The Girl In The Gallery (Short Fiction)
09th August 2015
In: Short Stories
Winner of The Ernest Walters Trophy
Open Short Story Competition
First Published in Word Craft Issue 23 Spring 1987
“Excuse me Miss, the gallery closes in five minutes.”
The girl started visibly at the sound of his voice then gave Sid a brief nod of acknowledgement before buttoning her coat and pulling on her gloves. She hurried towards the exit like a fleeing shadow, her swift, light footsteps barely audible on the shabby barreness of the tiled floor.
Before locking the door behind her, Sid glanced curiously up and down the road but the woolly grey skirts of November fog had already gathered her into its moist folds. The dim, sulphurous glow of a nearby street lamp reflected in the empty, wet pavement and, chilled by the smothering silence, he turned and briskly shut out the night.
It seemed, however, that an icy, nocturnal presence had invaded the gallery and lingered, invisibly, within its half-lit rooms. Even the pictures, a dramatic collection of wild, inhospitable winter landscapes, encouraged this sensation of rawness. Sid paused and regarded one of the paintings critically. It was a large canvass, bold and impressive in its choice of mountain subject. The artist has captured the cruel, impassive grandeur of the peak, shimmering in its mantel of snow and ice. The smooth, crisp lower slopes appeared almost innocent in their pure covering; in stark contrast jagged ridges and forbidding hollows taunted the observer with their uncompromising suggestions of menace. In the foreground, dwarfed by huge boulders and scattered chunks of debris brought down by frequent avalanches, a minute string of human figures struggled with the harsh terrain.
The picture was entitled “Final Attempt on K2” and a sticker on the frame indicated that it was not for sale.
Sid was, as a rule, unmoved by the paintings entrusted to his care. His job as attendant caretaker at the gallery had failed to instil much by way of cultural appreciation for the ever-changing flow of pictures offered for public viewing. “Pictures is just pictures” was the standard, curt sounding reply he made to anyone who enquired after his personal opinion regarding the often controversial exhibits. But the brooding atmosphere of this particular painting demanded a more positive reaction and Sid reluctantly admitted that, even for him, it held a peculiarly magnetic attraction. Its sheer arrogance mocked him, its ageless beauty beguiled him while the barely conceivable vastness of its contours struck chords of a nameless, primitive fear. Like some unholy, petrified monster its visage dominated yet beckoned, threatened but enticed and Sid wondered about the mountaineers who dared attempt to tame such a potentially murderous beast.
He shook himself from this morbid reverie and checked the doors and windows, drawing the blinds to hide the inquisitive layers of fog that pressed eagerly against the glass. Finally satisfied that all was secure, he switched off the lights and went upstairs to the welcome serenity of his modest batchelor flat.
The next day the girl appeared again. Sid thought it likely that she was an art student from the local college as they often came with their notebooks and their questions, chattering like excited sparrows while they discussed and expounded their views on the exhibits. Sid avoided them when he could. Somehow they mistakenly assumed that his proprietorial air indicated the intellectual perceptions of an art connoisseur. Thus their enquiries baffled and embarrassed him. The girl, however, sat quietly, unobtrusively, hands folded on her lap and her dark, solemn eyes fixed on, and absorbing, the frozen aura of savagery that emanated from K2’s treacherous countenance. A giant in the company of other giants, terrifyingly silent the Himalayan summit boasted a defiant, merciless reputation, towering in excess of 28,000 feet — the second highest peak known to man.
Two factors remained constant: the girl’s vigil beside the painting and the damp, unwelcome persistence of the unhealthy fog. As both continued into a second week they became strangely interdependent in Sid’s mind and he expected to see them. It was as if each gave the other a tangible, if ephemeral existence — the girl emerging from and then disappearing into the mothering arms of the fog. Sid rebuked himself for becoming fanciful in his old age but his speculations continued unabated.
When he awoke to a morning bright with winter sunshine his immediate reaction was one of unreasoned dismay. The city gleamed, wet and naked, now that the fog’s theatrical curtain had been suddenly raised to reveal the busy reality of its familiar streets. Almost reluctantly Sid began his daily routine, bringing in the milk and switching on the radio whilst he brewed a pot of tea.
The newsreader’s moderate tones went unheeded until a report on an attempt by a British mountaineering team to climb the notorious peak known as K2 jolted Sid to attention. Contact with their base camp, often irregular, had now been lost altogether and, for more than a week, the climbers’ position has been made extremely perilous by almost continual blizzard conditions. An unconfirmed sighting of distress flares had prompted a rescue party to set off but hope was fading as weather conditions worsened. At this point the announcement finished but Sid’s horrified imagination remained caught in that world of perpetual snow, as if he too were lost and desperate in the white wilderness, and at the mountain’s mercy.
