The Girl In The Painting
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 by Untreed Reads Publishing, LLC
Cover Photograph By Ilja Wanka, Fonts By Dara England
Also From Anne Brooke And Untreed Reads Publishing:
How To Eat Fruit: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/9216
Dancing With Lions: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/10355
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There was something about the picture that Celia didn’t like. It wasn’t the subject matter that disturbed her, nor even the way it was painted. She could see nothing to irritate her eye in the simple country scene with corn meadows in the foreground giving way to rich green hills in the more distant perspective. In the middle of the painting stood two young people,: a boy and a girl, perhaps early twenties, both dressed in bright colours. Red and blue. They were walking towards the hills. The girl’s blonde hair streamed backwards in the breeze as her face turned sideways to the boy, and she was laughing.
The way the girl laughed made Celia’s heart beat faster. It wasn’t an outright joyful expression; the side of her mouth that could be seen was twisted downwards and she seemed to be gently mocking her companion. Whether in seriousness or jest was impossible to tell; she couldn’t see the boy’s face, so could not judge what his response was supposed to be.
She wished more and more strongly that her grandmother hadn’t bequeathed the picture to her. When the package had arrived at her door a month ago, she’d been pleased at the gift, even though the painting herself had not been to her taste. She preferred her art to be more austere. But she remembered the kindness of the woman who in her final hours had thought of her and had not been able to bring herself to place it into storage.
So she’d hung it on the stairwell wall of her two-up two-down house; it was not, to her mind, a piece of art she could put in a room and live with.
For a while nothing was different. Celia drove to work in the mornings, came home in the evenings, read a little and went to bed. But gradually she became aware of the space the painting occupied.
She could be passing the item in question on the way downstairs or heading up towards her bedroom to retrieve a book when, without warning, some lure in the colours or the way the light fell on the corn would make her pause and gaze at the scene. She would peer at it as if searching for someone or something she might have missed – another person perhaps, or an animal. But she could never locate anything new. Of course. The useless search and the knowledge that she seemed unable to find the will to stop made her feel unsettled. It came to the point when she began to plan her day so that she would not have to use the stairs if she could avoid it; she brought all her books and papers downstairs when she first got up so she wouldn’t have to fetch them in the evening. She even left a cardigan in the front room so it would be a matter only of slipping it on if she grew cold.
When she had no option but to pass by the picture, she tried to avert her eyes, but always the scene would call to her and she would have to spend a few moments searching. For what couldn’t possibly be there.
It was at about that time that the girl in the frame began to move.
The first time it happened Celia thought she’d made a mistake. After all, it was winter, she was cold and later to bed than usual. As she mounted the steps, eyes prickling with tiredness, she felt something soft touch her neck, and she put up her hand to brush it away. At the edge of her vision, the picture loomed suddenly larger and it must have been the way the light on the landing flickered but she thought the girl’s hair swayed in the breeze.
She stopped at once, letting the air around her settle. She could hear the slight creak of the stairs underneath her, the hum of the central heating and the distant murmuring of traffic on the bypass. Her heart beat out a staccato rhythm and her legs were poised to run, who knows where.
After a few more moments, when nothing further happened, she told herself not to be ridiculous and stepped closer to the painting to check its layout. Everything would be the same, she told herself. Anything else was impossible. She was simply tired, that was all. Still she wanted to be sure.
It was not the same.
The girl’s face was turned more towards the front of the picture, Celia was certain. She was looking outward, onto the stairs where Celia now stood, one hand clutching at her throat and her breath coming in small bursts. The girl’s expression was quizzical, amused. But also puzzled as if she were pondering a decision she had yet to make.
She Celia was mistaken, she had to be.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’
Reaching out, Celia allowed her fingers to brush against the corn field, its yellows and golds dancing in the painted sun. Instead of the smooth layering of cold paint, she felt the warmth of the grain on her skin and, for a brief moment, a shock of female laughter filled the air.
She snatched away her hand and blinked. The space around her rushed in—: stairwell, landing light, the slope of the ceiling. All the comfort of familiarity. When she looked at the picture again, everything was as it should be. The blonde girl’s face was turned towards her companion in the position it had been painted in and all the corn field was still. Celia’s breathing slowed to a more regular rhythm.
She must have been dreaming. She was overtired, that was all. As she’d thought. With these reassurances, Celia prepared for bed. She even read a little and smiled at her courage and steadiness of mind in so doing. However, just as she leaned over to switch the light off, she caught a glimpse of something yellow clinging to her fingers. A tiny grain of corn.