CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He needed to run. Days had passed since Mitch last strapped on the joggers; the ritual put aside with his preoccupation of the plate. But running cleared the mind as much as body, and Mitchell always felt comfortable sweating out his troubles alone. Yesterday was a mistake; He knew that now, but happy he tried something. He attempted a change that alas was never going to happen. Mitch knew that for sure now having tested his theory. Just like a good engineer.
On the run Mitchell tired well before his regular distance with the whiskey and idle days taking their toll. He’d pushed himself as best he could and fell short by only a few hundred meters. Luckily, he saw Ethel Bartholomew in her front yard tending her garden and used that as an excuse to stop. He slowed to a walk with hands on hips, his breath drawing deeper than normal.
“Good Morning Mitchell.” Ethel welcomed as he sat on her low brick fence. Her garden was stunning. Undoubtedly the best within miles, and a fleeting idea crossed his mind in suggesting she consider his own as an extension of her estate. His was like an Amazonian jungle of late and he rarely gave it a second thought. Mitch was confident Mrs Bartholomew would get it back in shape in no time.
“Hello Ethel,” he replied, never calling her by her first name before. “You are most certainly devoted to your garden, it’s looking fantastic.”
“As equally as you are to running. How are you? I haven’t seen or heard Peanut in some time.”
Mitch didn’t go into any detail explaining why, he merely mentioned he’d been busy working on a project that happened to ‘fall at his feet’. Not a complete lie, but not overly truthful either. How would he begin explaining the plate and its special powers to anyone? Ethel would think him insane, and he was inclined to agree with her.
“I was just about to make myself a cup of tea Mitchell, would you care to join me?” she asked. It was perfect timing and just what Mitchell needed, a distraction from the past few days and a welcome reprieve to chat about other things. He expressed as such and followed his neighbour through to an atrium at the rear of the house where she regularly took her morning tea. From Mitchell’s back fence it was hidden from view, however perfectly positioned to capture both the winter and summer sun, and very typically appointed by a lady of her age. Two white cane chairs on either side of the small room were brimming with pillows of a floral pattern, and spatterings of Maiden Hair and Peace Lilies showed Mrs Bartholomew had an equal love of indoor plants. A small wooden table, superbly crafted and highly polished, sat in the centre. A hand-woven lace doily positioned right in the middle. An eclectic array of picture frames adorned the walls; even more balanced on a large sideboard showcasing babies, children, and a man Mitch suspected was Lyle Bartholomew.
He was a strapping looking gentleman with bronze skin and a full head of black hair. Lyle was tall and broad shouldered, having a very distinct, welcoming smile. In the pictures he looked young and Mitchell assumed they’d been taken long before his passing twenty years ago. Mitch often wished to have met Lyle and the photographs brought him to think of Ethel’s family for the first time. He’d not considered them before and insularly never taken time to ask. To Mitch, she was simply the elderly neighbour over the fence that loved gardening. On that thought, Ethel returned from the kitchen.
“I haven’t made it too hot given you’re still recovering from your run, but I have added a slice or two of lemon to help refresh.” Two exquisitely decorated china cups with matching sugar bowl and milk jug where presented on an equally beautiful wooden carry tray. While Ethel placed them on the table between the chairs, Mitchell looked out the window to see a well-manicured lemon tree in the back yard. He immediately knew he was about to taste the fruit of its yield.
“This is absolutely lovely Mrs Bartholomew. I can’t see the room from my place but imagine you have spent some precious time here enjoying the view of your garden.”
“Thankyou Mitchell. I do enjoy its tranquillity. Although at times I wish it could be shared again,” Ethel replied as she stirred her tea with an ornately crafted Stirling Silver spoon.
“Is that Lyle? There in the pictures,” Mitch enquired after thanking her for the tea.
“Yes, that is My Love. I miss him so much. Regrettably, nineteen years doesn’t make things any easier.” She paused and took her first sip of tea, her words resonating with Mitchell. “And that cheeky little boy is my grandson Adam. His sister Kelly, a few years older, is right there too,” Ethel said pointing out each photo more spiritedly.
“They are much older now of course, and their mother Alison is right over here.” Mitchell noted with surprise that Ethel referred to Alison as their mother and not her daughter.
“They live in New York you know. My son-in-law is a barrister with some highflying legal firm and they’ve made a life for themselves now on the other side of the world. I don’t see them much anymore.” Ethel was evidently proud of them however her voice broke just a fraction as she explained further.
