IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR

What exactly is beauty?

IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR

Melanie Draycott sat on her favourite high back chair in front of the mirror in her bedroom, stared at her reflection, and sighed.

If I wasn't so ugly I’d have a man here with me, running his fingers through my hair and whispering sweet nothings into my ears… but looking like I do I’ll never get any man interested in me, not even an ugly one with warts all over his body and a tiny you-know-what… she thought.

Then she smiled ruefully to herself. Any size you-know-what would do… she added to herself.

Then her reflection shook its head. There was no doubt about it, thought the reflection, this girl needs a good shaking! What is ugliness if it’s not a construct of the mind?

“What do you know about it?” snapped Melanie, and her reflection waved a finger back at her.

“Let me tell you about Griselda,” it said, “a witch. A gnarled old woman with magic in her finger-tips. She could do anything. She could even change her own appearance. She thought about it sometimes and even considered smoothing out some of her wrinkles using soft and lovely magic. And she had spots on her face that she’d had since childhood, and she could have got rid of those, too. But she didn’t. She looked at herself in  her looking glass and knew a thing or two about herself, and she stayed how she was, how nature intended…”

Melanie stared at her reflection and shook her head. “I don’t believe reflections can talk,” she muttered, trying not to sound angry because, after all, wasn’t she talking to herself? Because if she wasn’t, whose reflection was it in this mirror?

The reflection, her own reflection with all the imperfections she detected on her face, giggled.

“There’s a great deal on this planet that you don’t understand, sweet Melanie,” it said, “and one of them has to do with beauty. Let me tell you about Rose Darling. With a name like that you’d think she was everyone’s beauty, and her face, her complexion, her wonderful waving hair, her bright eyes, everything to do with her was pure perfection. Would you like to be like Rose, Melanie?”

“I can’t believe I’m holding a conversation with my own reflection,” grumbled Melanie staring into her mirror, “but if I am I’ll say yes, a thousand times yes. Of course I’d like to be your Rose Darling because I’m fed up with being me!”

“Then let me tell you a bit more about Rose Darling,” smiled her reflection, “she was so very beautiful that every man she met wanted to have her for himself, and the truth is she rather liked it, and let them. Roy and Dave, and Pete and Ian and Garry and Simon, as many men as would fit into her life, and one of them succeeded in making her pregnant.”

“Silly woman!” exclaimed Melanie, “which one?” she asked, curiously.

The mirror reflection of her face shook its head. “That’s the point,” it said, its voice lower and more sad, “she didn’t know. She’d been close to all of them, had let all of them prove their love for her and so had no idea which one was the father of her unborn child. It might have been Roy with his long and shapely legs or Dave with his charming smile, or Pete with his mop of red hair or Ian with his pointed beard or Garry with his quiet good manners or Simon with his bright blue eyes… she knew them all and she knew that she had lain with all of them, but which one of them had fathered her unborn child? She could have no idea, but maybe when it was born, she thought, she’d get a clue...”

“Then Rose Darling was a very silly woman,” sighed Melanie, “no woman with a grain of sense inside her head would do that!”

“But she was so beautiful the men couldn’t help themselves,” murmured her reflection, “there wasn’t a man on Earth who could resist her warm and pretty smile or the way her waving hair caressed her shoulders or her honey-flavoured voice that pulled them into her life… they were putty in her hands and she loved every moment of it… utnil she found herself to be with child.”

“So what happened?” asked Melanie, wondering how anything her own reflection could say to her could be so new to her she couldn’t even guess what might be coming next.

“Well, Rose thought about it and thought about it, and a baby was born. There was nothing about the child, no physical abnormality, to indicate which of the men was the father so the lovely, beautiful, perfect Rose Darling killed it. With a sharp blade.”

“That’s terrible,” gasped Melanie.

Her reflection nodded in the mirror. That’s the saddest part,” it daid, “but the second most sad part came next. Rose Darling was prosecuted for the crime when the police got to wonder where her baby had gone, and as it was several decades ago and there was still capital punishment for such crimes as murder Rose, still young, still beautiful with that wonderful wavy hair of hers, was hanged. By the neck. Until she was dead. And then, if you were to look at her face when they took her down and laid her on the ground you’d see just how ugly she was in death. There wasn’t a pretty thing about her. Even the ribbon in her hair looked dull and lifeless. So tell me, would you like to be like Rose Darling, Melanie, or are you happy as you are?”

“What are you?” whispered Melanie, “I mean, when I look at you I see my own face looking back at me, but it’s using words I’ve never used and telling stories about people I’ve never heard of. Not once in all my years! A murdered child, that’s horrible, and a hanged beauty, that’s horrible too! But she wasn’t a beauty, was she? I mean, a person’s beauty is in what they think, the way they are inside, and if they’re going to go round killing babies for no better reason than they can’t work out who the father is, well, that’s their height of ugliness.”

“Who’s that?” asked the reflection, grinning.

“Who’s what?” stammered Melanie.

“At your door. Knocking. Can’t you hear?”

Then she did hear. From downstairs there was a stentorian knocking as someone was waiting at the front door.

“I’ll go and see,” she mumbled, her face still moist from weeping at the story that her reflection had told her of the woman who killed her own child.

There was a man, a stranger as far as she knew, waiting for her.

“It’s Melanie, isn’t it?” he asked, smiling, showing white teeth and a warm smile, “It is you, isn't it?” he asked for a second time.

“Yes… but…” she stammered in reply.

“I knew you wouldn’t remember me. From when we were at school. Mr Gibson’s class… I fell in love with you back then, though you probably didn’t know, and, wel, I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to call on you ever since… I know it’s an odd time and place, but, Melanie, if you’re still single will you marry me? You always were the most beautiful girl in the class, and you’re still really special. I know I’ve got a cheek asking you. I’m really sorry. I see you’re confused. I take it all back. I’ll go away. Please forget that I came. It was a moment of lonely self-pity…”

And he turned to go.

The most handsome, desirable man she had ever seen, and he started walking away.

“Have you ever met a girl called Rose Darling?” she called after him.

He paused, and shook his head.

“Well I’m Melanie Draycott and the answer’s yes. Of course I’ll marry you…” she whispered, tears reolling down her cheeks. “I’ll always love you and only you,” she added.

© Peter Rogerson 03.05.23

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