Sample Tasters

PSYCHO-ANALYSIS

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THE PICTURE

I feel fragile. Clearing out mum's home is a task I'd rather not do whilst her loss is so raw. The cold unloved atmosphere is wrong; mum's home was always warm and welcoming. Moving through the empty rooms makes me feel like an intruder. Gerry tries to remain cheerful for my sake. But it is easier for him. He doesn't have the memories. This was my first home, the family home whilst I was growing up and past recollections press in on me.

Clearing the downstairs proves relatively easy. Neither of us wants to keep very much. Mum's furniture is old fashioned and won't fit in with the modern decor at home. I collect one or two small items I don't want to let go - Mum's brown earthenware teapot, a couple of large vases that are perfect for taller flowers like the Gladioli Dad used to grow - but not much. It's the same in the kitchen. We prefer matching sets of crockery and cutlery but Mum's are a hotchpotch of miss-matched items that are now, not to put too fine a point on it, cracked and shabby looking. I am beginning to think that my reluctance to get to grips with this necessary task was unfounded when we come across the picture. It was being used as a fire screen in what Mum always called 'the best bedroom'. My heart sinks as I recognise it. I had believed it long gone. I always loathed that painting. As a kid it had scared me half to death. Gerry's eyes light up as he spots it. I know his inclination before he voices it.

"Wow Christie, did you know she still had this?" I shake my head. "I think it could be worth a bob or two. Let's hang on to it until we check it out, okay? What's the matter?"

I don't want to explain my fears. I know he'll think me stupid and tell me that I am letting my imagination run away with me. But I don't want it in our home. It's evil. It always was. Childhood nightmares resurge. They taunt me. I hear my mother's voice echoing down the years. I hear again the derision of her tone,

"Don't be stupid, Christie. It's a painting. It cannot change. It does not have good or bad moods."

But it did. The face of the central figure - a richly dressed, beautiful lady of quality - altered according to her mood or to my young imagination whenever I felt that she was angry with me. When pleased her rosy lips smiled and her cheeks flushed a delicate pink whilst blue eyes gazed benevolently upon me. But when she was sad or angry - I shudder at the recollection - the lips narrowed, the pallor of her cheeks paled and enhanced the cold anger of the pitiless grey eyes. There was no escaping that vindictive glare because the eyes they followed you about the room.

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