After Lyles passing Alison didn’t help out much. Instead, she buried herself in other matters. Ethel reasoned it was her way of grieving but it hurt nonetheless. Alison rarely called anymore, too caught up living the high life in New York, enjoying the trappings of success. Mitchell shamefully identified and it helped explained the absence of regular visitors to her home.
“I am of course too old now to travel such a distance, and regardless, who would look after my garden if I were away?” Ethel shot a cheeky glance to Mitchell. A smile quickly followed.
More photos decorated the walls but Ethel didn’t reference them. Most were clearly Adam and Kelly at varying stages of their childhood, but another woman appeared in one of the photos. She had similar features to Alison’s however looked definitely younger. She woman sat framed on the sideboard alone and was neither mentioned nor glanced upon.
“Tell me Mitchell, how is Peanut?”
“Oh, she is fat and lazy as always, and missing her daily walks I’ve been neglecting.” Mitchell regretted the comment immediately; it left him open to another question he wanted to avoid.
“So, what has kept you occupied that poor Peanut is made to suffer as much. The project you have been working on?” Ethel enquired craftily.
“Yes Mrs Bartholomew. I’ve been trying to work through some things. Peanut might be put out temporarily, but I assure it will be for the better.”
Mitchell sensed he’d said too much and wanted to shift the attention. He rashly decided it was time to get a little more insight Lyle’s death and learn what transpired over the past twenty years. Could the plate make a difference?
“May I ask what Lyle did for work?”
Ethel’s back straightened and she rested her teacup on its saucer.
“He was a carpenter Mitchell. A very talented one too. That table in front of you was made by his very hand, together with most of our other furniture,” Ethel replied proudly. Lyle’s skill was obvious the more Mitch looked around the room. There were examples of his handiwork everywhere.
He probed a little deeper asking of Lyle’s illness. Knowing it was some form of cancer, he didn’t know the circumstances or events surrounding his passing. Mitch considered the sensitivity of his enquiry and worded it tactfully, showing genuine interest in the man who’d maintained a woman’s love for over sixty years.
The Bartholomews had just celebrated Lyle’s retirement. Mandatory at the time, Lyle finished his working life when reaching sixty-five to make way for those much younger. They were terribly excited by the milestone and believed to have squirrelled enough savings away to see through a comfortable life together. The Bartholomews weren’t rich by any standard; having no real estate other than their home, and relied on a smallish, albeit well-balanced share portfolio to survive.
They took little time enjoying the new freedom and spent countless hours establishing their garden. However, it wasn’t too long before his wife noticed Lyle looking rather weak and pale. At a time when he should’ve been on top of the world, Lyle seemed low and hiding more than he freely admitted. He showed signs of tiredness and took frequent afternoon naps. Not uncommon for a man his age but he’d mentioned some minor abdominal pain. So under the explicate orders of his worried wife, he reluctantly consulted a doctor. Only six weeks after his official retirement, Lyle was diagnosed with bowel cancer. The Bartholomew’s didn’t have health insurance and relied on an overburdened and limited public health system. Priority couldn’t be guaranteed, nor could a treatment program combatting the spreading cancer.
“Mitchell, at the time an operation and chemotherapy was over $25,000. We just didn’t have the money.” Ethel’s eyes welled as she spoke. “And besides, Lyle was confident of fighting the cancer insisting we didn’t spend our money on an unknown result…He was so strong.”
Lyle deteriorated quickly over the next eighteen months. The hospital wait proved to be longer and he sadly passed away in 1993 at the relatively young age of sixty-six.
Ethel lived frugally on her government pension supplemented by the little investments they had managed to build. She grew her own vegetables and continued life alone, building her garden in loving memory of her selfless husband. There was gallantry in the gentleman, a strength and love many would never know. He loved Ethel so much, insisting they not spend money on a treatment bringing no certainty. Lyle ensured Ethel would be provided for, whatever the price.
Mitch was moved by the story. It was beautiful. But angered by the fact something so simple, and possibly preventable, had taken a great man’s life and changed others in the process. He knew what he had to do.
“Thank you for the tea Ethel, and thank you for your honesty. I will let you get back to your garden now, and when you hear peanut barking, know she is getting her walk.” Mitchell smiled then excused himself.
