Staring at the
pale sand and transparent sea below the balcony on which he
stood, Alexander Flint reached a conclusion: He didn’t
like beaches. He knew, as an artist, he was supposed to find
them a source of inspiration, but could never quite see the
charm. What could be considered beautiful in the faces of
screaming children, irritable parents and the obligatory groups
of apathetic teens, all insistent upon littering the already
polluted sand with not only their angry red skin, but discarded
ice cream cones, dog mess and plastic novelty items that would
be broken before they reached the car journey home?
Not that this opinion had caused him much trouble in accepting
the generous amount offered to him by one of France’s
most wealthy entrepreneurs when commissioned to stay in his
picturesque Brittany beachside home to paint a portrait of
his eldest daughter in the height of summer.
He had arrived at the Reynaud household this morning and had
been greeted by the well-rounded figure of Madame Reynaud,
who hugged him like a long lost relative and sent him up to
his room with the apologies that ‘monsieur has not yet
awoken but will call you as soon as he is decent’. Half
an hour after this encounter, he found himself standing on
the balcony of his room, still waiting. He was relieved when
the sound of a polite cough interrupted his contemplations.
He turned, to see the servant who had shown him to his room
originally; a peculiar old man, bent over slightly with age,
and in possession of alarmingly large and terribly solemn
eyes.
‘Monsieur –‘ the man began, but Alexander
held up his hand, stopping him mid-speech.
‘En Anglais. S’il vous plait.’ He threw
what little French he knew together. The man offered him a
nod and a smile in return.
‘As you wish, sir.’ He slurred slightly, in a
thick Southern accent ‘Monsieur Reynaud would like to
see you now. Please come with me.’ He strode toward
the door with decisive steps that didn’t match the hunch.
Obediently, Alexander followed.
They had traipsed down three flights of stairs and copious
corridors before reaching the pleasantly cool conservatory,
where the large, thankfully dressed, figure of Georges Reynaud
was reclined comfortably in a chair, a pain-au-chocolat and
what smelt like chocolat espresso steaming on the table in
front of him. Such breakfast choices explained the not inconsiderable
waistline.
‘Sit down, sit down! Help yourself to breakfast!’
His voice, as enormous as the rest of him, resounded, with
a slight American twang under the once heavy French accent
(too many business meetings) and with extravagant hand Georges
gestured to a heavily burdened trolley. Feeling obliged, Alexander
poured out some strong black coffee and placed a croissant
on to a small plate before joining his host. The old man who
had escorted him sat down slightly further away, on a chair
near the window, where he seemed happy to focus upon the view
rather than the company. Small talk soon turned to business.
‘The first thing you should know is that my daughter
is dead.’ Reynaud’s voice was tight but matter
of fact, his eyes scrutinising Alexander as he awaited a response.
Alexander blinked twice and took a sip of his coffee. Reynaud
seemed to take this as a cue to continue. ’She died
nearly six years ago. It was a tragic and unexpected death
that devastated the entire family. I have portraits of my
two sons, of my wife, but not my daughter, my only daughter.
She was so beautiful, Monsieur Flint, she should have had
paintings in galleries, not just on her father’s wall!
But she was young, never the patience – too much time
on the beaches! I fussed, and she would put it off every year,
until...’ He trailed off, momentarily lost in thought.
Alexander waited awkwardly, and found himself jumping in his
seat when Georges Reynaud snapped back to life and continued
as if nothing had happened, like a puppet pulled sharply by
its strings. ‘I have no painting, but I do have photographs,
and it is never too late, non?’ He passed an envelope
to Alexander, who opened it and removed the photographs, slowly
flicking through them, taking in each individual shot.
‘Do you wish me to paint one of these photographs?’
he asked.
‘No. I want her on the beach that she loved so much.
And I wish for you to use the photographs to paint her. That
will be possible?’ He sounded nervous.
‘That will be fine, monsieur.’ Alexander gave
him the answer he wanted to hear.
‘I chose your bedroom especially, so you’d have
the view. Guillaume will assist you however you wish.’
He nodded towards the old man, who sat still, staring out
the window. ‘I would like you to finish it by Friday.
That is the anniversary of her…’ He trailed off,
unable to find a satisfactory word. Alexander calculated.
That gave him five days.
‘If there is no change in our agreed canvas size, then
that should be no problem.’ Reynaud beamed: ‘Than
I shall let you begin. Feel free to help yourself to more
breakfast, or just ask Guillaume.’ He went to leave
the room, and had nearly manoeuvred his large frame through
the door, before Alexander called out.
‘Is there anything else?’
Reynaud stopped and stared back at him, adopting a serious
expression.
‘You come highly recommended, Monsieur Flint, I chose
you because of this. I hope you will be able to make her as
beautiful as I remember her.’ With a sad smile he closed
the door, leaving Alexander holding the photographs and staring
at a half eaten croissant. He only noticed Guillaume had moved
when his coffee was miraculously refilled.
‘Merci.’ He nodded. The old man laughed, though
his eyes remained as sober as before.
‘In English. Please.’
