Short story: Beauty is in the eye

Her father may have had little faith in her, but Nadine had more artistic instinct than anyone imagined...

Nadine looked at the horse. It was cross-eyed – and an odd shade of mauve. ‘Oh, Dad,’ she sighed, stepping closer to the animal’s distorted face hanging in its frame above the fireplace. It really was dreadful. Her father, Bill, had painted it and then proudly hung it in his tiny living room.

It had terrified and amused friends and members of the family for years. Children would cry when confronted with its toothy grin and adults sniggered when Bill boasted of his artistic talents.

‘The eyes follow you around the room,’ he’d grin.

And Nadine would think, well, one of them does!

Now Bill had passed away, and she was sorting through his things, deciding on what to throw out and what should go to the charity shop.

Tears came to her eyes as she looked at the horse again. She just couldn’t make up her mind. Would anyone want to look at that ugly painting on their wall?

Putting on the kettle, she made herself a brew, then flopped down onto her dad’s favourite chair. All around her were boxes filled with his clothes, his books, and a few cheap ornaments.

The memories soon came flooding back…

It hadn’t been the happiest childhood for her and her brother, Mark. Their parents had rowed constantly – over money usually. There just never seemed to be enough of it, but somehow her father could always afford bits of kit for his numerous hobbies. He’d come home from his job having bought a box of assorted second-hand electrical parts and disappear off to his ‘laboratory’, as he called it, in the garden shed.

Nadine and Mark hadn’t been allowed in, but now and then, their dad came out with some radio-controlled gadget that didn’t actually work.

Poor Mum, thought Nadine now. It was only later in life Nadine had learnt just how feckless her father really was.

As he got older and his health deteriorated, Nadine had found herself having to care for him more.

She’d finish her supermarket job and head straight over to make sure he was OK. While she was there, she’d tidy up, clean the kitchen, stick a ready meal in the microwave because her father was never bothered with any of that silliness. Oh no, not Bill. He still had things to make, to invent, to create.

Nadine would find the floor covered in grease, the smell of some noxious solvent filling the air. She’d trip over lengths of wire and various tools and step between scattered nuts and bolts.

‘Night, Dad,’ she’d say each evening, leaving Bill with a hot meal in a tidy room, knowing full well she’d return to chaos the next evening.

Then, exhausted, she’d drive back to her husband, Dave, and two children. Thankfully, Dave would have sorted the kids out after school. But she’d still have chores to do.

She’d probably get to sit down with a glass of red close to 10pm – and be asleep on the sofa by 10.15pm. Now, sitting in her dad’s chair, with her mug of tea warming her hands, she stared up at the horse again.

If anything, her father’s ‘artistic’ phase had been worse than the gadgets and gizmos. Nadine would find paint smeared up the walls, over the worktops. Canvases would be propped against cupboards, an easel stuck in the middle of the room.

‘What d’ya think?’ Bill would ask, stepping back from some dreadful daub. And Nadine would be lost for words. ‘The pyramids?’ she’d ventured tentatively once.

‘It’s the Malvern Hills!’ Bill had retorted. ‘You have no eye for art, Nadine, never have had…’

So she’d learnt not to pass comment on her father’s ‘masterpieces’.

Sometimes Bill would head out to the local street market to buy picture frames and materials for his artwork. His preferred medium was emulsion.

‘You get a lot more for your money,’ he’d grin. ‘Those fiddly little oil-paint tubes are a con.’

But even though Bill would talk of saving cash, Nadine had to keep a close eye on the pennies. She knew her dad would happily blow it all.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the back of a very dirty canvas. Her dad must have bought it at the market and painted over whatever was on the front.

There was something written on the

she found the details of the TV show, and soon she’d sent off an email to them, along with her snaps.

Then she clicked off the light and headed wearily up to bed, forgetting all about the painting, sitting in its carrier bag under the stairs.

Until, one day a few weeks later, an email pinged into her inbox… It was from the TV show! Nadine excitedly opened it.

‘Dave, Dave!’ she screeched after reading it. ‘They want to know more about that picture. They say it looks interesting and want to inspect it further!’

A year later, Nadine reached for a glass of champagne as she made her way across the sumptuous carpet of the private art gallery.

On the walls, pale-faced Elizabethan ladies in ruffs, and Georgian gentlemen in powdered wigs, stared down at her from their ornate gold frames. The only sounds were the clink of glasses and the murmurings of well-dressed people standing around in small groups.

Taking a deliciously chilled sip of bubbly, Nadine moved among them to the back of the gallery.

And there he was, beautifully lit by a single spotlight – the rosy-cheeked man, who seemed to be raising his own glass of wine to her.

But he looked very different now. The canvas had been expertly cleaned and the brushwork shone out. The glass in his hand sparkled. His cheeks were even more flushed. His eyes glittered with life.

‘You must be so pleased with the result,’ said the suave gallery owner, coming up to her and extending his perfectly manicured hand.

‘To find a lost work of art by an old master is simply incredible.’

Nadine smiled. Yes, she was very happy.

But she was even happier that the painting would be going up for auction the following week with a very impressive estimate.

‘Very well spotted,’ the gallery owner continued. ‘What made you suspect it might be special?’

Nadine thought back to the moment the goofy mauve horse had winked at her.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll agree,’ she smiled. ‘You need to have an eye for these things…’

THE END

Andrew Shaw, 2020