Painted Ghosts by Neil Beardmore

Author:Neil Beardmore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Adventure
Publisher: Pneuma Springs Publishing
Published: 2021-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

6

‘A real tear jerker then. ’Lena sat on the long sofa. ‘A sad story of love and loss. It crosses lines — of marriage, of class and caste—’

‘That’s what gives it such beauty I think.’ Stella stayed glancing at all the drawings.

‘And why it’s lasted, ’Arun said. ‘I must get you more drinks — and some snacks. ’He left them, returning a moment later with juices and Bombay Mix and nuts and small pakoras on a plate. ‘It would make a good song. ’He smiled, placing the goodies on a small table in front of them.

Stella put a couple of pakoras on a small plate. ‘You’ve still got your wife’s piano?’

‘In the back room, just as she left it. No one has touched it since she passed. I think only a special person could be allowed to open it and press their fingers on the keys—’ He smiled, gesturing them to carrying on eating. Stella noticed Lena grimacing.

‘Here’s the last portrait.’ Arun held up a canvas showing the figure of a young man.

‘Oh but you’ve put a lot of effort into that,’ said Stella, chewing. ‘The youth, full of energy and love. He’s waiting for her.’

Lena got up and walked over, taking the canvas in her hands and scrutinising it. ‘It is you, Arun. You used yourself as a model in this one.’

He looked embarrassed. ‘The story is not done, really.’

‘But it is so much you, Arun,’ Lena carried on. ‘You’ve lost your Sohni, it’s there in your face. The face of a man cut deeply by love, yet with the vitality of a young man.’

‘You read in so much, Lena,’ Stella said.

‘A man still in grief for his wife—’

‘Lena, have a thought for Arun’s feelings—’

Arun gave a short sigh. ‘It’s all a myth really.’ He gave a brief breathy laugh. ‘Just like life — a conundrum — a bewildering maze we crawl through—’

Lena laughed. ‘Getting most of it wrong as we go.’

Arun took the portrait from Lena. ‘Life brings us one precious thing at least — experience — with which we can enlighten ourselves, or torture ourselves.’

Stella took a spoonful of Bombay Mix, spread it in a small dish and took finger-fulls. ‘Very profound, I must say.’ She meant to tease him, but realised it sounded ironic and mocking.

‘You’re so sceptical,’ Lena lightly chided her. ‘The man can see things, his art says so.’ Lena squinted at Arun, saying to him, ‘You have been there. Hell and back.’

Stella tensed her shoulders, pushing back her emotions. ‘You think because I’m not an artist or singer my every day hells don’t count.’

Lena turned away from her. ‘Did they find their bodies?’

‘Washed up on a sandy strip at the river bank. ’Arun poured glasses of pineapple juice for them. ‘Every year a group of people meet to remember the story.’

‘It’s become a cult?’ Stella sipped her pineapple juice. Probably Lena was yearning for a dash of gin in hers.

‘Just a rich man with a big house and wide gardens on an island in a river in the south.

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