≈
That evening Mitchell trolled endless internet pages looking for something very specific. It took some time, but everything needed was right at the tips of his fingers, albeit via a keyboard.
Mitch was looking for something to help the Bartholomew’s happening before 1992. It also needed to be detached, having no adverse effect on anyone else. That was critical. Mitch couldn’t disturb anyone’s life or past events. Albert’s words sprang to mind with every new page opened….this is fraught with danger Mitchell.
He happened upon a date in July 1990. The time, place, and result, all within the parameters he’d set. It was an isolated event going largely unnoticed except to the few officials directly involved. Not a soul would be affected if it happened to change. Mitch was confident he’d found the perfect moment and snatched his notebook to jot down some numbers together with a vital date. He closed the computer; content he’d covered all bases, and continued with his handwritten notes.
July 1990. Mitchell had just turned sixteen and halfway through year ten at high school. That was three lifetimes ago.
Mitchell believed his life could be broken down into four very distinct stages. Each had an enormous effect on his development, but a greater influence on his perception of the world. The first stage was growing up with his brother and parents. The Atherton boys had a carefree childhood learning more from their father than they acknowledge at the time. Mitchell’s university years were an extension to those days, but the unexpected independence caused by his father’s death forced him to quickly shape his own beliefs. The second period was his time abroad and the various experiences gained through his employment. He loved that period the most as he forged his work ethic and career objectives given the opportunity of a lifetime. The third stage was his brief time with Juliana. Mitch fell in love for the first and only time discovering himself and what he wanted in life. He became more than just work and success. The last was life post Juliana.
Through his epiphany a few nights ago, Mitchell conceded ‘what would be, would be’. His goal now was to help others and not think solely of himself. However, any self-reflection made that difficult.
He returned to his notes to concentrate on the future. There were three things to be sorted before continuing with the plan and Mitch scrawled them as a reminder before going to bed unusually early.
- Maloney’s – 245 Broad St
- Note to Ethel
- Remember a day in high school
≈
The following morning Mitchell drove to the train station and caught the next service into the city. He hadn’t ridden a train in a very long time and was impressed by the much-publicised new carriages. They were very quiet compared to the ones he rode growing up. The air-conditioned cabins helped quell yet another hot day and he stared vaguely out of the window as the world passed by at a faster pace than usual. When the train entered the brief cover of an overpass, he smiled catching his reflection in the window. He looked happy…and he was. A few stops later he arrived in the city.
Emerging from the stairwell of the underground station, Mitch checked the street signage ensuring he was in the right place. He’d once known the city well, in fact many cities he’d lived in over the years, but time had passed and so too had his memory. Mitch removed his notepad to check the address of Maloney’s Coin Exchange confirming he was headed in the right direction. As he walked Mitch enjoyed the sound of the bustling metropolis. It was once very familiar, but lately missing from the serenity of his suburban life.
Maloney’s website oversold the grandeur of the actual business with the promised professionalism missing the moment he arrived at the building. Mitch entered the shop through an ill-fitting door to discover an enterprise far less appealing than its photos pledged. Unsurprisingly, the establishment was void of any customers. An overweight man perched behind a large glass counter, the armpits of his white shirt stained by the summer heat, ignorantly flicked through a magazine that otherwise might have been found in the waiting room of a suburban doctor’s surgery. It was old and tattered, much like the reader, and half a minute passed before he looked up from the magazine to greet Mitchell.
“Hello,” came a crackled voice not spoken in hours, “can I help you with anything?” The man was so unassuming Mitch quickly surmised he was not the Maloney, and advised he was looking for a twenty dollar note. Just one, but old enough to precede the introduction of polymer currency in 1992. A paper note.
That sparked the attendant’s attention and Mitch assured he was neither collector nor expert. The clerk ignored the admission pulling a large leather folder from the many resting on the rear shelf. Plonking it so heavily on the glass counter it caused the cash register to jingle from the violent movement. The now animated man flipped quickly through the large pages revealing bank notes long seen their day in circulation. He muttered something about knowing the perfect note, then suddenly stopped having found his mark.
“I’m afraid this particular note isn’t in mint condition but as you can see, it’s been well looked after, and to an untrained eye, seemingly perfect in every way.” Mitch didn’t care about the condition of the note; he was only going to spend it in the next few days anyway.
“I’ll take it,” he said without hesitation.
“Excellent sir, is there anything else I can interest you in while you are here?” The salesperson beneath the clerk awake despite his previous demeanour.
