|Grieving of the Butterflies (standard:Ghost stories, 2764 words)|
|Author: Hulsey||Added: Apr 16 2011||Views/Reads: 1607/917||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Are the two portraits of French medieval children really cursed?|
Spencer Pardew whistled as he paced along the picturesque and tranquil harbour road. The morning sun heralded another fine July day, and the thirty-five year old teacher was a content man indeed. He and his wife, Jill, had recently purchased a cottage in Whitby, after agreeing to sell their home in Loftus. The two teachers had found employment in a local primary school; the circumstances prompting their decision. Whist Jill was in the process of decorating the riverside cottage, Spencer had opted to visit the local market, which was situated at the foot of the abbey steps. He breathed in deeply, the bracing sea air filling his lungs. The squawking seagulls foraged for food and titbits that had been left by the early morning fishermen. Spencer mingled with the locals and holidaymakers, who had risen early to search for a bargain. After purchasing fresh fruit and vegetables, Spencer was attracted towards a bric-a-brac stall. His unblinking eyes focused on two oil paintings. The first was of a young, unsmiling, medieval boy, who was wearing a brown, floral gown, black hose and pointed shoes. His hair was cut in a pudding basin style. The girl, who bore a striking resemblance to the boy, wore a green, laced-up gown. Her hair was worn loose and was covered by a black French hood. She too showed no sign of merriment. “Lovely paintings aren't they, mate?” insisted the stall holder. Spencer examined them closely, but was unable to see a signature. “They're prints, I gather?” “I bleeding hope so, mate, or I wouldn't be letting them go for forty quid each.” The teacher tried to imagine them on the walls of his cottage. Even though he could not afford to purchase them both, he deemed it sacrilege to split them; after all, the children surely were brother and sister. “I'll give you twenty each for them.” The stallholder chuckled. “You having a laugh, mate?” Spencer removed forty pounds from his wallet. “Prints, you said. Take it or leave it.” Jill was sitting out on the balcony and sipping a cup of tea when Spencer arrived home. The odour of paint compelled him to join his wife. He kissed her, before gazing out onto the river. “I've a surprise for you,” he gloated. “Not more flowers... We've enough blooms to...” “No, not flowers... Close your eyes, Jill.” Spencer returned indoors to fetch the paintings. He placed them against the railings of the balcony and smiled. “Okay, you can look.” Jill did not seem too impressed. She cocked her head to one side and then to the other. “Paintings? You've been on one of your bargain hunts, I see.” “Well, what do you think?” “Honestly? I think they're grotesque and have no place in our modern new home.” Spencer shrugged. “I'd hardly call it modern... They'll look great either side of the fireplace.” Jill moved towards the prints and picked one up. She examined it closely, but still she was not convinced. “So who are they?” “How should I know... They're obviously French though, and if I‘m not mistaken, they‘re posing in some palace. When I see old Keller, I'll ask him if he recognises them.” “Miserable pair aren't they?” moaned Jill. “I just don't see the charm Click here to read the rest of this story (281 more lines)
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