrs Holden?” We’ve come to look around,” he said, his accent a little clipped but pleasant enough.

“Oh…” said Iris, taking his hand carefully, as though it might bite, “I wasn’t expecting anyone… the estate agent never said…”

“Really? Oh dear…” the woman, a petite blonde, perhaps in her early thirties, her tiny waist accentuated by the cut of a navy polka-dot dress, pouted in dark red lipstick.

“My wife was really looking forward to seeing your house,” said the man. “Perhaps if it’s not too much trouble? We really won’t keep you long.”

Iris flustered. The bags of shopping in the kitchen… ‘I could pop them in the pantry for now…’

“Yes, yes, of course. Just let me tidy the kitchen… I wasn’t expecting anyone.” She opened the door and stepped back to allow the unexpected couple to enter the hallway.

“Oh, you cook!” said the woman. “Something smells lovely.”

“That? Oh, that will be the stew from yesterday,” Iris backed down the hallway. “Just one moment,” and she swiftly gathered up her shopping bags and pushed them into the pantry before quickly wiping down the worktops.

From the kitchen, Iris could hear the couple speaking in hushed voices. They stopped and looked at her with tight matching smiles as she returned to the hallway.

“All sorted. Mr and Mrs…?”

“I’m Peter. This is Marianne.” The man smiled again, slightly yellowed teeth flashed for a second before he covered them again with his thin lips.

“Well, I think everything should be tidy enough,” said Iris, trying to remember if she had left the toilet seat down. “Please, do have a look around. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. We won’t be a bother,” said Marianne as she peered around the door into the living room.

Peter strode up and down as if pondering what to do next, and then with a flick, he pulled out a tape measure from his pocket. Extending the long metal strip, he measured the width of the hallway, the height of the ceiling, the depth of the stair treads, muttering the numbers aloud.

“I think you’ll find all the measurements in the brochure,” Iris murmured as she edged back towards the kitchen.

“Oh, yes,” he said, glancing at her as if he’d just noticed she was still there. “But I like to be sure about these sorts of things.”

Iris retreated to the kitchen, hoping that Peter would not want to take the internal measurements of the pantry. From there she could hear his voice, low and rhythmic as he muttered measurements to himself, the metallic click of the tape measure snapping shut and opening again as he headed up the stairs.

Marianne had drifted into the living room and was still there. Iris hovered in the kitchen, feeling like an intruder in her own home. She could hear the shuffling of Peter’s feet upstairs and wondered why the couple were not viewing each room together. As the minutes passed and Marianne had still not emerged from the living room, Iris crept quietly along the hallway, ‘how ridiculous, in my own house…’

As she put her head around the door frame she could see the back of the blonde woman’s pale head. She was standing in front of the fireplace, entranced it seemed, by the mirror. Marianne stood perfectly still, arms by her sides, staring into the silvered glass. Iris could see the blue of the woman’s eyes transfixed, not noticing that she had entered the room. Nothing moved. The room was still. The woman continued to stare at her reflection as if she’d finally found something she’d been searching for in the depths of the mirror.

Iris cleared her throat as she stepped cautiously into the room, hanging back by the door. “Do you like the fireplace?” she asked. “It’s quite old.”

Marianne didn’t turn but continued to stare into the mirror. After a few empty moments, she spoke, her voice barely audible over the atmosphere that had filled the room. “It’s original, isn’t it?”

“Yes, since the house was built in 1950. It’s never been replaced. My husband never got rid of things that still worked. Still keeps me warm in winter.” Iris forced an awkward laugh.

Marianne’s reflection blinked, but her body did not move. “It wasn't the fire I was talking about. I was referring to the mirror… it must have always been here…” she murmured.

Peter came in from the kitchen. Iris hadn’t heard him go in there. She wasn’t sure how long she had been standing watching Marianne. He brushed past her with a faint whiff of old cologne and moved towards his wife, her back still to the room. “Darling?” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you ready to go?”

Marianne turned away at last, glancing at Iris as if seeing her for the first time. There was a faint sheen on her upper lip, and she quickly flexed her hands open and closed as though shaking off a cramp.

“It’s a lovely house,” Peter said, sliding the tape measure back into his pocket. “All the correct dimensions. Original features are so hard to find. So very rare… Just what we’re looking for.”

Iris tried to smile again. “I’m glad you like it. I do hope…” She wasn’t entirely sure what it was that she hoped.

“Thank you so much for letting us look around. We’ll be in touch,” said Peter, as he shepherded Marianne into the hallway. At the door, he paused and looked back at Iris with a thin smile. “You’ve kept it... just as it was. That really is so uncommon.”

When they had gone, Iris stood in the living room and looked at the mirror. Her own face peered back at her, tired, but familiar enough. She went into the kitchen to finish unpacking the shopping then made herself a cup of tea and sat by the fireplace until the dusk began to press in and she had to switch on a lamp.

The following day was quiet. There were no viewings or unexpected visitors and by late in the afternoon, Iris found herself compelled to telephone the estate agent. She felt sure that Peter and Marianne had been interested, so much more than any other viewing.

The estate agent double checked. No, they had not sent a couple matching that description. There had definitely not been any tall man and blonde lady.

“But they knew my name,” offered Iris, “you must have sent them.”

The agent sounded apologetic. “You’ll get another viewing next week, don’t you worry Mrs Holden.”

Iris hung up and spent the remainder of the afternoon cleaning. She left the living room until last. The mirror seemed a little dull with a faint coating of dust and she sprayed a little cleaner onto a cloth and rubbed, trying to create a perfect reflection with no marks or smudges. ‘Why are mirrors always so difficult to get properly clean?’ She watched her face emerge as the smear of the cleaning liquid disappeared. Except it wasn’t her face.

