PORTRAIT OF A LADY

 

                                                                              Chapter Seventeen

                                                                             Meeting Mrs Pollard

 

More determined now than ever to see the painting as much as possible Steve had made his way back to the gallery, and once more she was there. For a couple of minutes they stood side by side, each lost in their own thoughts.

          Steve almost jumped when the lady spoke to him. "

          "Hello again, you seem a little different to the last time I saw you."

          Steve smiled acknowledging the lady who had spoken up for him on his last visit which somehow seemed so long ago. "It was kind of you to come to my defence, but I think you are being very generous; I know I looked a mess. No wonder they threw me out."

          "Not quite as bad as that perhaps."

          "Bad enough; but just the same it was kind of you to intervene."

          "Well at least now I know what you look like." she said laughing quietly. But tell me; you seem to be very interested in this picture, I have noticed you looking at it a number of times."

          Steve had not expected any personal contact and was a bit uncertain how to proceed.  All those years on the road, largely cut off from human contact had dulled his social skills.

          "Yes ... It's very nice ... I ... " he stopped, unable to finish.

        The lady wanted more than that. "You've looked at this picture more than any of the others. I though you might have a little more to say than 'very nice' "

          It seemed like a rebuke at first, but then he noticed a slight quiver in the corner of her mouth - a fledgling smile - and by now he had overcome his surprise at being invited to offer an opinion, and managed a slightly better response. "It's the eyes I think; there is something in her eyes that er, you know, that makes me want to look at her."

          Fumbling his words he made a little embarrassed laugh "I suppose it sounds silly saying that, but she seems to be looking into my soul."

          "Oh dear, it's only a trick by the artist you know; they have a knack of making it seem that the eyes follow every viewer no matter the angle."

          "Yes I know. I used to be an artist too, so I know about that, but this seems to go deeper."

          The lady was quiet for a moment. "Yes I know what you mean: they do seem to hold you."

          Steve looked again at this lady, but now that they had spoken a few words she seemed different; more kindly. A lady perhaps in her sixties he thought, nicely spoken, quite well dressed and with an easy manner.

           In his life Steve had in many ways been treated badly by people, and, despite admitting that he was not without fault, as a result of that he tended to avoid contact with strangers. Yet he felt at ease with this lady, and with the thought that 'once this sale is over I doubt I will ever see her again' he felt an uncharacteristic feeling of boldness.

          "What do you know about art?" he asked, "why are you so interested?"

          "Ah well," she replied, "I am an artist too. Oh' not a professional like you," she raised an eyebrow inquisitively looking for confirmation, and Steve nodded. "but I've been an enthusiastic amateur all my life, and you see ... " There she stopped, but Steve knew that there was more. He waited, not wanting to interrupt.

          " ... I think she may be my mother."

          "My word; that's quite a claim ... what makes you think that?"

          "Oh' a number of things really. To start with I looked very much like that when I was young, then as I mentioned my father was an artist and there are some initials at the bottom of the picture.

          Steve bent forward to look. He had not noticed them before, but in the bottom right hand corner just discernible in the darkest part of the picture were the initials JJ. They appeared to be woven into the girls long tresses where they merged into the dark soft border - almost a vignette - of the picture. He had known many painters when he was active, and knew of many more from earlier generations, but he was unaware of any using those initials as a signature.

          "New to me I'm afraid," he said, turning to the lady, "but obviously not to you."

          "My father was an amateur painter too but he was not well known out of his own locality, and he died so long ago, before he had the chance to make his name."

          Steve was beginning to like this lady and was already starting to feel less anxious about the painting’s possible new home. "It would be wonderful for you if it really is your mother. May I know your fathers name?"

          "As a painter he was known as Joey Jones, hence the JJ, but I doubt that you will have heard of him, he died in nineteen forty when he was only twenty eight."

          Steve let the name drift around his mind for a minute or two before he replied. "Something is ringing a little bell somewhere; he was a little before me but perhaps I did come across his work when I was painting myself."

          Before he had time to consider further the lady was quick to ask a question that had eluded her some minutes earlier. "You say you don't paint any more?" she asked, "that seems to be a great shame."

          "Yes I suppose so, but events turned me in another direction. Life sometimes does that - turns you left when you want to turn right." he added.

          That was as far as he would go. This was neither the time or the place to bare his soul, but it did bring a response from the lady.

          "I've had a few 'turns’ in my life so I know what you mean."

          Even though he had felt very comfortable with the lady he felt it unlikely that she would be interested, or impressed, to hear of his life as a delinquent a down and out and a drifter, so he did his best to steer the conversation away from himself.

          The evening progressed and soon the viewing was over and the gallery was closing. As they left they both said goodnight to the security man - who gave Steve a slightly quizzical look - and then they stood at the door for a minute.

          "Will you be here for the sale tomorrow Mr. .er.. ?" she asked.

          "Farrah; Steve Farrah. Yes I hope to be here.  You too Mrs ... ?"

          "Good; I look forward to seeing you again. Oh', my name is Mrs Pollard."

          He made sure she was away first in her little car before he started the long walk home. It was not as cold as on the last occasion he had made this same journey, so it was easier. Neither did he have any anger in him this time as he had on his previous visit when he had been asked to leave.

          But he did have something on his mind. Not since Jessie had he felt any kind of attraction for a lady. He shuddered at the recollection. It was well over Thirty years since he married Jessica, and when she left him and took away his son she had taken his heart and soul with them. Not once since then had he felt the slightest desire for love, or even friendship. He had been on his own ever since, and he thought it was better that way. On his own he could not hurt anyone. On his own no one could hurt him.

        Just the same he could not deny that he liked Mrs Pollard.