Julian knows he’s left it too long to do his duty. His heart sinks as he sees the large pink plastic box in which he’d dumped his father’s watercolours a year since; he feels obliged to sort through them before taking them to the tip. He knows it will be an ignominious fate after many hours devoted to rendering the beauty of the Welsh countryside, but from his point of view, as an expert critic, they failed in their intent. Dutifully sorting through them he’s suddenly stunned; one painting, signed and dated 1944, stands out from all the others; it’s relatively small, on thick paper, and extraordinarily beautiful. 

It is evening. The sun is setting. A glowing gossamer shawl of quin gold and burnt sienna covers all, fading into raw umber in the foreground. Hawthorn bushes are black silhouettes like vagrant ghosts, static in their endless wandering. There is no wind, no movement in the field of barley. The thick paper, amazingly, smells of summer heat. Julian can see nothing more than the landscape of which he now feels a part. At the edge of the field of barley, two brightly lit figures, sit side by side on folding stools behind an easel on which is displayed the identical painting he holds in his trembling hands. His incredulity soars. His heart races as the figures turn towards him. In disbelief he struggles to say the words in his head and finally gasps, My parents!

We wondered if you’d ever find us, his mother says.
How can you see me? You’re both long dead. You’re just marks on paper.
True, but here we are, from beyond our graves and you on your way to the tip. What do you think of our paintings?
I don’t know what to say, Mum.
You can’t think much of them, if you were going to throw them out.
How do you know that?
Even from when you were a boy, we felt your disdain.
Disdain? he asks, thinking, Jesus, they know. What do you mean ‘our paintings’? They’re Dad’s.
They’re ours. Why are they deemed unworthy? his father asks.
Your colour palette is weird and very …
Amateur? Lacks style? 
Sorry, yes, no…. This painting is beautiful. 
For once we got it right. All our paintings are about the joy of being and making. They’re life affirming. Ironically, we still care what you think of us. 
Why the word ‘our’?
Your Dad is colour blind. I’m his amanuensis.
Like Fenby for Delius?
Yes, but for colour.
But why haven’t I seen this painting before?
You were too full of yourself. Mr High and Mighty, with your art history doctorate. 
Oh, Dad.
It’s true.

Julian weeps. Eyes wide, he stares at the painting. Tears fall; they wash away his parents. Each tear splashes the paint. He sobs. Finally, all that is left, is blotched paper. It’s all too late, Julian says.

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More

© Phil Cosker 2023
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.