Iris froze on the spot, the cleaning cloth dropped from her hand. She stared at the face in the mirror. The blonde hair, the dark lipstick, the pale skin. Marianne’s reflection looked back at her, but Iris could feel her own breath in her throat, her own heart trembling under her cardigan. She blinked hard. ‘I’m doing too much, really I am…’ But the reflected face remained. Eyes wide and blue, and staring straight back at her.

Iris raised her hand to her face. The reflection copied, a beat behind. The living room seemed to close in around her. The patterns in the anaglypta wallpaper squirmed, the ticking of the clock on the mantel, suddenly too loud and out of time. The blonde woman in the mirror watched her with enquiring eyes. Almost as if she was questioning why Iris was on the other side of the glass, as though it was she who didn’t belong there.

In a far away dream that she knew could not be real, Iris reached out and touched the mirror with her trembling fingertip. It left a single mark. She blinked. Her own face stared back at her, full of confusion and alarm.

The next day she avoided the living room. Iris vacuumed the stairs twice and changed the sheets in both bedrooms. She made a meat and potato pie that would feed six people and opened a jar of expensive coffee that she’d been saving for Christmas.

By evening she could stand it no longer. She crept to the living room doorway and peered in. Her hands flew to her chest when yet again the pale face of Marianne stared back at her across the room.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

Iris stared. Her heart beating so fast she feared she would faint.

“Who are you?” her trembling voice whispered.

The dark red painted mouth in the mirror moved but Iris heard no sound. The world of her living room had dissipated into somewhere else. She could have been anywhere but it did not feel like home. She stepped closer. Marianne’s reflection leaned forward too, matching her motions. Then the voice came, faint but clear.

“I’m the one who stayed.”

Iris’s knees gave a small tremor. “Stayed? Stayed where?”

“Time does strange things. I had to wait until the right one came along. I think you’ll find that I chose well, wouldn’t you agree?” The voice was out of time with the red lips, its edge crackled like the television when it wasn’t tuned in properly. The lamp in the corner flickered for a moment. Iris did not recall having switched it on.

“I don’t understand…” Iris could see nothing except for the face before her. The room had blurred away. She felt completely alone.

The smile in the mirror changed. Suddenly it was not Marianne’s, or hers, something else stretched the lips too wide, like a tear in the universe, something beyond the living room mirror.

“In here,” the voice said, louder now. Darker. “I’m in here.”

Something in the room shifted and Iris’s quickening breath clouded the glass. She thought of the strange couple with no appointment. Peter’s measuring tape, the soft hush of Marianne’s voice, the way she’d stood so still before the mirror, a door, perhaps, or a window.

“What do you want?” Iris asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The thing that was not Marianne behind the glass tilted its head. Iris saw herself reflected in its eyes, so small, so tired.

“Not to be left to change.” A rasping sound that formed the words. The mouth in the mirror began to spread across the glass. Dreadful and red. Marianne’s eyes had gone. There was just a mouth, twisted and full. “To remain original. Of my own time.” it said.

The indelible fear consuming Iris rose to a crescendo, forcing her into action, and she managed to turn her face away. As the room swam around her, dictated by the voice in the mirror, she found her feet and carried herself backwards, stumbling into the hallway. She slammed the door shut, turning the stiff brass knob until she thought it might break.

Breathing heavily, Iris stood, her back lent against the door. She strained her ears. Nothing. Everything was quiet.

That night she took a sleeping tablet but still, sleep would not come. Iris drifted in and out of consciousness, her dreams plagued by the face of Marianne, and the voice that had come from the mirror. Eventually, exhaustion brought light slumber, but in the small hours she was woken by a dull tapping sound, like fingers on glass. It was coming from below. She didn’t move, her heart’s beat tremored across the bed. Then she heard it again. Tap, tap, tap.

She lay awake until dawn. When the estate agent called to confirm another viewing, Iris told him not to bother and to take the house off the market. The words left her mouth before she even knew she’d thought of them.

Later that morning there was a knock at the door. Peter and Marianne stood on the doorstep. They did not speak. Iris ushered them into the living room.

“If my solicitor can complete the paperwork, I can be out by the end of the month,” she said.

“That would be most acceptable.” Peter smiled and looked at Marianne who was gazing at the mirror.

In the following days Iris moved through the house in a dream. Boxes began to fill with the memories of her life with Douglas - china, biscuit tins, photographs, the heavy curtains that had kept out so many winters.

She methodically emptied each room until only the living room remained. Apart from the furniture that was moving with her to the new bungalow, everything was unchanged. The pale blush carpet and the cream tiled fireplace exactly as they had always been. The mirror stayed in its place, its chain secured fast to the wall, as though it had embedded itself there forever.

On the final morning, Iris stood before the bevelled mirror one last time. She saw only her own reflection, wan and faded in the early light. Somewhere behind her, Peter’s voice drifted through from the hallway, polite but firm, as he directed the removal men. Marianne lingered at the doorway, then slowly stepped across the living room, joining Iris at her side. She was just behind the glass now, or perhaps on this side, it was impossible to tell.

“You’ve done the right thing,” Peter said as he appeared at her shoulder with a smile that did not seem to be held in his eyes. Marianne’s eyes never left the mirror.

Outside, children’s laughter carried across the park, bright and carefree. But Iris could no longer hear it. All she heard was the faintest whisper of breath against the glass.

When she stepped out of the front door for the last time, Iris did not look back at the house. She did not see Peter close the door behind her. She did not see Marianne step forward to stand before the mirror once more, her smile blooming wider and wider until it seemed the glass itself might split open and swallow the room whole.

The mirror had chosen. And now the house, so perfectly unchanged, had what it had been waiting for.