The Rider on the Wheel

The small shop at number thirteen Temperance Street had stood desolate and empty, ever since old lady Morrison closed down her sweet-shop and died. That had been three years ago, the time it had taken her family and their solicitors to quarrel over the late spinster’s estate, and once a truce had been reached, the little shop was finally sold. So, one damp October morning, after months of rumour and speculation, number thirteen Temperance Street reopened to a curious and suspicious gathering of townsfolk.

“Well I’ll be damned if I know what it’s meant to be,” Dan Holroyd who was observing proceedings from the opposite side of the street, shrugged as the covers were removed from the shop front, revealing the new name and window display.

“The rider on the wheel?” Dan’s curmudgeonly friend, Billy Ratcliffe read out the new name, which had been tastefully picked out in gold scripted lettering. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“It’ll be one of those fancy new-age type things,” Dan muttered, “nothing for the likes of us.”

The two men remained on the other side of the street, outside the last butcher’s shop in town, tucked between a fashionable wine bar and a trinket-filled gift shop. Lifelong residents of Derdale Bridge, they’d grown up together, post-war children in a once-thriving industrial town, they’d watched over their seven decades as the town had changed. On most evenings, the pair would be found in the Black Drake inn, grumbling about the price of beer and reminiscing about ‘better times’ long before the town had become a favourite haunt for day-trippers and holidaymakers.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Billy, tucking his head into his shoulders to keep out the weather, “you and me are the lucky ones.” Billy turned to Dan, who was contemplating the lamb chops in the butcher's window. “I wouldn’t change anything that we’ve lived through, however hard it might have been.”

“You’re probably right,” Dan sighed, “anyway, I’d better get a couple of those chops or Doreen will have my guts for garters.”

“Aye, you don’t want to go upsetting your missus,” Billy said grimly.

“You don’t know the half of it…” Dan turned toward the shop doorway, “I’ll see you in the Black Drake later.”

“You will,” nodded Billy, and the two friends parted company.

A persistent drizzle hung in the air, it mingled with the sharp scent of ozone, casting a sense of disquiet over the otherwise grey morning. Outside number thirteen Temperance Street a small gathering of local residents murmured to one another as they peered through the freshly cleaned window of The Rider on the Wheel. Beyond the glass, an unusual display met their gaze, one which some might describe as downright perplexing, others would label as eclectic, whilst some would find it utterly incomprehensible, but would admire it nonetheless.

In the centre of the display was an oak plinth bearing a large bottle of ladies’ cologne, surrounded by a scattering of steel nails, some of which had fallen to the floor beneath the plinth, where stood a childlike, headless mannequin dressed in a red leotard and tights, with a faded cloth cap positioned on the stump where the head should be. The mannequin faced into one corner of the display where a tea-chest overflowed with white feathers, while in the opposite corner, a collection of half burned dinner candles in various colours lay scattered. Suspended above this bizarre array of items, a taxidermy jackdaw hung lifelessly from a ceiling hook, one moth-eaten wing outstretched towards the street, whilst the other drooped at its side, pointing downward towards an oil painting of Derdale Bridge town hall. Twisted branches, adorned with small items including a tarnished war medal, old hairbrush, and dented toy car, wound their way amidst the cornucopia of objects, none of which bore any obvious relation to the others. It was as if the entire display had intentionally been arranged to confuse onlookers or perhaps captivate a passerby who might dare to wonder at its meaning.

From within the dim interior of the shop, behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles, a pair of rheumy yellow eyes observed the small gathering outside, watching with anticipation, hoping that those unaware of their own desires and motivations might be drawn through the door. The deep lines of nine decades crinkled as the owner of the eyes smiled and carefully placed an old black leather book on the shop's wooden counter, next to the brass service bell and worn inkstand. Molly Firth took her position and waited patiently for her first customer.

Across Temperance Street, clenching a packet of lamb chops, Dan Holroyd emerged from the brightly lit butcher’s shop into the dampness beyond. The gathering outside number thirteen had dispersed and other than a passing car or van, the street was unusually quiet. Dan checked his watch and cast an anxious glance left and right, uncertain of which direction to wander. Doreen would be expecting him home in an hour but he had no desire to return to their small terraced house any sooner than was absolutely necessary. Such was the routine in which Dan had found himself for the ten years since he’d retired from his job at the stonemasons, where for forty five years, he’d etched away time, carving names and dates into the headstones of the departed inhabitants of Derdale Bridge. Since his retirement, Doreen had demanded the house to herself every morning, claiming that Dan’s presence made it impossible for her to do her chores. Dan had no issue with making himself scarce, it was the returning home part of the arrangement that set his teeth on edge and made his stomach churn. His friend Billy had an inkling of Dan’s situation, but it wasn’t something they ever talked about, not in the Black Drake, not anywhere.

