Short stories

[Chulla 4,946]

I wrote two or three very short stories in threads a few months ago. I have written another and created a dedicated thread for it and any others that might follow, or for members who might like to add to it.

 

The woman in the painting

 

The crowd were mingling and viewing in the room at the art gallery set aside for an exhibition of works by local artists past and present. This was the invitation-only, pre-public-viewing evening and most attendees were holding a slim glass of white wine. Among them was a chap slowly circulating past the pictures. Every now and then his eyes would catch those of someone looking at him and result in the usual quick smile and a nod. He was on his second circuit of the room when an attractive lady walked through the crowd towards him, but staring past him. Immediately he experienced the feeling of deja vu. Where do I know her from?, he pondered. As she drew level with him he forced the question, 'Hello, have we met before?' She stopped, turned to look at him and replied, 'I don't think so - is that your best chat-up line?' Sorry, no, he replied, but not feeling satisfied with her answer.

   After seeing all that he wanted to see he made his way to the small café in an adjacent room and sat with a coffee. He was slightly startled by a voice from behind him saying, 'Did you remember where you had met me?' It was her. 'Er, no, but will you join me for a drink?' said he. 'I'd like that' she said. In the subsequent conversation he told her that he liked art, though was no expert - he knew what he liked and not what people thought he should like. 'Much the same here' she said. 'I was once told that we had an artist in the family many years ago' she continued; 'maternal grandfather, apparently'. I don't think that we ever did' he said; 'painter and decorator maybe, does that count?' She smiled at the humour and then asked him, 'Do you mind if I have a cigarette?' 'Not at all'. She removed the cigarette from its packet and tapped its end down vertically on the table to solidify it. 'No filter tip, then?' She shook her head.

   It was at this point that the little tete-a-tete  became more than casual acquaintance talk. He couldn't help noticing the way that the fingers of her left hand supported the cigarette. Instead of the usual way of between the first and second digits, it was held between the second and third. 'I've always smoked plain cigarettes; I prefer a strong tobac...' Her voice trailed off. 'Why are you looking at me like that?' she said, to which his staring reply was 'I've just realised where I have seen you'. 'Oh, so we have met before, then?' 'Not in the flesh', to which she asked, 'How then?'

   He went on to explain that many years ago he bought a folio of small watercolours at an auction; artist unknown. None of the pictures were signed, so he never did discover who he or she was. 'But where do I come into the picture, excuse the pun?' she  said. 'Well, you see, there about twenty watercolours, all of which are landscape, seascape and still-life studies; except for just the one, that of a young woman, about your age or thereabouts'. 'And I look like her, hence the earlier illusion that we had met?' 'Yes,' he said, 'but there is more to it than that'. She leaned forward over the table towards him and sotto voce said, 'I'm intrigued, tell me more'. He replied, 'The lady in the picture not only looks facially just like you, but she had a cigarette between her second and third fingers of her left hand'. 'Oo-er, I've gone all goose bumps' 'Did your mum smoke?' he enquired, 'I do not know, she died when I was very young. I have a photograph of her - perhaps we could meet for a drink tomorrow night and I will bring it along'. This was arranged and a venue chosen..

   When he saw the photograph it was obvious that the woman in the picture was the same one as in the photograph; but to their disappointment she wasn't smoking. Aah, they laughed, what a pity. But wait. Her left hand was visible and there, on the insides of the second and third fingers were the tell-tale skin stains that tobacco smoke produces. So there it was. He then produced a small cardboard tube  and out of it slid the rolled-up painting. She unfurled it, stared, and with a breaking voice said, 'Are you telling me....' He interjected, 'That the woman you are looking at is your mother, painted by your grandfather. Please take it and let's have her back with her daughter.

  

 

 

[Chulla 4,946]

Regret beyond recall

 

For some time there had been ill-feeling in the house. The daughter and the mother were not on speaking terms; only shouting terms. 'Can't you two bury the hatchet?' said the father to the wife. 'Never!' came the retort, 'not after what she said'. 'She didn't mean it', he said. 'Oh yes she did, and she has never apologized'. No matter how he tried to bring peace into the household, the stubbornness of the two parties ensured that the status remained quo. The quarrel had upset the father, who had always doted on his daughter, their only child, remembering fondly the traditional springtime ventures into the woods, making posies of crocuses to take home to present to her mum.

    It all come to a head eventually, and following another very loud exchange of insults, the daughter proclaimed 'I'm leaving'. Hardly before the words were out of her mouth the mother snapped 'Good riddance'. 'Now then' said the calming voice of the father, 'you didn't mean that'. 'Yes I did' came the response. 'I will pack my things and go in the morning', said the daughter. And she did; after breakfast she put on her coat and picked up the case. Her dad held his arm in front of her. 'Don't go, please', he said, with a choke in his voice. The watching mother, standing back from it all, inwardly felt a pang of sorrow, but disguised it outwardly. She wasn't going to give in. 'Sorry, dad, I have to do it, there will never be peace in this house while the two of us are in each other's company'. 'Then please write and let us know how you are'. And then he said, 'I'd like you to have this', and gave her a wedding ring. 'It was my mother's, you were named after her; see the name Ann inscribed inside'. She took the ring, kissed him and was gone, leaving an uneasy silence in the room. 'Look what you have done', he said. 'Look what she did', came the more calmed reply.

    The months passed without a word from her. Then one day, when disposing of something in the bin, he saw a ripped-up letter. Picking up the pieces he saw it had been addressed to him. He stuck the pieces together and learned it was from his daughter wondering why he had not replied to her previous letters. He confronted his wife, who told him that she considered 'She was no longer our daughter'. 'She is my daughter', he replied with a threat in his voice. No more letters were received from the daughter, the mother denying it was of her doing, but from the one he had read and replied to, he knew she was enjoying herself in Indonesia, one of the countries in that part of the world she was visiting. Two years later the father took seriously ill and died. A pang of conscience stirred inside the mother; husband and daughter now gone with no reconciliation in their views, but outwardly it didn't show. A funeral was arranged, attended by family and friends, but no daughter.

    When the vicar had finished the committal proceedings, the mourners moved to the side of the grave. Some sprinkled handfuls of earth on to the coffin; others threw down a flower. As they moved away, the widow took a last look inside the grave. Her eyes spotted a small posy of crocuses among the roses, its stems wrapped in newspaper and held together by an elastic band. She looked around and recognised only those who had been with her minutes before. What could this mean, had someone who remembered Ann produced the posy of crocuses as their remembrance of her? This would seem unlikely, as it was August. Just as the earth was about to be shovelled into the grave, she stopped it and asked if the posy could be retrieved. A ladder was lowered into the grave and the posy handed to the widow.

    By now the inward feeling was becoming evident in her face. Back in the house she held the posy and unwrapped the newspaper from around its stems. It was a clipping from a Singapore newspaper recording that the body of a young woman who had been found drowned had been buried in the Bukit Brown cemetery. All efforts to identify the body had failed and no-one remembered her. The only identification had been a wedding ring with the name 'Ann' inscribed inside. At this point the mother's will, not now the adversary of her conscience, finally broke, prompting loud sobbing and tears. When she regained her composure she sat for while in thought. She then thumbed through the telephone directory, noted a number and dialled, it. When the voice on the other end of the line answered, she replied 'British Airways? I would like to book a flight to Singapore, please'.