PORTRAIT OF A LADY

                             

                                                                           Chapter Nineteen

                                                                         The Day Of The Sale

 

It was the day of the sale and the event had attracted quite a large number of would-be bidders, including of course Steve and Mrs Pollard who were happily exchanging small talk.  All that needed saying about the painting had been said but a cosy atmosphere had settled around them, both clearly comfortable in the company of the other. However, the enveloping bubble in which they contained was burst when another voice invaded their privacy,

          "Mrs Pollard?" it said.

          Mrs Pollard turned to face the man standing by her side.

          "Hello," she said easily, "I'm Mrs Pollard." and then waited for him to speak again.

          "I'm so glad you managed to get here. My invitation seemed to tempted your curiosity"

          "It did rather, especially when you told that one of the pictures might be of special interest to me. How did you know?"

          "It's a long story which I will tell later; but for now,  was looking out for you to take you to your picture but I see you have found it yourself."

          Now it was Mrs Pollard's turn to be flummoxed, "Yes I have, but I don't understand. You say my 'picture'; what do you mean?"

          Before he spoke again he guided Mrs Pollard away from other viewers, regarding this conversation to be private. "Well you see, I own the picture, that is I look after it, but for years I have been looking for it true owner. I’m so glad you responded to my letter.”

          “Yes. Well: that was very mysterious. For a while I thought you were trying to sell me something. ‘We have something in our gallery that will be of interest to you.’ it said. I mean, I sometimes get those kind of letters in my post and I usually throw them away.”

          “In that case I’m glad you did come as I hoped you to find the painting for yourself.”

          "You have me at a disadvantage, I'm afraid, I think you will have to explain." Mrs Pollard said.

          "OK, let me start at the beginning. My name is Paul Wilkins; and my Grandmother used to be known as Granny Wilkins. Does that name ring any bells?"

          A strange look was appearing on her face, as if she was beginning to understand.  " I think she might have been my Grandmother, at least I very vaguely remember a 'granny someone' when I was very little; maybe about four. But it's very unclear."

          "I think you are remembering Granny Wilkins. She lived next door to your parents before they died. You weren't related but most people knew her as 'Granny Wilkins'.

          "How remarkable. But who are you, what does that have to do with this picture?"

          "I am a Director of the Gallery,  and the painting, well, I think your father painted it."

          "Are you saying that this might be a portrait of my mother?"

          "I think it is." Paul answered quietly.

          "But how?"

          "How is a long story," he said," perhaps we should talk in my office."

          With that her away leading her by the arm, and leaving Steve with the portrait.

          Once inside he continued to tell his story. "It goes back to nineteen forty and the blitz.  "You see, my granny - Granny Wilkins that is - was a sort of granny to you when you were little, and a big friend of your mother and father."

          Mrs Pollard was dumbfounded. "But how do you know all this, and all about me.?"

          "Because my granny made my father swear before she died - and then my father made me make the same promise - to find you and your brother. He found it impossible, but in recent times with the internet and some changes in the rules regarding adoption, I have been able to delve where he could not."

          "And where did that lead you?"

          "Well, I think I finally traced you. with the help of a couple of private detectives. They did a lot of the work, and a family history specialist worked on what I had been able to discover, so it wasn’t just me.”

          “My word!” She said again. “All that just to return a picture.”

          ” Well no, not really; there’s much more to it, and because of it I was able to find your home address. But the main reason was to try to reunite you with your brother. That was the hardest part, for sadly that search still goes on."

          "But my brother died I'm afraid." A bold statement from Mrs Pollard and now it was beginning to get too much for her, preventing Mr Wilkins from making an immediate response. "If I don't sit down soon I will faint." she moaned.

          Paul quickly pulled up a chair and Mrs Pollard sat down before asking for more details.

          "The portrait is by Joey Jones, painted at about 1936 we think."

          Mrs Pollard was able to speak again. "Joey - of course that’s Joe Selby. I'd almost forgotten that when I was very young I was called Selby. Joe Selby; yes, he was my father. I have some documents somewhere, but I haven't looked at them for so many years I'd quite forgotten. I think my mother’s maiden name was Jones. That's where Joey Jones came from." she explained.

