Behind a Mask

She was a lonely figure.

Mark would pass her house on his way to work every morning and being a good neighbour, stop to make an effort to chat, but for six months, without response.
When they passed in the street or the terraced house where she tended the small garden, any contact was confined to a brief hello on his part and barely an acknowledgement on hers.

Almost 12 months passed before her grunts of acknowledgement altered but as he walked by her house one evening, she was cutting flowers and having exchanged the, by now, mutually muted greeting, she called out.

"Can you use these?"

The sound of her voice surprised Mark, and he would only describe the sight of the old lady holding out a posy of roses as delightful.
Her demeanour was abrupt and harsh, almost to the point of unpleasantness. But, the ice broken, he engaged a conversation referring to the beauty of the blooms.

Over following weeks mutual greetings became warmer and conversations began to take place. He discovered, she had been, like him, an amateur artist. Also, having both attended Salford Art College, albeit in different eras, presented them with something in common. Their relationship could almost be described as friendly, although, he would hasten to add, she was a little odd and very reclusive, any friendship would always be shaped by her terms.
In the mornings, she would be at her window with a smile and a friendly wave. On returning from work, she would be there to greet him either in her garden or behind her window.
There was an odd occasion; she would invite him inside for a cup of tea.
She enjoyed the limited company and living alone, Mark was equally happy to accept her hospitality.

Conversations tended to be abrupt, without reference or clue regarding her personality or status. In the main, they discussed art. The revelation that she knew a particularly famous artist in her student days came as no surprise.

Her home resembled that of a hoarder, paintings adorning every available wall space, together with occupying the nooks and crannies of each room. They would discuss work they'd produced and, although she could no longer paint, he came to regard her as quite a talent.

Mark's brother lives in Australia, so when the opportunity of visiting him for a month arrived, he took it happily and enjoyed a long holiday.

On arrival home his journey to work was disappointing, to say the least. The closed front door revealed nothing and it was noticeable that her small garden was dishevelled.

Several days later, a 'For Sale' sign appeared, so he enquired at her neighbour's house to learn of her sudden death.

There had been no mention of relatives in their conversations, she seemed to be totally alone in the world. Each time he passed the house which stood empty for several months, he'd wonder at the sadness of her passing, her loneliness.

Then a letter arrived informing him that she'd left a will and in it, bequeathed a picture that he particularly liked.

He complied with instructions to present himself at the house to be met by the lady's daughter who handed him the painting and invited him to select any others he would like.

"They're junk," she told him.
"Take your pick; they are all destined for the skip."

The daughter was like her mother, a bit odd but with a level of indifference that wasn't pleasant.
Mark decided against engaging with her, in recollection of the appalling way this woman's mother had met her end.

He chose a couple of pictures and loaded his car.

In a skip on the road outside, he noticed a substantial brown folder clearly labelled 'Salford Art College'. Curiosity demanded that he look inside where he found dozens of drawings and small paintings, all dated around 1930.
He determined rather than throw it away, he would ask for the folder and lingered at the skip, browsing its contents.

He noticed a sketch which carried the signature of the artist the old lady had told him she knew. He thumbed further and found eight more drawings with the same signature. Then one simply labelled 'You' that had a resemblance of the old lady and seemed to be of the same hand.

For several minutes, the daughter's indifference encouraged him to just take the folder home, but his conscience was such, he decided to speak to her.
Battling her apathy, he explained his opinion her mother was a considerable talent and the contents of the folder held essential exercises. Some by a famous painter, which could be worth a small fortune.

The woman became tearful, insisting that her mother spent her life painting, leaving her and by all accounts, her father, bitter and estranged.
Mother wouldn't sell any of the work, it became the love of her life.
She'd left home with her father as a young girl, and a good portion of his income went on the mortgage for her mother's house, leaving them resentful and incredibly short of money.

For almost an hour they drank tea from the same cups served by her mother, discussing the old lady's work and ways. The daughter's indifference visibly evaporated.

"You could have walked away with that folder… I wouldn't have known any difference."
She said.

"The will was transparent in its intention, Your mum's work was for you.", he told her, offering to retrieve the additional pictures from his car. She almost beamed a response.

"No… Please, a gift from me. And thank you for being a friend for my mother, something I'm afraid I never achieved."

In a short silent pause, her eyes filled again.

"If you hadn't come today, I would never have known.
The very idea of my mother caring? Thank you."

Mark stayed in touch with the old lady's daughter, and they became close, eventually joining together to enjoy the discovery of undisputed talent. The paintings, along with the contents of the folder, fetched a considerable amount at auction.