Mabel Braithwaite shuffled toward the kitchen, her legs moving in urgent response to the screeching kettle that was bubbling aggressively on the corner stove—its pitch rising to an ear-piercing scream.
"I’m coming, hold on. My legs are not what they used to be!" she mumbled defiantly, her tone decreasing in volume as the air left her tired lungs, reducing her last words to a mere whisper.
Having removed the offending kettle, she stood for a second catching her breath before gripping the heated handle with a dishcloth and taking it over to where her bone china cup graced the napkin-lined tea tray. The tray still gleamed like the day she had bought from the market, the picture of Charles and Diana in their wedding pose still looking up proudly from the plastic surface.
She poured the hot water over the Earl Grey bag, stirred it twice, then hung the string neatly over the cup’s ornate handle, leaving it to brew. The steam hung in the early morning air, highlighting the cold of New Year’s Eve. She shivered, pulling her old blue cardigan tightly around her.
She felt the cold a lot more these days and wondered if she would make her 77th birthday. Despite her doctor’s assurances about being a strong old lady, she felt decidedly vulnerable now that Ted had passed over—vulnerable and alone.
It wasn't because of the boredom, or the extra work that living alone demanded, and it wasn't because she was, as yet, grandchildless. Sarah, her only daughter, had turned out to be such a dedicated journalist that a marvelous career path had steered her into a marriageless life; she hadn't even provided a son-in-law yet, let alone children.
It wasn't that she had no friends, because she still had plenty left at the Legion Club, although they had mostly come about through Ted’s membership from having fought in the Second World War. No, it was none of the usual reasons that most old people face that made her concerned about what little life remained for her. It was simply because her heart had gone. Her heart had deteriorated to the point where she felt that each day could be her last. Her heart had been badly broken.
She spoke to no one about it, not even to her daughter with whom she was close, and she showed no signs beyond grieving to suggest to outsiders that anything was wrong. Most had assumed that she would be quiet for a while. The changes in her moods since Ted’s death in September were only to be expected. But she was in a deep and constant pain—a pain that she kept to herself.
Placing the milk back into the fridge, she picked up her tea, and then retired to her chair in the dining room.
The room was slightly warmer than the kitchen. Early morning rays refracted through the condensation that clung to the damp windows' glass, lighting the room with fragmented light from a myriad of tiny beads. Small dust particles hovered in the shards before scattering furiously as Mabel passed, making her way toward the window and the cushioned leather recliner that waited. It had been the last present Ted had bought her—the last from a lifetime of romantic offerings. He was always surprising her with gifts of his affection.
She hadn't wanted it; flowers would have done. Carnations were her favorite, as Ted well knew—it was too much money for a chair she didn't want. But Ted had insisted she have a comfortable chair to rest her weary bones. It was designed for bad backs, and that alone, he had said, should have been enough reason to buy it for her. Nothing was too much for his Mab, as he liked to call her. Since his death, she had felt an unexpected closeness to the chair and saw it for far different reasons now than he had when spending the last £300 of his savings.
It had been his last gift. The last memory she had now of Ted and their faithful marriage, and for that, she felt that a thread still stood for all those years of his devotion. Fifty years, just her and him.
None of her friends could boast that. The longest she knew otherwise was Stan and Margaret, and that was a mere 35 years—nothing similar by any comparison. How could any of them understand her pain—her loss? They could be sympathetic, sure; most had at some point lost a loved one or a close friend. At their age, it was almost a monthly expectation. But she kept it to herself. No point in flogging a dead horse, as she would say, so she spared them her troubles. Even if any of them could understand, what could they do? She was beyond words, beyond help. Nothing was going to bring Ted back. No, the best she could hope for was to join him, wherever he was.
She stared at his ashes above the tiled fireplace. They rested in a small, dull urn, copper in appearance with a tightly fitting lid.
"What am I going to do with you, Ted?" she voiced, looking to the black-and-white photo that hung central on the wall above the fireplace. All decked out in his shiniest dancing shoes and dickey-bow tie.
