26 October 2011
My spirits dipped when I saw that Mrs. Hasell had entered the shop. She was a regular customer, but by no means a valued one. She was an older lady that delighted in bartering and asking incessant questions about antiques she had no intention of buying. She was, in technical terms, a nuisance.
“Oh, Mrs. Hasell,” I said with my most chipper voice, “Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes, young man, I would like to return this mirror,” she said, thrusting in my arms the offensive product wrapped in a green cloth. She was of an age that she could refer me to a young man, despite my forty two years and hearty grey moustache. I could not recall selling her a mirror recently, but I would not put it past her to return an item a significant time period after its purchase.
“That’s a shame, Mrs. Hasell,” I said, “Did it not suit the living room decor?”
“No, it matched my furnishings just fine,” she said, “I’m returning it as you sold me a broken mirror.”
I unwrapped the cloth and as I did so, I said “Mrs. Hasall, there was not a crack in this and also, I did not sell you this.”
“Excuse me, young man! I never said that there was a crack in it.”
I examined the mirror, now fully uncovered in my hands. It was a small but elegant piece. There wasn’t a crack, scratch or even dust on the glass. I looked at my reflection and saw no flaw in the glass. I did however see an ink blot on my shirt collar that I had failed to notice previously.
“I don’t understand, Mrs. Hasell,” I said, “It’s in perfect condition.”
“The mirror itself is fine; the problem is that it is running fast and that simply will not do.”
I chose the following words carefully, as I had experiences with dotty customers in the past and if you say the wrong thing, you could well end up with a shop full of broken antiques.
“Mrs. Hasell, it’s a mirror.”
She looked at me with a contempt usually reserved for sadists and murderers.
“Young man, I can see perfectly well. The issue is that this “mirror” is an hour ahead.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hasell.”
“It shows your reflection an hour from now. It is very irritating. I tried to put on some make up while using it, and according to the mirror, I was already wearing it. Do you know how difficult it is to apply blush in those conditions?”
I sighed.
“Mrs. Hasell, when returning products with which that you are unhappy, it is traditional to bring the product to the store you bought it and use reasons that are not some kind of hocus pocus harum scarum.”
“I am not some batty old lady, young man. Look!”
I looked in the mirror again. Same grey distinguished eyes I inherited from my father, the same Roman nose I took from my mother, the same fine facial hair I copied from a portrait in the National Gallery I saw once as a child. Everything was as I expected. I noticed the ink blot again on my shirt collar. I looked down.
My collar was spotless. I looked in the mirror again and the ink spot was on my reflection’s collar.
I frowned at this discrepancy. Noticing this reaction, Mrs. Hassel smirked at me with a self satisfied triumph. The smile said “Not some foolish old twit, am I now?”
I turned the mirror to reflect a nearby clock face, a grandfather clock whose German precision engineering meant it had never lost a minute in its decades of existence. In the reflection, it read 4:32.
I looked at the clock directly. It read 3:21.
The woman had folded her arms and coughed.
“Oh yes, that is quite something,” I said, maintaining my decorum.
“See, an hour ahead.”
I sniffed, “In fact, fifty one minutes, but that is only quibbling.”
“Well, do I get a refund?”
I hesitated. Magic mirror or not, the store had a strict policy on refunds.
“Do you have a receipt?” I said.
This time Mrs. Hasell frowned, and started to paw through her ginormous hand bag. She pulled out various pieces of loose papers. She stood at the counter, looking through them until she found what she was looking for.
“Here,” she said, smiling sweetly.
I picked it up. It had my signature, a lovely cursive swirl in black Indian ink. The date on it indicated I had written it that day. I was confused, but the mirror was valuable, so I reacted the same way my mother did when she learnt of my father’s extensive collection of famous hair pieces. I decided not to question it.
“As a general rule, we do not offer refunds. However in this extraordinary case, I would be perfectly happy to.”
I checked the receipt. The money involved was quite substantial. I took a moment to consider this amount. Mrs. Hasell made a noise that was part clearing her throat, part growl. I hurried and I refunded her the money.
She went on her way out the door, shouting something about ombudsmen and faulty mirrors. When the door closed behind her, I breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the mirror.
I turned the piece in my hands and felt the wood. It was smooth. I ran my fingers down one of the deep carvings. To my surprise, my fingertip found a circular hole. With my eyes, I located the hole hidden in the wood. It was the same shape as a keyhole for winding a clock.
I fetched my grandfather’s key for his grandfather clock from my key chain and tested it in the hole. It fitted, and I began to turn it. I heard cogs rotate and gears shift. I pressed my ear against the mirror. A bell rang and I almost dropped the thing.
It was the door bell, Mrs. Hasell had re-entered the shop. She seemed a much better mood then she had been earlier.
“Ah, Mrs. Hasell. So lovely to see you again.”
“My good man,” she said, “I’m looking for a mirror.”
“The...
Poor Reflection • Opuss № I