Dan stood quietly, rubbing the purplish bruise that was developing on the back of his left hand and reflected on how he no longer healed like he used to. Marks on his ageing skin lingered for much longer, and he felt oddly grateful for the onset of the colder months, where a thick jersey and heavy coat could conceal many an unspoken incident. He shuddered, bringing himself back into the moment and began to ponder the newly opened shop, distracting himself from his own dark thoughts.

Like Billy, Dan was cynical about the new generation of establishments springing up in their small town, but taking a look at this one was a more appealing option than waiting around aimlessly in the damp, so he crossed the street to inspect the window display. Like the people who’d stood there a short while earlier, nothing made any sense to him, or provided any sort of clue to what the shop’s purpose could be. Dan’s eyes were drawn to the headless scarlet clad mannequin - there was something about its pose and the way it wore the cloth cap that unsettled him, almost as though it should mean something, though he couldn’t grasp what that might be. Something felt different. Dan wondered if perhaps it was the time of year, the quickening in the atmosphere, or the persistently damp weather. He was unsure, but with a degree of fervour and an equal quantity of unease, he pushed the packet of chops into the pocket of his woollen overcoat and opened the door of The Rider on the Wheel.

The heavy brass bell above the door clanked as Dan stepped into the dimly lit interior, echoing memories from when, as a child he’d called into Miss Morrison’s shop for a half-penny’s worth of sweets. There were rows of empty wooden shelves edged with little brass labels, and a dense aroma of incense filled the place, creating a haze that reflected in the myriad of mirrors lining the darkly painted walls. Each of these mirrors was unique in style and size, varying from ornate Victorian framed looking glasses, to gleaming mid century designs with bevelled edges, and more modern mirrors with simple frames. Dan struggled to adjust his senses to the peculiar surroundings, he staggered slightly, immediately disorientated, as though nothing aligned and everything was at odds with itself.

“Good morning to you,” came a voice from the shadows. As Dan edged further inside, he could make out the shape of Molly Firth, standing behind the counter in a long black dress, a fur stole around her shoulders, fastened with a wheel shaped brooch. A Tiffany style lamp on the counter cast sufficient light to allow Dan to make out her features. “Hello, sir,” said Molly as he stepped closer. “I’m Molly Firth, and I’m pleased to welcome you to my little shop.”

“Morning,” Dan was suddenly unsure, “I’m Dan. Dan Holroyd, I, erm, just thought I’d take a look,”

“Please do, there’s no rush, take your time Dan Holroyd.” Molly gently patted the large black book on the counter and a small smile crept across her lips.

Dan turned to his left and found himself face to face with his own reflection peering thoughtfully back at him from with a large ornate mirror, its mahogany frame carved with flowers and fronds. ‘Blimey, I’m looking old,’ he mused as his fingers unconsciously moved over the pinkish scar above his right eyebrow. Beyond his own immediate reflection, in the depths of the mirror, he could make out a stream of faces, cast from the mirror on the opposite wall, an infinite corridor of Dan’s visage, each face becoming smaller until they disappeared beyond human vision.

“Do you like anything you see?” Molly spoke from behind the counter.

“Well, I’ve only seen myself so far, and these nice old mirrors… is that what you’re selling? Mirrors?”

“No Dan, the mirrors are not for sale.”

Dan turned and moved towards the counter. “So what are you selling? There isn’t anything here except for mirrors and empty shelves,” he paused and then, “unless of course you’re selling the things in the window?”

Molly peered at him through her spectacles, her old eyes enquiring but kind. “The items in the window are not for sale either.”

“Well, I’ll be off then, I don’t think this is my sort of place, but thanks all the same,” Dan headed towards the door. He was about to grab the handle when he stopped for a moment and turned. “Good luck with it anyway.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that, and thank you for stopping by, I’m just sorry that I couldn’t be of any assistance to you,” said Molly.

Dan’s desire to stay away from home a little longer caught him unaware and he stopped for a moment, uncertain of the choice he was making, feeling strangely at ease but fearful too. He returned tentatively to the mahogany framed mirror, unsure of quite what he expected to happen. “So tell me,” he said to Molly as he gazed at his own reflection, “what exactly can you assist me with?”

“Let me explain,” Molly began. “Every item in that window means something to someone in its own unique way. You may not know it or recognise it yourself, but those who I’m able to assist, will be drawn to something, whether it appeals to their nature or repels them, frightens them perhaps, something will speak, and for the right person, it will be the beginning of a significant journey.”

Dan was aware of a bead of sweat on his temple and a slight palpitation deep within his chest. This sort of talk, talk that strayed from ordinary things, talk of thoughts and emotions, made him uneasy. To Dan it wasn’t normal or natural, it was the kind of talk he’d distanced himself from all his life, yet despite the knotting in his stomach, Dan found himself falling into conversation with Molly Firth. “That funny little red thing with the cap on… I don’t know, that’s the thing that I noticed, gave me the creeps to be honest.”