He was a handsome devil, she thought, as she had often referred to him when talking to her friends. Not like the urn that replaced him. But now he was gone and she didn't know how to proceed. How could she? He had been the strong one, the one who faced the important things. The months had drifted by since his departure, and all she had managed to do since was to cocoon herself somewhere safe inside. Confused and unsure, she had ignored everything of importance, afraid to face such things. The dusting and the washing had been the important things to her. Those she had continued regardless.
Time had no reason to mourn her loss, though, and the New Year had arrived in the blink of an eye, almost.
A New Year was a time for change; it always had been. A time for optimism—a time for planning the next year. They had always made resolutions—resolutions that had kept their relationship alive, stronger. This was the first New Year apart, and despite her apathy for life now, she knew and felt that some changes were needed. There were too many loose ends. Ted being one of them. She couldn't leave him on the mantelpiece forever. It just made her sad and he wouldn't have wanted that, but what to do with him, she couldn't decide.
"I don't suppose it's any good asking you to help me, Ted. You're not here anymore, so how can you?"
She stared long and hard at the image of his photo and didn't hear the phone for the first few rings, even though it sat right at her side.
"Sunbury 76876, Mabel Braithwaite speaking. Who's calling?" she answered.
"Mabel, it is me, Elsie. Can you hear me?"
"Yes, Elsie, I can hear you."
"Oh, I am so glad that I caught you. I have had an extremely hectic morning and I wanted to speak to you before I leave the house again. Can you still hear me?"
"Yes, Elsie, I can still hear you," she replied, raising her eyebrows, unsure of why she felt she would be hard to catch seeing as how she never really left the house.
"Well, I was at the shops this morning buying a paper and I bumped into someone—guess who?"
"I don't know, who?" answered Mabel, imagining a number of people that Elsie normally bumped into while just getting her morning paper.
"You will never guess. It was that artist chap—you know! That spooky artist fellow from the strange church that Albert goes to. You know, Albert Riddel, that strange man who lives next to Charlie. Charlie Fisher. Can you still hear me okay?"
"Yes, I can still hear you okay, Elsie," replied Mabel, totally confused. She took a mouthful of her warm tea, allowing her friend to continue, knowing she would anyway.
"Well, of all the strange things that could have happened. He mentioned you and asked if I would pass his telephone number on to you. Isn't that strange, don't you think? I wonder what he wants with you? He did not say any more than that and would not tell me why. He just said would you kindly ring him. He has something to tell you about Ted. But that was all he said. I am not the type to pry—you know me. I try to be discreet. Can you still hear me?"
"Yes, Elsie, I can still hear you. Who wants me to ring? Charlie Fisher?"
"No—you know… are you sure you can hear me? I said the strange artist. Brian, I think his name is. I think he also mentioned something about having spoken to Ted. Though I didn't like to ask what about. You know me—I am not the type to pry. Can you still hear me?"
"Yes, Elsie, I can still hear you."
"Okay. Well, here is his number. Do you have a pen?"
"Yes!"
"Okay. It is..."
Mabel reached for the telephone pad that sat on the adjacent table and proceeded to write down the number. She said her goodbyes and replaced the receiver. Rising from the chair, she made her way to the kitchen and rinsed out her empty tea cup.
Why would a strange man from a strange church want to talk to her, and how could he speak to Ted? Ted was dead. She leaned against the sink, trying to compose herself.
She watched a robin redbreast, which caught her eye - hopping along the fence in her rather overgrown back garden and for a second all thoughts drifted away. In that moment she sensed that regardless, life continues in one form or another.
Seconds later, she returned to the phone. She would have to call the artist to find out what it was he wanted; it was no use guessing. After all, he had asked her to, so it would be rude not to.
"Hello, this is Mabel Braithwaite speaking. Who am I talking to?" Mabel inquired as the voice on the other end answered.
