The Enigmatic Painting
Emma sat in the backseat of the car, gazing out the window. Her spirits were high, like before a holiday—Christmas or her birthday. But her birthday was in December, and now it was July.
Behind the wheel was a stern, broad-shouldered man. She could only see the back of his shaved head, which merged into a thick neck. The sight of it repelled her. The driver kept his eyes fixed ahead, never turning, as if his heavy neck wouldn’t let him. Emma thought he might be a robot. She even leaned forward to peek at his face.
“Sit back!” the driver snapped without turning.
Emma flopped back onto the seat and returned to staring out the window. Fields, woods, and villages flashed by. They passed two cyclists, a man and a boy, who glanced at Emma through the glass. Her excitement returned. She was travelling to another town for the first time, to meet grandparents she’d never seen.
“How much longer?” Emma asked.
“Not long,” her mother replied from the front.
“Why didn’t we visit them before?”
Her mother muttered something indistinct.
“Is there a river there?”
“Yes. There’s everything there. Stop chattering. You’ll see when we arrive.” Irritation crept into her mother’s voice.
Emma fell silent. Lately, her mother snapped at everything. It had started when her father left, packing his things and walking out.
“Hope we get there soon,” Emma thought. “Maybe it’s a holiday trip, since Mum took so much—even my favourite toys. And my schoolbag. Why bring that on holiday?” So many questions, but she didn’t dare ask.
Leaning back, she hummed softly, one note after another.
“Stop whining! I’ve had enough,” her mother barked. Emma went quiet, sulking.
Finally, they entered the town. Emma pressed her face to the window as the car stopped outside a two-storey brick house.
“Here we are. Home sweet home,” her mother said, opening the door. The words sounded bitter, not joyful.
The house was old, grey, with two entrances. No yard, no playground with bright plastic slides and swings like back home—just two benches by the doors.
The driver unloaded their bags, then stared at the house. Her mother asked him to wait, picked up the suitcase, and strode inside. Emma hurried after. The door was wooden, peeling brown paint, not steel with a code lock.
“Open it,” her mother snapped.
Emma darted ahead, pushing the creaking door open. They climbed to the second floor. Her mother set the suitcase down on the concrete landing to ring the bell—but the door swung open before she could. A tall, severe woman stood there, silent, watching them.
Her mother lifted the suitcase and stepped inside. Emma followed, pressing against her. She knew this must be her grandmother.
“Well? Come in,” the woman said, not warmly.
Emma didn’t move, glued to her mother’s side. A tall, silver-haired man appeared.
“This is your grandfather, Henry,” her mother said softly. “Here are her things, her toys, her shoes…”
“We’ll manage,” Grandmother said curtly. “Won’t you even have tea?”
“No, the taxi’s waiting,” her mother replied.
Then Emma understood—her mother was leaving her here. She clung to her, babbling, “Mummy! Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”
“You didn’t tell her?” Grandmother accused.
Her mother didn’t answer, trying to pry Emma’s hands off. But the girl held on like a limpet.
“I’ll come back for you. Stay with your grandparents for now. Enough!” Her mother shoved her away.
Grandmother’s arms wrapped around Emma, pulling her close. She squirmed, twisting like an eel.
“Go… Just go!” Grandmother snapped, and her mother slipped out the door.
“Mum! Let me go!” Emma screamed.
Grandmother released her, but her mother was already gone.
“Emma.” Her grandfather’s calm voice broke through.
He stood tall before her. Emma shrank back, staring up fearfully—but he smiled, his eyes kind and curious.
“Come along,” he said, taking her hand and leading her inside.
Old furniture, a sofa, a piano against the wall. The room was cosy, quiet—just the ticking of the clock. They drank tea with pancakes. Emma had never tasted anything so delicious. Later, Grandmother took her outside. Two girls played by the entrance. Grandmother left Emma with them and went inside.
“Are you living here now?” one girl asked.
