Thanks!! I've just copied and pasted some of first chapter as want to get an idea if it makes sense!
When the last child had been ushered out of the gallery the gentle sound of piano music could be heard once more. The occasional cough or musing from other visitors in the space did little to soften my concentration. I had been sitting there silently for maybe fifty minutes or so, staring at the face of the girl in the boat and wondering what she'd been thinking. An elderly lady approached, standing between myself and the painting, temporarily blocking my view. It was a welcomed pause and if nothing else a chance to gather my thoughts before feeling the need to look on. Seemingly aware of my gaze she turned to face me, her faded beauty a striking contrast to that of the girl on the water behind her.
"Most enchanting," she said with a smile, then she came and sat down beside me. She gestured ahead with her hand. "The use of colour and textures, it has such a Pre-Raphaelite feel to it. Very Waterhouse. So rare to come across a new piece of work with such classical style nowadays, don't you agree?"
A tight smile crossed my lips, eyes fixed again on the flurry of soft, muted colours held within the frame before us.
"Such a shame," she continued. "Such a waste," letting out a gentle sigh.
"Sorry?" The words seemed to fall from my mouth as confusion ruffled my silence.
"The artist," she said. "He painted this one stunning piece only to refuse any further works. Did you not read the catalogue?" She gathered the booklet from her lap, tracing the print with her finger. "Here," she said, tapping the page as she offered me the booklet.
I put on my glasses and glanced down at the glossy paper to see a miniature version of the very painting I had been staring at for almost an hour. There was no doubt it was the same piece but it seemed dulled and lack-lustre, missing the curiosity of the canvas in front of me. The image showed a girl in a wooden clinker boat, drifting lightly through her last days of childhood. Her tea coloured skin and sea green eyes seemed slightly out of place for the English country garden in which she found herself. In the foreground, lily pads cluttered the surface of the water, only interrupted by the hull of the boat. The girls body was mostly concealed, hiding all but her face and left arm outstretched, delicate fingers hovering gently above the water. She was slumped slightly over the left hand side, as though she had been admiring her face in the waters reflection before looking up at the painter, her eyes seemingly drawn to him. Her expression slightly hollow and showing little sign of shame at being caught in a moment of vanity. Quite the opposite, it was as though she would have drifted for a lifetime on the water, just for the chance of being seen.
The copy below the image read;
'The Waterpoets Daughter' by Dali M. Bird 1985 - .
No other known works. Kindly donated to The Beldon Mueum by the Darlington Winterfold Trust at the wishes of Sir Theodore Darlington.
The picture is believed to depict Sir Theodore's adopted daughter Jemima on the mill pool of their private estate, Winterfold. Despite Sir Theodore's long standing prowess within the artistic community he was unable to persuade Bird to expand his portfolio, making this piece truly invaluable.
"Could you imagine," the lady continued, "creating something so beautiful, and never persuing it? Not wanting to share that kind of gift with the world. It is terribly sad to think someone could suppress such talent".
"I can only imagine," I said, returning the catalogue to her.
"Take it," she said as she got to her feet. "Then you can keep her with you" eyeing the canvas once more.
"Thank you," I said. "Do enjoy the rest of the exhibition."
"I would say the same to you, but something tells me you're not quite finished here yet."
She smiled and made her way into the next room, following the choir of tiny voices that echoed from the next gallery on. I glanced down at the page and my mind became coloured with memories of Winterfold as I watched the inky letters dance upon the paper and found a stillness in her name - Jemima.
Almost two decades had been and gone, yet still on seeing her face I remember that day in the field as if it were yesterday. The most insignificant of details lay fresh in my mind, from the left canvas pump rubbing at my heel to the faded plume of smoke rising from the meadow in the distance. The stillness of our world interrupted only by a gentle breeze that picked up now and then carrying with it delicate clouds of pollen from the hedgerows. We were alone in the field, and content. We heard nothing but bird song from the glen beyond it and as we wandered through the tall grass, Jemima spoke to me of trees.
The field itself was bordered by a thick tangle of bracken and ferns. Looking back, I truly believed that Mim and I were the only two people who knew of it. A secret meadow that felt so far removed from the rest of the world. In the middle of the field stood a single, gnarled oak - the trunk of which was hollow for part of the way up. At the bottom, where the roots disappeared below ground, there was a hole that enabled you to climb up inside it. The cavity was small, with just enough room for two bodies to slip in, but when you were inside it was as though all concept of time and space dissolved, swallowed up by its frame. Mim spoke of that tree as if it had a soul, as if it once had been a person that she'd loved. She would tell stories of the tree with tears in her eyes and I knew that those tales must be true. That day, she had crawled up inside it and I had followed as I usually did, warm August air hung thick against the bark and the musty scent of earth clung to us.
"It's so very, very old," said Mim, stroking the inside wall, as if touching the rough timber was a way of showing her appreciation for being held within it. "It's just been standing here, alone, for so many years, most people have forgotten about it entirely."