"Mrs. Braithwaite! I am pleased that you called, and more than a little surprised considering the circumstances—especially as I am sure you would be more than a little confused by my asking Mrs. Jones to pass on my number. Let me introduce myself: my name is Brian Reed, and I am a psychic healer and artist at the local Spiritualist church. I don't know if you have ever been to the church? Anyway, you are more than welcome, although that is not the reason for my wanting to contact you. I am trying to fulfill a request, as strange as that might sound. I am not too sure that I understand it myself. I guess the best thing to do is to tell you what I know. What do you think?"
"Well, Mr. Reed, I am more than a little confused myself, to say the least. I guess you had better continue, although I am not sure what it is that you want from me. You're not wanting a new roof for the church are you?"
"Oh, it's nothing like that, Mrs. Braithwaite," laughed Brian. "I have a message from someone I spoke to named 'Edward', although he referred to himself as Ted. Am I right in thinking that you know, or knew, Ted?"
"Well, my husband was named Edward—Ted, as we called him—but he is dead now; died last September."
"I am sorry to hear that, but I feel sure it was your Edward that I spoke to. He said to ask 'Mab,' which I assumed was short for Mabel, about lending me an 'urn' that she has, for the purposes of a portrait I have to do. Apparently, there is a photo with some 'shiny shoes' that I need also. Does this make sense to you?"
"I do have an urn and a photo with shiny shoes, yes. But how did you know? Did you say Ted said this to you?"
"Yes, of that I am sure, but I wasn't too sure what he meant. I am still a little undecided even now that I have found and spoken to you. I am merely an artist, Mrs. Braithwaite. I specialize in portraits of people. People who want to be remembered—even though they are dead—so to speak. I create their likeness, although I don't normally use pictures of them. Forgive me for being a little vague here. Perhaps it will all make sense when I see the 'urn' and the 'picture.' Would that be at all possible?"
"Well, Mr. Reed, I am not sure what to say. I don't know, but if my Ted has given you previous instructions, then you had better come and see if these are the things that you need. If they are and you are to use them for this portrait as you say, then I will get them back afterward, won't I?"
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Braithwaite. I am only to use them for the purpose of creating a painting. If these items are the ones mentioned by Edward, then I assure you that I will return them in exactly the same condition as I receive them. I am happy to give you a receipt if you like—something to the effect of having taken them into my care and to be returned the same. I appreciate your concerns. No one understands sentimentality concerning the deceased better than I do, that I can assure you. Perhaps I could call later this evening, at say 7:30, when I finish church. Is that okay?"
Mabel voiced her agreement and then replaced the telephone receiver before returning to the kitchen. She decided to have a sandwich with her next drink and promptly removed the bread from the fridge, along with the semi-skimmed milk for her tea. She pondered on the nature of the phone call as she prepared her snack and though she was a little skeptical, she felt she could trust someone from the church so it wouldn’t hurt to find out what it was all about. And, if Ted had arranged something then she felt that she somehow had an obligation to see it through for him.
At 7:30 p.m. later that night, the doorbell rang. Mr. Reed, it seemed, was punctual. Mabel made her way along the dark entryway toward the thick front door. Having loosened the three chain guards and a bolt, she opened it.
"Ah, Mrs. Braithwaite, nice to meet you—God bless!" spoke the tall, polite man, bowing and introducing himself as Mr. Reed from the church.
He had a strangely endearing quality about him, she thought. His eyes were a deep blue and kindly marked, and his jawline was round and pleasing. Polite, too. Mabel sensed that he was a good-hearted man and invited him through to the dining room to where the portrait and the urn sat.
As soon as he had entered the dining room and saw the items, he knew what had been asked of him. He understood the message much more clearly now that he was looking at them. He saw the way Mabel was living; understood the scenario all too well. He had seen many like her in church. It saddened him, and he felt that his art was a way to relieve the sadness in some of them. It was his calling.
Having pictures of their deceased loved ones was a great comfort to some. The fact that the portraits came psychically was like the dead reaching out beyond the grave, wanting to touch those they had left behind. This would be the first of this kind, though. He knew without looking what lay in the urn. He knew what was to be done with it, and he also knew now why he needed the picture. This was not to be a psychic interpretation—not the usual image in his mind to work from. He felt excited and a touch apprehensive. This was more than he had ever done. Dreamed of doing, in fact. This was what he had trained for. Hoped for.