The sun streamed through the windows of the gallery, highlighting each speck of dancing dust and creating an illusion of warmth where its shafts fell but the damp chilliness persisted, defying the brave attack. Sid adjusted the controls on the antiquated boiler but the pipes remained tepid and, if anything, the rooms grew colder. The morning produced very few visitors and most stayed only for a short while, shuffling and stamping their feet irritably before escaping back to the comparative warmth of the street.
Sid paced restlessly between the three rooms, looking up each time the door opened but, as he feared, the girl never came. He tried to ignore the painting but he felt like an alcoholic in the vicinity of a whiskey bottle, he had to look at it. He shivered and a sensation of panic rose in dizzy waves. He took deep breaths to steady himself but the air in his lungs stung with a rarefied coldness.
When he came to, an elderly couple were bending over him, the man loosening his tie.
“It’s the cold, dear, you really should get the heating fixed — it’s bitter in here!” The old lady looked concerned and patted his arm.
Sid got shakily to his feet and assured them he was all right. Shortly afterwards the couple departed and, as the place was now deserted, Sid decided to close for half an hour, take a brisk constitutional in the sunshine and buy himself a lunch-time snack.
The café was pleasantly snug and, after a plate of their soup-of-the-day, Sid felt relaxed and back in control. He was quite annoyed with himself for having passed out like that. Fainting was for old ladies and pregnant women not fit, middle-aged ex-servicemen with a responsible job to hold down. Perhaps he should have a check-up ’though, his nerves did seem rather on edge recently and he had been imagining all sorts of unlikely things.
The person in the seat opposite rearranged their newspaper with a noisy refolding of its pages. A headline caught Sid’s eye: K2 TRAGEDY — RESCUE PARTY FIND 4 BODIES IN CREVASSE. He squinted and leaned forward in an effort to read more. The article included photographs of the victims, amongst them the familiar, solemn-eyed face of the girl. It gave her name as Jacqueline Delasalle, experienced mountaineer, geologist and landscape artist, and also mentioned other, successful, expeditions in which she’d taken part.
It took something akin to courage to make his way back to the gallery. Sid turned the key with slow deliberation, unsure of what he would find. A cold tranquility greeted him. He stared at the picture, suddenly loathing its subject, then urgently searched for a signature. Almost shyly, the name had been added in a delicate, feminine flourish.
“J.Delasalle” whispered Sid. And, as his fingers traced over the four lost figures in the foreground, he felt the tears slowly freeze on his cheeks.
Open Short Story Competition
First Published in Word Craft Issue 23 Spring 1987
“Excuse me Miss, the gallery closes in five minutes.”
The girl started visibly at the sound of his voice then gave Sid a brief nod of acknowledgement before buttoning her coat and pulling on her gloves. She hurried towards the exit like a fleeing shadow, her swift, light footsteps barely audible on the shabby barreness of the tiled floor.
Before locking the door behind her, Sid glanced curiously up and down the road but the woolly grey skirts of November fog had already gathered her into its moist folds. The dim, sulphurous glow of a nearby street lamp reflected in the empty, wet pavement and, chilled by the smothering silence, he turned and briskly shut out the night.
It seemed, however, that an icy, nocturnal presence had invaded the gallery and lingered, invisibly, within its half-lit rooms. Even the pictures, a dramatic collection of wild, inhospitable winter landscapes, encouraged this sensation of rawness. Sid paused and regarded one of the paintings critically. It was a large canvass, bold and impressive in its choice of mountain subject. The artist has captured the cruel, impassive grandeur of the peak, shimmering in its mantel of snow and ice. The smooth, crisp lower slopes appeared almost innocent in their pure covering; in stark contrast jagged ridges and forbidding hollows taunted the observer with their uncompromising suggestions of menace. In the foreground, dwarfed by huge boulders and scattered chunks of debris brought down by frequent avalanches, a minute string of human figures struggled with the harsh terrain.
The picture was entitled “Final Attempt on K2” and a sticker on the frame indicated that it was not for sale.
Sid was, as a rule, unmoved by the paintings entrusted to his care. His job as attendant caretaker at the gallery had failed to instil much by way of cultural appreciation for the ever-changing flow of pictures offered for public viewing. “Pictures is just pictures” was the standard, curt sounding reply he made to anyone who enquired after his personal opinion regarding the often controversial exhibits. But the brooding atmosphere of this particular painting demanded a more positive reaction and Sid reluctantly admitted that, even for him, it held a peculiarly magnetic attraction. Its sheer arrogance mocked him, its ageless beauty beguiled him while the barely conceivable vastness of its contours struck chords of a nameless, primitive fear. Like some unholy, petrified monster its visage dominated yet beckoned, threatened but enticed and Sid wondered about the mountaineers who dared attempt to tame such a potentially murderous beast.