Four days had passed, and Alexander was nearly finished. He
had been working nearly non-stop, and now gladly abandoned
his easel, leaving it swaying on the balcony in the evening
breeze. He had painted the beach first, devoid of the tourists
he abhorred, before adding the young girl. Reynaud had been
right: she was indeed beautiful and Alexander felt confident
he had captured this from the photographs, each one a fragment
of her personality. Every day he studied them, until he found
himself able to concoct her image in his mind without any
photos: She’d had sleek, wind-swept hair, the colour
of autumn and her eyes, heavy with kohl in every picture,
were rich, like chocolat-chaud. He’d deduced from the
photographs that she’d preferred skirts, accompanied
by strappy shoes that accented delicate ankles. Similarly,
her slender wrists always bore a bracelet, normally gold to
compliment her lightly tanned skin. Alexander could easily
admit he found her attractive, but it was not her slim figure
he had found himself really besotted with – it was her
lips. They were quite thin when smiling, but when pouting
seemed to form a perfect cupid’s bow, screaming to be
kissed. Lips like those could do bad things to a man. He had
chosen to paint her walking down the beach, wearing a summer
dress, that fluttered in the sea-breeze, revealing just a
little of those slender thighs. She was looking up, as if
he had just caught her attention the very second she was painted,
her eyes bemused, her lips inviting.
Alexander watched the sand become a thin outline circling
the inky-water. He was waiting again. Guillaume admitted to
being very close to the girl, knowing her from a young age,
and it was through talking to him every day Alexander had
discovered the most. Her name was Sophia. She had been quiet,
fond of sculpting and French literature, and had been very
popular with the young men. She had, allegedly, died waiting
for one of these suitors on the rocks of the beach, trapped
and eventually drowned by the incoming tide. Guillaume had
insisted that for the past few years, he had always seen her
ghost wandering across the beach the night before her death.
Alexander had of course been dubious, despite the old man’s
insistent tone. Yet here he was, standing on his balcony,
staring out at what was left of the sand, the young child
in him anxious to see her appear. But there was nothing, just
as there had been for the past few hours, only the sing-song
shush of the waves and the moonlight in his eyes.
Alexander shook his head. This was ridiculous. How had he
allowed himself such lunacy? With a loud sigh, he picked up
his brush, ready to add the final touch of autumn to Sophia’s
hair.
Nothing could have prepared him for what greeted him.
No longer did a young girl’s black coffee eyes gaze
out at him.
It couldn’t be true.
Instead, lit up by the moon’s silvery light, there were
empty sockets, sunken in an ivory skull, sitting atop a skeletal
frame, from which putrefied flesh and ragged clothes still
hung.
He dropped his brush with a clatter, eyes wide as the horrific
transformation, as if it were alive, slid smoothly amidst
the still-wet paint. It was actually moving!
He was hallucinating, he had to be.
It beckoned to him with ivory fingers.
It couldn’t be real, yet still he watched.
A cloud passed over the moon, shadowing the skull, and for
a few seconds, he saw the girl he had painted once more, mouthing
to him, pleading with rose-red lips.
In one word she had him.
‘Please.’
The infatuation took over him, buzzing in his ears like angry
insects, swarming his senses with an insatiable lust. He was
no longer hallucinating, he knew that. She was here, and she
was lonely. He could feel it!
He moved towards her, reaching out for her cold hand, barely
aware that he felt not soft skin but sea-smoothed bone.
The next morning, Reynaud found himself talking to Guillaume,
rather than Mr Flint.
‘Gone?’ He intoned in French. Guillaume nodded
sadly.
‘Left all his luggage, monsieur, doesn’t even
look like he finished the painting.’ Indeed the canvas
bore only a picturesque sandy landscape, not the young woman
it had the day before. Reynaud shook his head despairingly.
‘I really thought this one was different, Guillaume.
He had real talent.’
Guillaume nodded.
‘Well, we have no use for another landscape of that
damned beach. Throw it away.”
‘As you wish, monsieur.’
The old man didn’t keep his word. He took the canvas
to his room, and placed it with the five others he’d
collected, each unfinished from previous years. He stood by
the window, staring out with sombre eyes. He could see the
truth, and every year, on that same night, he would watch
a couple, with hands clasped, walk into the waters together.
‘Maybe one day, Sophia…’ l
|
| Shortlisted
Runner-Up in the Summer Ghost Story competition was Beverley
Phillips, Wood Green, London. Entries shortlisted to final
judging stage were from: Kevin Burn, High Heaton, Newcastle-upon-Tyne;
Mike Callaghan, Beckenham, Kent; Beth Daley, Ulverston, Cumbria;
John Dorrell, Ansford, Castle Cary, Somerset; Phil Gilvin,
Swindon Diane Harrison, Barbourne, Worcester; Henry Highmore,
Wem, Shropshire; Melanie Keast, Eastgate, Cawston, Norwich;
Alison Littlewood, Sandal, Wakefield; Don Nixon, Albrighton,
Wolverhampton; Janet L Smith, Frome, Somerset; Rachel Sarah
Williams, Thornwell, Chepstow.
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