           "I gather you were adopted." Paul said.

          "Yes, my adoptive parents very good to me; both gone now I'm afraid."

          "I'm glad. Granny wanted to adopt you but they said she was too old. She would have been glad to know you were happy."

          "This is very strange, are you sure of all these things. And the picture, you said it is mine. Is that really true. Can I see it again?" she asked a little breathlessly.

          "Of course!" Together they returned to the gallery where they found Mr Farrah still staring at it.

          Mrs Pollard was quick to speak, "Would you believe it Steve? It seems that the picture already belongs to me and now I know why she is smiling." she added, quite unaware of Paul's quizzical expression; but she continued, "She was pregnant at the time; with me and my brother."

          "Do you remember your brother?" Paul asked.

          "It's rather vague, but yes I do remember him. At least I know what he used to look like: I have a picture of him when he was four. But he died with my parents when our house was bombed. 

          "He didn't die when the house was bombed." Paul said quietly but firmly.

          "He did; Well perhaps it was in the hospital afterwards. But I was the only survivor; they told me."

          "They lied." Paul answered briefly. "The lied to your brother too. They told him that you were dead."

          "I think I'm going to faint. But why, How do you know?"

          Quickly Paul found her a chair. "It's all on record if you know where to look. You were both adopted one each to different families, but somehow your brother faded out of the picture."

           "I don't know anything about that.  After my adoption I never heard anything other than he had died in the hospital.” Mrs Pollard said quietly.

          “There are some records of him but somewhere along the way he seemed to disappear. It has been suggested that he went abroad - but no one knows for sure."

          Steve had been listening to this conversation but had said nothing. Now he too was feeling uneasy. He was of course pleased that Mrs Pollard was now the owner of the painting. But something else was stirring within him.

          While Mr Wilkins was talking Steve fished out his little well worn wallet from the inside pocket of his coat. Fumbling with fingers that didn't want to work properly he pulled out an old dog eared photograph. "I've got a picture as well." he said. “Don’t know if it is important, but somehow I never wanted to throw it away. He handed it to Paul Wilkins.

          It was a long time before he spoke again but then he started. "My Grandmother, Granny Wilkins gave that to you." he said quietly. 

          Then while still facing Steve he said, "I'm sorry, I thought you were a friend of Mrs Pollard ... I didn't know that ... ?"

          "What don't you know?" Mrs Pollard asked her voice showing the first signs of hysteria.

          Paul did not answer her but instead he said, "The photograph you mentioned., do you by any chance have it with you."

          "Yes I think so!" She started to search in her hand-bag.

          Then he turned back to Steve. "Do you mind telling me your name please?"

          For a moment Steve was silent but then he found his voice. "I am Steve, Steven Farrah. I used to be an artist; in fact I used to exhibit here in this gallery,"

          “Please forgive me if you think I am being impertinent, but I don’t think that is your real name.

          Steve paused for a while. “It is my legal name since I was adopted, but yes you are quite right. Steve Farrah was the name I used when I was an artist,” he paused again as if he was trying to remember. "In fact for a while as Steve Farrah I was quite famous, but my real name is Michael Selby."

          Mrs Pollard was visibly shocked, and had she not been sitting down she would certainly have fallen. By now she had examined her handbag and produced an old photograph, which she handed to Paul. It was in somewhat better condition than the one he already had in his hand but that mattered little.  "I don't know why but I never go anywhere without it." she said as she passed the picture to him. 

          As Paul looked at the two picture it was his turn to be shaken and he too had to sit down. "I need to tell you a story." he said to the pair of them.

          "After the Selby's were killed by a German bomb, the last thing my granny did before their children were taken away was to tear a photograph in half, and give each child an image of their twin. She gave you Mrs Pollard the half showing your brother, and she gave you Steve the half showing your sister, so that you could each remember your sibling."