“No, that will be all today thanks. How much is that?”
“Forty two dollars,” came the response….Bloody inflation. Mitchell handed the clerk exact change and the transaction was complete. Mitch then left Maloney’s as quickly as he’d entered.
It was very simple and much easier than he’d imagined and Mitch felt confident he’d gone unnoticed doubting anyone would ever be concerned with his dealings at Maloney’s Coin Exchange.
A procession of workers tracked like ants along the crowded footpath and Mitchell joined them after leaving the store feeling lost and unaware what to do with himself. He’d always been so busy; fitting his duties into limited hours, but today had all the time in the world. He strolled slowly toward the harbour letting the masses pass as they continued their urgent journeys. He was in no hurry. At the harbour promenade Mitch found a quaint restaurant beckoning him with the sweet smell of freshly baked bread and char-grilled meats. The day was too beautiful not to enjoy the sunshine, so he indulged in an early lunch at an outside table. Ordering a half bottle of wine, he sat back watching the ferries pull in and out of their docks churning the dark blue waters to leave only the white of their wake behind. He was mesmerised by the activity and soon removed himself from all his troubles.
Waiting, he fingered the orange paper bank note purposely attempting to age it. Mitch wanted it to look used so folded it over many times forming crease lines and smudges. A waiter delivering his meal broke his concentration so Mitch enjoyed the food and surroundings while planning his next move. After eating, he checked his notebook.
Of the three points jotted down the night before, he added a question mark after one, a tick after another, then flipped to a new page to address the third.
The words needed to be chosen carefully and Mitch drew on the wine for inspiration. Little detail was required, however too little would be ambiguous; it had to be clear, concise, non-alarming. The truth in its entirety would shock anyone, so he tried conveying his good intentions while remaining slightly aloof. That proved difficult. After a few attempts phrasing it perfectly, he settled on two short paragraphs and rewrote the words legibly on a fresh page. Mitch was happy with the result and closed the notebook to finish the last of the wine.
The city workers had mostly returned to their offices. Now sitting at desks in towering glass citadels unseen to those on the streets below. It was mainly shoppers and tourists forming the crowds now. Mitchell’s leisurely time just wandering the streets brought back fond memories of the city he once knew very well. Walking the dozen blocks back to the station, each crossing became more familiar. He recalled a shopping arcade nearby reminiscent of London’s Mayfair and had a sudden yearning to see the building again. Years before in Dubai, one of his briefs was to replicate that same Victorian splendour in an arcade running the breadth of a very modern building. It would tenant only the finest purveyors and essential shoppers believe they were in historic England and not in a temperature controlled mall in the dessert Emirate.
Within a few well-guessed turns Mitchell found the arcade as remembered.
The facade of sandstone columns and ornate arches stood in stark contrast to the harsh concrete and steel buildings either side. Two burgundy-coloured semicircular awnings framed an entranceway of marble and brass-lined windowpanes. The buildings’ threshold was in many ways like the plate; the moment Mitch stepped over it, he felt to be stepping back in time.
Natural sunlight captured by the glass roofing three stories above flowed freely throughout the arcade. Cascading over the perfectly clean and polished surfaces, causing them to sparkle even brighter. The webbing of steel framework holding hundreds of glass panels seemed to hover overhead having no evident anchorage point; the engineering pioneered nearly two hundred years before had Mitchell marvelling his predecessor’s talent. The structure would have been calculated by hand and devoid of the computer aid he always had at his disposal.
Aesthetically, his eye was drawn to the rows of intricately detailed wrought iron balustrades. They lined the third and second levels but replaced on the ground floor with mahogany and gold window bays. Zigzagging, they continued the length of the arcade defining each store’s entry. Every bay skilfully dressed with jewellery, clothing or leather goods dependant on the sellers offering, but all with identical brass shingles hanging over their entrance. The marbled floor of the entrance gave way to a herringbone pattern of heritage red and cream coloured tiles, occasionally highlighted by striking green laid in a diamond formation.
From the ceiling hung a huge analogue clock at least eight foot in diameter. Black roman numerals adorned both faces which the largest metal hand would point to in five-minute intervals. It resembled a giants’ pocket watch hanging from a golden chain. Spaced equally along the arcade’s centre line, ornate glass lighting hung from long pendants completing the majesty of the aerial vista.
The building was magnificent.