“Many things that we encounter might speak to us, and we don’t always understand immediately what they are saying.” Molly stepped out from behind the counter and moved to Dan’s side. “Take a look in the mirror Dan, tell me, what is it that brought you here? What was the red mannequin saying to you?”

Dan looked at the image of himself, his pulse quickened, the incense curled its heady aroma around him and delirium clouded his thoughts. Everything he knew, all that was familiar to him, told him to flee, to open the door and slam it shut behind him, forget all this, go home to Doreen. But the eyes in the mirror looked back at him, compelling, almost pleading. “It felt evil…” he said quietly.

Molly moved to the side, her back to the counter, and contemplated Dan silently, taking in his aura, his essence, his pain. “That dreadful burn from the iron still hurts doesn’t it,” she said.

Dan turned away from the mirror. “Hey, hang on a moment, what?”

“And the other pain too. The burns, the bruises, the suffering that your very soul has endured. It doesn’t need to be that way. It isn't your destiny. You can change it if you wish.”

The world beyond the door of The Rider on the Wheel felt miles away to Dan, as if he’d stepped into a different dimension, or a freakish dream from which he was about to awaken. ‘How on earth does she know?’ he thought. ‘Doreen will go ballistic if she thinks that I’ve told anyone.’

As if reading his thoughts, Molly spoke again. “You are not a prisoner of your own fate Dan Holroyd, you have the right to challenge it, to face it, to manifest a future for yourself that you desire completely.” Molly moved and placed a reassuring hand on Dan’s arm. “Imagine, Dan, there on that shelf, imagine a picture of how you’d like to experience the rest of your life. Don’t underestimate the years you still have, do not continue to suffer, you can take control of your fate.”

Dan pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the tear that was threatening to tumble from the corner of his eye, Molly’s words engulfed his mind, he could feel her hand on his arm, soft and kind, so different from the contact he endured at the mercy of Doreen’s strong hands. “But, that’s just how it is, isn’t it,” he said, “we’ve been married for over fifty years, I’ll be seventy-three soon.”

“The choices that we make go on to ripple across our lives and the lives of others, so long after the moment in which we make the decision,” Molly continued, “and our ability to control our own fate is a very powerful thing indeed. But fate is resourceful, it will place both obstacles and opportunities in your path, determining the journey that it wants you to take. It is up to us to accept or challenge that fate.”

 “I think my fate is well and truly decided. It’s too late to change things now.” Dan’s voice trembled as the words he spoke defined his reality. “Besides, what would I do?” He watched in the mirror as his face crumpled, and turned away from himself in disgust.

“Fate is like a wheel,” said Molly, patting the brooch on her fur stole, “stay in the centre of the wheel and the journey will be mundane, lacking variety, seeing and experiencing the same thing each day. But ride closer to its circumference and you will experience a more colourful, compelling journey, perhaps with some difficult times, but also with the most glorious of times.”

As Molly stopped speaking, the shop filled with an ethereal humming sound and the reflections from the mirrors suddenly took on a life of their own, flashing images backwards and forwards, slicing through the dimly lit interior, light twisted and danced. Dan watched, terrified, as moments from his life rebounded and refracted all around him, a horror film of his own acceptance, ‘if only, if only…’ he thought and for the first time, he began to imagine a different existence, one without Doreen, and on the shelves, small vignettes began to appear, flexing and forming, shimmering in and out of focus. He saw Billy, places he’d played as a boy, the bar in the Black Drake, rivers and trees, his own fireside, his favourite books, the simple things, the things that made life worth living. Then, bold and strong, his stonemasons tools, the heavy mallet, hammers and sharp chisels, a headstone, the word ‘Doreen’ slowly carving itself into the granite. The room began to spin and the little red headless mannequin laughed horribly, ‘you’ll never do it,’ it mocked as it danced across the shelves, ‘you haven’t got the guts, gutless, gutless…’

Dan felt Molly’s hand on his arm, “Dan, it’s alright, you’re alright, I think you’ve seen enough,” she said calmly, “would you like to come over to the counter?” and all at once, everything stopped, the shelves were empty once more, and the only thing in the mirror was Dan’s face staring back at him.

“Yes,” he said simply, “I think I’ve made my decision” and he moved over to the counter, where Molly Firth carefully transcribed Dan Holroyd’s choices into her black leather book. Dan then thanked her and left the little shop, taking his altered fate away with him. 

Later that evening, after the ambulance had driven away, Dan Holroyd locked his front door and strolled into town, invigorated by the cool October air. He pushed open the door of the Black Drake inn where his friend Billy Ratcliffe smiled warmly from his seat at the bar. Dan ordered a pint and took a large drink. “That’s not half bad,” he smiled.

Billy grinned back. “How’s your day been?” he asked, noticing a spark in Dan’s eyes that Billy hadn’t seen in years.

“Well”, said Dan, “you’ll never guess what‘s happened...”