"And you say that you can get them back to me by tomorrow?" Mabel inquired again, slightly apprehensive about letting a stranger take away her deceased husband's ashes.
"As I explained on the phone, Mrs. Braithwaite, I will only need them for a couple of hours. Just long enough to do the portrait. I will have them back to you before you know it, I promise."
His manner gave nothing to suggest he was dishonest, and Mabel could not see the value in trying to con an old lady out of a black-and-white picture and a copper urn that contained the ashes of her deceased husband. These items were only priceless to her. She would do as Ted had instructed and would allow this man to use them for the sake of his portrait. She gathered them into a bag—a pink-and-white checked laundry bag that she used when hanging out the washing.
"Now, you're sure you will be back tomorrow?" she inquired once again, this time looking him square in the eyes, the bag thrust toward him.
"Yes, Mrs. Braithwaite—I promise. I will return your items tomorrow evening at around 5:00 p.m."
"That's fine then. My daughter is coming to see me at 6:00. She will be worried if they are missing and will only go on about security and strangers. But if my Ted trusted you, then I guess I shall comply with his wishes. He always made the decisions when he was alive. I have never doubted him before, so why start now?"
She handed the bag to the tall man and somehow felt a sense of relief as she did so. It was as if the matter was being taken out of her hands. She knew too well that his ashes would just sit there otherwise, waiting for her to make a decision. She couldn't, and although she knew she would not rest until the items were returned, she was relieved and slightly curious about the portrait that the man had mentioned. She didn't realize it until he had left and wondered afterward why she hadn't asked. Was it for the church or something? What had her Ted planned? He was always one for surprises. And why would Mr. Reed need the urn with his ashes? The questions came thick and fast now that the gentleman had left. Too late to ask now; she would just have to wait and see.
The rest of the day passed reasonably quickly, and the following evening, Mr. Reed not only returned as he said he would at 5:00 with the urn and the photograph, but he also stayed around long enough to have a cup of tea and to hang the portrait over the fireplace for her. It sat just above the urn, which was back in its place above the hearth.
Mabel was almost in tears when she saw how well he had captured the likeness of her deceased husband. She had guessed it would be a portrait of Ted from the fact that he had needed Ted's photograph, but it never entered her head that the picture was to be for her. Overwhelmed, she couldn't thank the artist enough and even offered him some money for his time, but he refused, saying that her pleasure was the only reward he cared for. "Your pleasure is my pleasure," he remarked.
They sat there for another 20 minutes as Mabel spoke to him about Ted and their life together, and he sat attentively listening as he drank his tea. It pleased him to hear her speak of their life together with such warmth and compassion and by the time he was ready to leave he felt he knew Ted.
He glanced at the picture as he rose from the chair; it felt good to have done this for her and he understood the situation far better. He thanked her for the tea and said his goodbyes, closing the front gate as he turned towards his car. As he left he re-iterated how lovely it would be to see her in church sometime. She appeased him by saying that she would give it some thought.
Mabel waited until he drove away before closing the front door, waving until he disappeared from view then quickly became preoccupied with her daughters impending arrival. She was due to arrive within the hour, so she hurried to the kitchen to prepare something fresh for Sarah to eat. She would, no doubt, be hungry after the trip from London.
Sarah arrived just after 6:15. It had been a week since she had last been round, and she was concerned as to how her mother was faring. They hugged as Mabel opened the door to her and warmly kissed each other's cheeks.
"Sorry I'm late, Mum. The traffic was horrendous as usual. How are you?"
"Oh, I am fine, dear!" voiced Mabel. She was starting to feel a little more at peace.
"Really?" Sarah removed her jacket and laid it on the stairs. "Only I thought you seemed a little down the last time I saw you," she continued.
She knew how much Dad had meant to her and didn't like it when assignments kept her away for more than a couple of days. She also knew how much the New Year normally meant to both her parents and, unbeknownst to her mother, had ensured her leave from work just so they could share the New Year together.