He shook himself from this morbid reverie and checked the doors and windows, drawing the blinds to hide the inquisitive layers of fog that pressed eagerly against the glass. Finally satisfied that all was secure, he switched off the lights and went upstairs to the welcome serenity of his modest batchelor flat.
The next day the girl appeared again. Sid thought it likely that she was an art student from the local college as they often came with their notebooks and their questions, chattering like excited sparrows while they discussed and expounded their views on the exhibits. Sid avoided them when he could. Somehow they mistakenly assumed that his proprietorial air indicated the intellectual perceptions of an art connoisseur. Thus their enquiries baffled and embarrassed him. The girl, however, sat quietly, unobtrusively, hands folded on her lap and her dark, solemn eyes fixed on, and absorbing, the frozen aura of savagery that emanated from K2’s treacherous countenance. A giant in the company of other giants, terrifyingly silent the Himalayan summit boasted a defiant, merciless reputation, towering in excess of 28,000 feet — the second highest peak known to man.
Two factors remained constant: the girl’s vigil beside the painting and the damp, unwelcome persistence of the unhealthy fog. As both continued into a second week they became strangely interdependent in Sid’s mind and he expected to see them. It was as if each gave the other a tangible, if ephemeral existence — the girl emerging from and then disappearing into the mothering arms of the fog. Sid rebuked himself for becoming fanciful in his old age but his speculations continued unabated.
When he awoke to a morning bright with winter sunshine his immediate reaction was one of unreasoned dismay. The city gleamed, wet and naked, now that the fog’s theatrical curtain had been suddenly raised to reveal the busy reality of its familiar streets. Almost reluctantly Sid began his daily routine, bringing in the milk and switching on the radio whilst he brewed a pot of tea.
The newsreader’s moderate tones went unheeded until a report on an attempt by a British mountaineering team to climb the notorious peak known as K2 jolted Sid to attention. Contact with their base camp, often irregular, had now been lost altogether and, for more than a week, the climbers’ position has been made extremely perilous by almost continual blizzard conditions. An unconfirmed sighting of distress flares had prompted a rescue party to set off but hope was fading as weather conditions worsened. At this point the announcement finished but Sid’s horrified imagination remained caught in that world of perpetual snow, as if he too were lost and desperate in the white wilderness, and at the mountain’s mercy.
The sun streamed through the windows of the gallery, highlighting each speck of dancing dust and creating an illusion of warmth where its shafts fell but the damp chilliness persisted, defying the brave attack. Sid adjusted the controls on the antiquated boiler but the pipes remained tepid and, if anything, the rooms grew colder. The morning produced very few visitors and most stayed only for a short while, shuffling and stamping their feet irritably before escaping back to the comparative warmth of the street.
Sid paced restlessly between the three rooms, looking up each time the door opened but, as he feared, the girl never came. He tried to ignore the painting but he felt like an alcoholic in the vicinity of a whiskey bottle, he had to look at it. He shivered and a sensation of panic rose in dizzy waves. He took deep breaths to steady himself but the air in his lungs stung with a rarefied coldness.
When he came to, an elderly couple were bending over him, the man loosening his tie.
“It’s the cold, dear, you really should get the heating fixed — it’s bitter in here!” The old lady looked concerned and patted his arm.
Sid got shakily to his feet and assured them he was all right. Shortly afterwards the couple departed and, as the place was now deserted, Sid decided to close for half an hour, take a brisk constitutional in the sunshine and buy himself a lunch-time snack.
The café was pleasantly snug and, after a plate of their soup-of-the-day, Sid felt relaxed and back in control. He was quite annoyed with himself for having passed out like that. Fainting was for old ladies and pregnant women not fit, middle-aged ex-servicemen with a responsible job to hold down. Perhaps he should have a check-up ’though, his nerves did seem rather on edge recently and he had been imagining all sorts of unlikely things.
The person in the seat opposite rearranged their newspaper with a noisy refolding of its pages. A headline caught Sid’s eye: K2 TRAGEDY — RESCUE PARTY FIND 4 BODIES IN CREVASSE. He squinted and leaned forward in an effort to read more. The article included photographs of the victims, amongst them the familiar, solemn-eyed face of the girl. It gave her name as Jacqueline Delasalle, experienced mountaineer, geologist and landscape artist, and also mentioned other, successful, expeditions in which she’d taken part.
It took something akin to courage to make his way back to the gallery. Sid turned the key with slow deliberation, unsure of what he would find. A cold tranquility greeted him. He stared at the picture, suddenly loathing its subject, then urgently searched for a signature. Almost shyly, the name had been added in a delicate, feminine flourish.
“J.Delasalle” whispered Sid. And, as his fingers traced over the four lost figures in the foreground, he felt the tears slowly freeze on his cheeks.