"We know it's here," I said.
"Of course, there are a few people that remember it. It would be hard for them to forget given the circumstances."
"What people?" I asked, "What circumstances?"
"Never mind," she said. "I shouldn't have said anything. If I told you, you wouldn't come here with me again."
"Don't be silly," I said. "Of course I would."
"No. You'd be afraid," she said.
"I'm fifteen Mim, I don't get scared," trying to sound convincing. "Scouts honour."
"You've never been to scouts," she said.
"Oh alright, well hand on heart," and I moved my right palm to my chest.
"It happened about twenty years ago," she paused for effect. "There was girl, a young girl called Bessie Scott. She was out playing with her brothers by the brook. On their way home, they thought it would be fun to have a race. They ran so fast their legs were like jelly, hot panting faces glistening and their arms spread wide as to not be overtaken by one another. It wasn't until they were clear of the woods that they realised Bess had fallen back. They tried calling for her, shouting for her, Bess! BESSIE! but there was nothing they could do. She was gone."
I felt the hairs begin to prickle on the back of my neck but tried desperately to appear unconcerned. "Did they find her?" I asked, swallowing hard.
Mim shook her head slowly. "The boys ran home as fast as they could. Family and friends from the village combed the entire wood by lamp light, but nothing could be found of her except one of the two white ribbons that had been plaited into her hair by her mother."
"What happened to her?" I said.
"Nobody knows for sure, but a few years later her father was shooting in the field and came to rest under the branches of this very tree. As he sat back against it he noticed something through the small hole of the trunk, partly concealed by the roots. Something familiar that he'd seen before. He lent through the opening and slowly, carefully, pulled out a length of frayed, mouse bitten ribbon. He turned his head and looked up inside the tree and there, was his darling little BESSSSSSSSSSIE!!", she screamed.
I jumped as she lerched toward me. "Cut it out Mim, that's not funny."
"It's not meant to be funny," she said, unable to control her excitement. "It's meant to be true."
"Then why are you laughing?" I said. "We've been here more times than I can remember and you're only just telling me this now? You're just trying to scare me."
"Did it work?" she said, still tittering whilst gently crawling out into the field. I tried to compose myself but couldn't help looking up, imagining the body of a girl that didn't even exist suspended high above my head. I needed the open space of the field and as I knelt down to clamber back out, Mim threw a piece of muddied white ribbon down at my feet. "Don't forget Bessie's bow," she said.
I flew from the tree like a sparrow from its nest, taking shards of broken bark and emerald green moss tumbling out with me into the field. Mims smile faded and as her eyes caught mine a look of deep concern washed over her face.
"This will be the last time you come here with me," she said.
"It's fine," I mumbled, dusting the dry earth from my knees then sucking at a splinter in my thumb. "Your ghost stories just need a little work," I said.
"No. This will be the last time," she said. "I can feel it, don't you feel it?"
We looked at each other a moment longer before pulling ourselves to our feet.
"I've always wondered," she said, "If when we dream of someone, they know. If perhaps they have a dream that mirrors our own or whether they wake and just know that they have been wandering through our sleepy minds. Do you ever find that? Someone you haven't thought of for a long while suddenly enters your thoughts as if totally out of the blue. Maybe it's not out of the blue at all, maybe they dreamt of you and maybe you feel it somehow. But if you don't feel this now, the fact that we won't come here together again, well then maybe I've been wrong all along. Maybe people do just come and go through our thoughts with no rhyme or reason at all."
"I don't know Mim, I guess I've never really thought about it. But I promise, I will come back here with you."
She lent towards me and straightened the frame of my glasses, a subtle display of kindness that she rarely showed.
"We should get back to the house," she said, turning her face from mine. "They'll be wondering where we are."
"Okay," I said, and we made our way back over the fields in silence. The hazy light flickering though the distant trees, casting shadows over our sun warmed skin. Mim walked a few steps ahead the entire way back and I watched the colour of her hair deepen as the light began to fade. I wanted to ask her if she knew about my dreams or if she'd dreamt a reflection of my own. I had wanted her to know that she was always in my thoughts, even when I wasn't thinking at all. I tried long and hard to find the words but for some reason the right ones wouldn't come. It seemed the further away we got from the tree, the harder it was for me to speak, and my thoughts became muddled with the tattered white ribbon, splinters under skin and a promise that I just couldn't keep. By the time we reached the pool at the bottom of the lawn, the sun had slipped away almost entirely and finally I found my quiet voice.
"Jemima..." I said.
"I know," she replied. She didn't need to say anymore.
It's funny how a certain arrangement of words can touch you beyond belief. The sequence of those two tiny words at that precise moment have stayed with me all these years and whenever I recall the memory I still get the exact same feeling wash over me. It's hard to put into words exactly what that feeling is, but it is a kind of mutual awareness or higher consciousness that I have yet to experience again.