"Oh, don't fuss, dear. I am feeling much better now! Come through to the dining room," she said, turning away. "I have made you a little something to eat. No doubt you don't eat much at work. I know what you high-fliers are like. Can't look after yourselves properly. You need a husband to look after you—that's what you need."
"Well, you do seem to be more upbeat than when we last spoke," said Sarah, smiling at her mother’s newfound zest as they entered the dining room.
"I'll make you a lovely cup of tea, to go with your dinner, while you put your feet up. Have you seen my new picture?" she asked, entering the kitchen.
Sarah had noticed it before her mother had even finished the sentence. She couldn't fail to. The eyes drew her to it. Her dad's eyes. The kind eyes that had been imprinted on her mind since she was a child. They were truly her dad's smiling eyes.
"Wow! Mum, that is beautiful—where did you get it? I mean, who did it? When did you do this and who paid for it? It must have cost a fortune. What have you been up to, Mother?"
"Calm down, Sarah—put your feet up. I will tell you all about it when I have finished sorting your tea out. It is beautiful though, isn't it? I feel like I have your father with me still. Every time I look at it, I feel his presence. It is like he's here in the room with me. Oh yes, it has helped me feel a lot better."
Sarah moved close to the fireplace, unable to take her eyes off it. It indeed bore an uncanny resemblance to her dad. Although it wasn't immediately obvious, there was something very remarkable about it, and there was no doubting that it had presence. Like her mum, she too felt as if her dad was there, in the room with her. She studied the texture closely, intrigued by its hypnotic power. There was something else strange about it. It seemed almost 3D, raised off the canvas. Sarah looked closer, examining its finer points. It had a gritty look, not that of fine brushstrokes, but more so of painted layers—layers of sand, by the look of it. The finely shaped contours modeled a strange life-likeness in the layering; an effect that gave it depth.
She walked to the left, and the eyes followed. She walked to the right, and they followed again. She smiled to herself, never having gotten used to the way pictures did that.
Mum still keeps Dad's ashes, though, she thought, reaching forward. The lid was tight and she couldn't resist a look inside. Both she and her mother had not had the courage, or the desire, to look inside until now, but some overpowering feeling now compelled her to. It seemed light and she felt sad that a man so large and full of life ended up as little as this. It didn't seem right. The ashes were nothing much to look at. She failed to see how that could be all that was left of her dad. An inch of dull, gray, lifeless dust. It is true what they say, she thought, ashes to ashes and all that. Then, replacing the lid, she returned the urn to its place below the picture.
"Sorry, dear, did you say something? I can't hear you when this kettle boils," shouted Mabel. "I really should buy a new one, something quieter."
"No, Mum, I didn't say anything. I was just thinking about Dad. This really is a wonderful painting."
Sarah made her way over to her mother’s recliner, and stretching her legs out, eased herself into it. She yawned after the long day's work and rubbed at her sore eyes. She was tired. Her mother was right; she could do with someone to look after her. A husband, maybe. The demands of being a journalist didn't allow for much of a social life. Or not for her, anyway. Being top in her field meant that she was more often than not overseas, covering some major incident for the television news. Now, if I could find a husband like you, Dad, she thought, looking back to the picture.
It was as she looked up that she noticed something else about it—something she had not noticed earlier.
From the chair, it seemed different. From the chair, it looked as if it had two vertical smudges.
She rose immediately, her curiosity forcing her to investigate. She looked again from the right, then the left, then dead straight. She reached up on her toes, looking from above, then squatted, looking from below. She then did this from the left and then from the right until she had examined it from every angle and every height. How puzzling, she concluded, and sat back down in the chair.
Sarah could not see them from any other viewpoint; they were only noticeable when she was seated in that precise spot—in her mother’s chair. But they were definitely there. Two long, vertical smudges. It was the unfamiliar sight of them that had immediately struck her—that caught her eye—because it was something she had never seen. Never before in her lifetime.
It looked as if her dad was crying.