Frankenplot - The Gentleman's Wardrobe Part 2

 

As their son’s wedding approached, two things happened. Ian and Sylvia began struggling to sleep well. They considered the reasons why; latent concerns about their son’s choice of bride, unseasonably warm night-time temperatures, unexplained flashes of light in the room, although these had only been seen by Sylvia. There was also the factor of their advancing ages. All were valid.

 

The other thing was, Sylvia became increasingly obsessive about her appearance. It wasn’t really like her, she’d always taken care to look smart but this was different, more intense.

 

Gwen and Sylvia had been raised by their mother to take pride in how they presented themselves. Shoes were polished, hair brushed and tidy. Outer layers of clothing, visible to the world had priority; good shoes and a wool cloth coat were essential even if the layers beneath were faded and frayed. Those were the days before cheap imported clothing and synthetic fibres.

 

Sylvia had been fortunate enough in later life to be able to purchase plenty of beautiful quality clothing which she cherished. A few of her friends seemed to live in tracksuit bottoms and stretchy tops and she was quietly appalled by their willingness to roll over and flop into the popular communal ditch of slovenly dressing.

 

This new obsession was different though, it wasn’t about clothing, it was about her physical features, her skin, hair and figure. Things she previously didn’t bother about beyond her established routine of skincare, regular hair cuts and simple but refined make-up techniques. 

 

Somehow a new light was cast in the bedroom, an atmosphere of disclosure, something had changed and it was exposing. Sylvia was convinced that she looked different, felt different even. 

 

She felt strongly that a chapter of her life had closed forever and a new one was opening in which she felt vulnerable. It seemed to her that she was seeing herself suddenly in real time, aged, haggard even, her face withholding years of accumulated ordeals. Her lined forehead, a hamper of interned psychological injury.

 

She’d had a relatively easy life in as much as she and her immediate family had remained in good health and avoided the shock of serious accidents or extreme hardship. It was all relative though and on occasions her mind had taken the liberty of mislabelling mild setbacks as catastrophes, resulting in tidal surges of stress hormones to be released in her body. 

 

‘I’ve made an appointment at, Impeccable Skin, in town,’ she said to Ian as she sat at her dressing table.

 

‘What, that beauty place with all the nasty faux pink flowers around the door?’ Ian paused by the wardrobe door, ‘Why is this door open again?’

 

‘Don’t close it, Ian. I like to see the back of my head.’ She lightly touched her hair at the back.

 

‘Why would you do that? You’ve got good skin!’

 

‘I want to look nice for Richard’s wedding, for the photos.’

 

’You always look nice, your hair looks nice, your figure hasn’t changed in thirty years. I’m a very lucky man.’

 

Sylvia raised her eyebrows. ‘Thank you,’ she said weakly, ‘but it’s my face..’

 

Ian shook his head in dismay. ‘What about it? Look, don’t get overly worried about how you look, it’s the occasion that matters, you’ll jeopardise the enjoyment of it if you’re thinking about your wrinkles.’

 

‘Do you think I have wrinkles?’

 

‘We all do, it’s called life..and it’s fragile, you don’t mess around with it, not if it works. Speaking of which, I got a message from Richard earlier,’

 

‘Oh?’

 

‘He said,’ Ian pulled out his phone and squinted to read the text, ‘and I quote, Laura isn’t sure whether the colour of Mum’s outfit will work with the blue of the bridesmaids’ dresses.’

 

Sylvia huffed and shifted her body in a sharp movement. ‘Then she can change the bloody bridesmaids’ dresses!’ 

 

Ian shrugged, laughed a little and walked out to get started on dinner. Sylvia looked at herself in the mirror and noted that she looked pained, her face a map of despair, perhaps her little dressing mirror showed too much. She got up and walked over to the wardrobe, closing the mirrored door and standing in front of it. 

 

This second hand message from Laura had tied her in knots. She gazed into the glass, tiny bright sparkles with long dark patches mimicking the pattern of life itself. Lifting her hand up to the surface she took a couple of deep breaths and held it there, noting the apparent large gap between her skin and the reflection. Even when she pressed her hand hard against the glass, there was this void. It was reminiscent of the gap between the train and the platform and it unnerved her. What’s in it? She thought.

 

The mercury beneath held her gaze, despite its toxicity, it was fascinating. Why, thought Sylvia, must we always dwell upon the poisonous things in life and let the good stuff slip through our fingers. She stood back and observed the slender black shadow stretching down the mirror like a phantom, trapped on the other side. 

 

It was during the early hours of the morning she awoke to what she thought was the sound of a female voice. She froze and held her breath, clutching the edge of the duvet tightly in her fingers. Ian was fast asleep, his breathing slow and heavy. There were what appeared to be flashes of light in the room and movement but she half dismissed it as her eyes playing tricks or the onset of a migraine, probably caused by the stress of Laura’s message.

 

But then she heard it again and it sounded familiar, a voice from her childhood but it was angry, livid. There followed a rustling sound within a wider range like there was another person there and then a sort of clap which made her jump up in bed, gasping.

 

Ian turned over and grunted. ‘What, what is it?’

 

The room was dark now and silent. Sylvia took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I don’t know..I heard a voice, I heard it twice and some flashes of light which may or may not have been a figment of my imagination. Ian put his arm around her and she consciously kept her eyes closed, eventually finding sleep. 

 

She was relieved to wake in daylight but the events of the night weighed heavily on her mind. It was over breakfast that she became quite certain about the identity of the female voice.

 

‘I think I know whose voice I heard, last night in the room,’

 

‘The ghost?’ Ian mocked.

 

‘It didn’t feel like a ghost, although I don’t have much experience in these things, it was more of, I don’t know, a presence, a memory perhaps, coming to the fore.’

 

‘So who was it?’

 

‘I think it was Vivienne.’

 

‘Who?’

 

‘Aunt Vivinenne, Uncle Leo’s wife, the one who left.’

 

‘God, is she still alive?’

 

‘No, she died of cancer about ten years after they split.’

 

‘They never had children did they?’

 

‘I think there was a baby when they first married, a boy who had some sort of condition and died shortly after birth. I don’t know, nobody talked about it. His name was Francis, that’s all I know. The main thing I remember about last night’s hallucination or whatever it was, is that it felt like there was a fracas, a disagreement of some sort.’

 

‘Christ! How long did it go on for?’

 

‘Oh seconds, then it stopped but then it returned but there was a loud clap which made me jump out of my skin. It was sort of like a slap.’

 

‘Mmmmm. Did he knock her about, your uncle, was he violent?’

 

Sylvia stared down at her teacup for a few seconds. ‘No, not at all, Uncle Leo was a very gentle man. You know it felt like she was the angry one and there was another presence there who was passive.’

 

‘Aren’t you having any toast?’

 

‘No, I’m not hungry.’

 

‘