PORTRAIT OF A LADY

                                                                   

                                                                         Chapter One

                                                                           Prologue

 

"Everything all right sir?" Steve heard the voice at his side and sighed silently. He knew that tone so well, and a sideways glance confirmed what he expected. A uniformed security man, who was not - despite his polite inquiry - concerned for his well-being.

          "Yes thank you," he answered, "just looking at the pictures."

          "You've been looking at this one for well over half an hour; don't you think you should be moving along sir?"

          This was familiar territory for Steve, and he knew quite well that it was not a question, but rather a command.  "Yes all right, I'm going now."

          Steve Farrah could not say for certain what it was that drew him to that picture. Something in the eyes perhaps. It was a portrait of a lady; probably in her early twenties, he thought. It was something in her expression that made him stop and look rather than her beauty. He saw at once that while she was not beautiful in the classic sense, perhaps lacking the elegant pose one often sees in a portrait of this kind. Yet her oval face was attractive and had a quality of a different kind. It was a picture of quiet contentment, and an expression which invited one to stand and look and search.  An enigmatic expression of a kind best known on another famous sitter, which also begged the viewer to guess her secret.

          Steve prepared to leave, certain that resistance would only lead to unpleasantness. He had enough of that already, and in any case,  he was not looking for confrontation. However, a middle-aged lady who, though slightly to one side had also been looking at the picture, tried to intervene.

          "But he is not doing anyone any harm." she said to the security man. He was unmoved and Steve lifted a hand in acknowledgement to her."Thank you, but it’ll be best if I go."

          He had learned from past experience not to argue. Better to walk out with some dignity, than to be physically thrown out. As he turned away he caught sight of his reflection in a window, and knew at once whey he had been asked to leave, for there, staring back at him he saw a sixty seven year old 'down and out'. His grubby clothes had seen better days; indeed they had seen better days when he first acquired them; and his hair was long and dirty. A similar growth on his chin and a face, which clearly had not enjoyed a daily wash for some time, completed the picture.

          Little wonder he was not wanted in the gallery, but as he left he could not help thinking of the time - admittedly many years before - when he would have been a welcome and much valued visitor. A time when some of the paintings on the wall would have borne his name. Steve Farrah - artist.

          "Perhaps it's even longer ago than I care to remember." Steve thought as he set of on the long walk 'home' pulling up the collar of his jacket as he strode away. It was small protection against the biting wind, but all he had until he reached the sanctuary of the hostel where he - and others like him who had found themselves on the edge of society - hoped to find shelter, and perhaps, a little kindness.

          He was not angry at being turned out of the gallery; there was nothing unusual about that, but he smiled a wry smile as he imagined the security man's feeling of self-righteousness. 'Another bum turned out into the cold night where he belongs'. And 'What's a fellow like that doing in an art gallery anyway?' He might just as well have said it out loud for Steve had read his thoughts, thoughts he mused, which did not in the slightest way acknowledge the spirit of the impending Christmas festival.

          He walked on steadily but in his mind he was back inside the gallery, and was mentally contemplating the picture of the young lady.

          "Was it that hint of a smile?" he asked out loud. "Or was it her eyes?" remembering how she had held him in her gaze no matter where in the room he was; as though he was the only man there.

          "It was as if she knew me." he half whispered, before another icy blast took the thought from his mind, and forced him to quicken his step..