“No, my mum’s coming back soon,” Emma said confidently, though her eyes stung treacherously.
September came. Her mother didn’t return. Emma started school, sharing a class with those two girls—Year 2B. Living with her grandparents grew on her. They never argued or raised their voices, unlike her parents.
Lately, her parents had stopped talking, only shouting. Then her father left. Her mother often went out evenings, and Emma would stare out the window, aching-eyed, until a taxi brought her home. She’d scramble into bed, heart pounding with relief—then calm, and sleep.
She missed her mother, waited—then stopped. Grandmother mentioned once that she was “sorting her life out.” Emma grew up untroubled. In Year 8, Grandmother fell ill and died. Emma saw a grown man cry for the first time.
She and Grandfather carried on. Grandmother had taught her much—frying potatoes, baking pancakes, which shops had the best prices. After school, Emma went to college. There were no universities in town, and she couldn’t leave Grandfather alone.
One day, he showed her a painting on the wall. It was clumsily done—just shapes, a vague human outline. Odd amidst the floral wallpaper and dark furniture. Emma never asked why it hung there. She knew nothing about art, but even she saw it was worthless.
“Your dowry,” Grandfather said.
“This painting?” Emma blinked.
“No. Beneath it lies an icon—a real, hallowed one. Worth a fortune. You’re a wealthy bride now. I’m telling you so you don’t toss it by mistake.”
He pressed a slip of paper into her hand. “Hide this. Tell no one. If times get hard, sell it—but only to this address. Understand?”
Emma nodded, though baffled. Life went on, and she forgot the talk. Until, in her second year, her mother appeared. Emma knew her the moment she opened the door—recognised the weariness, the slovenly clothes, the missing teeth.
“Can I come in?” her mother said, irritation lacing her voice.
“You’re here?” Grandfather’s voice cut in behind Emma. “Could’ve called. Did another man throw you out?”
“Where’s Mum?” Her mother dropped a tattered bag.
“You remembered. She died five years ago. No one told you—you left no address. Why come now?”
“Don’t start. I missed you. Nothing’s changed here.” Her mother eyed the room. “Even that awful painting’s still up. Always wanted to trash it.”
“Not yours to touch,” Grandfather snapped.
Her mother hugged Emma, who stood stiff, feeling nothing. Grandfather grew agitated, his heart seizing. Emma called an ambulance. Pre-heart attack, they said.
Alone with her mother, silence thickened.
“Don’t glare,” her mother said over tea. “I was in love then—lost my head. We went up North. I meant to come back for you, but… it’s dark there, freezing. He didn’t want you. Only his own child. But I couldn’t… So he beat me.” She bared her broken teeth. “Once he died, I came. But you and Granddad aren’t happy to see me. I’ll stay awhile. Want to come with me? My flat’s still there—big city, universities.”
“What about Grandfather?”
“What about him? He’s old. Might not recover.”
“Don’t say that! He will!” Emma stormed out.
She returned late. Next day, she visited Grandfather in hospital. He perked up. She mentioned her mother’s offer.
“Don’t worry, I won’t go. She keeps calling someone about money.”
“That’s why she came. We’re nothing to her. But I’ve nothing left—gave it all away. Just the painting.”
“Where’s it from?”
“Long story. After the war, churches were looted. My grandmother took icons to hide them. Someone painted over this one to disguise it. Never saw what’s beneath. But it protected us—all my family came home from the war.”
Days later, Grandfather was discharged. Her mother had already left. Emma took him home. He lay on the sofa, eyes closed. She’d noticed the painting’s absence—but said nothing, not wanting to upset him. A pale square marked its place on the wallpaper.
Grandfather saw it and panicked.
“Your mother took it. Who else? She’ll sell it for pennies. RaYears later, walking past a charity shop, Emma glimpsed the painting in the window—its garish shapes faded but unmistakable—and she turned away, her heart finally at peace.