          Without waiting any longer he put the two halves together and turned them round so that Steve and Mrs Pollard could see the complete picture for the first time. The two halves were a perfect match, including the part at the bottom where some of Steve's foot had been missing.

          There was a long period of silence before anyone could speak, and it was Steve who broke the silence though only just.

          "Christine?" he whispered. It had been so long since he had spoken that word that it hardly came out. "Christine?" he said again. "Is it really you?"

          She turned, not to Steve but to Paul. "But Michael is dead - they told me - killed with mummy and daddy when the house was bombed."

          "Christine?" Steve mouthed the word again, almost to himself. "How can…....... they told me you died; in the hospital………………….."

          Paul spoke again, but this time to them both, quietly, softly and with eyes wet with emotion. "They lied. Maybe they thought it was for the best but they lied. The local council people thought it best for you to live separate lives; they didn't think anyone would want to adopt twins."

          Paul’s eyes were now  as wet with tears as the distraught twins as he told his story. "But they were wrong. My granny loved you both and she wanted to adopt you but they said she was too old. You lived with her for a month or two after the air raid and she was heartbroken when they took you away; but before they took you she gave you these pictures in the hope that one day, somehow, you would find each other."

          With that he walked away. He did not say a word; indeed, at that moment he could not speak but simply raised a hand. He knew that his part in a saga that had lasted nearly six decades was over.

          Steve and Mrs Pollard on the other hand had so much to talk about that neither knew where to start and were silent. When they did they both started at the same time, and remarkably both saying the same thing.

          They both laughed, a quiet nervous laugh, and without any obvious sign or gesture they both stood up, and in a moment they were locked in the tightest of hugs. After a long time they pulled apart, and it was Christine who spoke first. "Isn't it wonderful that those torn pictures brought us together?"

          "I don't think it was those pictures." was the reply she heard.

          "You don't? What then?"

          "I think it was our mother. It was as though she could see us. She was speaking to both of us through that portrait."

          "But how?"

          "I don't know but I felt it the moment I saw it. I almost imagined I could hea a voice but I didn’t know what she was saying."

          "Yes; I think I did too; so strange."

          She paused, before she spoke again. "How did you get to be Steve? And what should I call you?

          "It's a long story and I want you to hear it all, but from now on I'm Michael Selby again. Steve Farrah died today." He said emphatically.

         Paul had returned carrying a painting sized parcel, all wrapped and sealed. "I believe this is yours." he said handing it to them both. "Portrait of a lady” is no longer for sale."

          A little later while later when Christine insisted that ‘Michael’ should stay with her they were on their way home in her little car. As they were approaching the Salvation Army building, Michael asked to stop. “There’s something I need to do.” He said, and then he took her hand. “I’ll explain later, but, can you lend me ten shillings?”

          With that he ran into the building where his Salvation Army friend greeted him. "My word you look like a different person."

          "I am, I am; and it's partly due to you. One day I will come and tell you all about it, but for now here is the ten shillings I owe you."

          "My word,” she said, “so soon!, but somehow I’m not surprised. I knew that you are an honest man and would pay your debt. But my word, how did you manage it so soon!"

          "Yes I know, but something wonderful and totally unexpected happened. Soon I will come and tell you the whole story; and I want you to meet a very special lady.

          “That sounds very exciting.” she replied.

          “It is, it is. But the money! Oh no." Michael exclaimed. “My debt to you is far greater than ten shillings.”

          With that he left the building and ran to Christine's car and jumped in. "There's so much to tell you that I don't know where to start."

          "Why don't you start at the beginning?" Christine said quietly.

          " Oh that will take forever. In any case I'm not sure just where the beginning is. Was it the bomb? I can't remember that. Was it Bill Farrah; I loved him like a father? Or was it Brook Farm?

          At that Michael shouted. "Oh my God."

          "What is it? Christine said, as she brought the car to a halt.

          "Brook Farm! That's the reason I came back, and so much has happened that I had forgotten all about it."

          "We'll be home soon and we have a lot of catching up to do. A cup of tea and then we can both tell our story's - from the beginning."

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                                                                               The End

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C  2010 Michael G Kimber