Mitchell meandered through the arcade soaking in the beauty. Everywhere he looked, be it building or goods on sale, was luxury and perfection. Price tags were beyond his current means, however the opulence of the building inspired shopping - as was its original intent. Mitch was inexplicably drawn to an elite women’s fashion house and stood at the window admiring the elegant apparel displayed on three faceless manikins.
One of the ladies wore an item immediately catching his eye.
A beautifully woven silk scarf fell from her neck accentuating the plunging neckline of the accompanying dress. It complimented the ensemble the way a foyer defines a building, or a wine heightens a meal. Mitch stared at the scarf for some time. A young sales assistant far more engaging than the gentleman earlier that morning welcomed him immediately. She showed Mitch around the small studio, expertly asking questions and highlighting items she particularly thought may be of interest. Maloney’s could well do with the services of this professional sales assistant Mitchell thought.
“Are you purchasing for someone special?” she enquired causing Mitchell to shamefully blush. He wanted to say yes but knew it a lie and pointed toward the front of the shop as he answered.
“Um, not really, but I was interested in the purple scarf displayed in the window.” Mitchell favoured the colour purple, always had. He found it calming and capable of working with any other colour. Juliana explained that one night at a fashion show, only vindicating its natural appeal to him.
“Excellent sir. Yes, it’s an Emilio Pucci and a very stunning piece. Though its colour is actually mulberry,” the lady corrected. However, in an effort not to offend her potential customer, she quickly conceded it might be considered purple. She explained the scarf had been hand woven in Italy using traditional techniques with silk spun ironically from the Mulberry Silkworm commonly found in India. Widely regarded as the finest quality available. The colouring came from natural pigments of wildflowers grown in southern France, extracted using a precise process taking weeks to invoke the rich colours it now possessed.
The woman deftly removed the scarf from the neck of the window manikin and encouraged Mitchell to feel its texture between his fingers. It was exquisite. Light and subtle. The shimmering colour danced with his movements refracting light from the halogen bulbs above. He held the scarf in outstretched arms determining it was a little under two metres. Finely braided tassels extended only a matter of centimetres from each end.
He bought the scarf without a thought.
Mitchell had no idea what to do with it; he only knew it was too lovely to ignore. The assistant offered a seat before adjourning to the storeroom in search of some packing material and Mitch wondered how long it could take to pack a scarf.
The mulberry scarf was folded in an expert and precise manner, the tassel at one end delicately laid across the top of the folds. It was wrapped in the finest of tissue paper, then sealed with a pressed golden sticker holding it in place. The sales assistant looked at Mitchell while selecting a length of purple coloured ribbon; he nodded his approval, and she returned a smile. She bound the little package together with the ribbon finishing with an elaborate bow. The scarf was then placed into a thin, lavishly designed box with the store name and logo embossed discretely on the top. It was a process Mitchell watched intently.
The young woman thanked Mitchell for his patronage and handed him a small carry bag. He walked through the arcade, his impulsive purchase firmly in hand, musing the carry bag alone would be worth more than the currency he’d purchased earlier in the day. What was I thinking? Mitch didn’t ask, nor see the actual price of the scarf; he just needed to buy it.
On the return train trip Mitch thought very hard of his high school years. That was long ago and he’d travelled the world since. His memory had always been sharp however mathematical equations and formulae were one thing; his school years were another. Earlier in the day Mitch had trouble recalling street names, but now the inspirational Victorian arcade and the wonderful day had buoyed him.
Mitch had played some football in high school. He wasn’t very good at it, but he loved the game and being out with his mates running the fields. The team enjoyed mixed success but to Mitch it was just a bit of fun. A way of keeping fit and engaging in school spirit. There was however one game in the middle of his fourth year particularly memorable to Mitch - if for no one else. A home game against their archenemies. A local derby anticipated every season that became a spiteful contest marred by more penalties than tries. Midway through the first half, Mitch was unfairly sent off for a head high tackle. Most agreed it was an overreaction, but some showmanship from his opponent and a tirade from the coaching staff saw Mitchell unceremoniously marched off the field, seeing out the remainder of the game in the teams’ locker room. Mitch was furious with the referee and sat in the change room fuming the decision. At one point even throwing a plastic chair against the wall.
It was perfect. Not only could Mitch distinctly remember the event, he was alone the whole time. And, it all happened in July 1990.
The notebook came out and another tick placed after the last of the three points.