By AndreaUKA
Published: September 5, 2008
Updated: September 5, 2008 PrintEmail
Rembrandt was the only object in the entire house that was worth any dosh and Grant was desperate.
"More tea, Ma?" he enquired, carefully arranging his features into a solicitous smile. Flo gave him her teacup, using her other hand to pull the woollen shawl tighter across slender shoulders. It was the end of September and the evenings were getting chilly. Frost threatened to nip and logs crackled merrily in the grate, casting warm, amber shadows on the painting hanging imposingly above the mantelpiece.
Grant poured steaming mahogany brew into white china. He'd spent several agonising weeks concocting complicated schemes with a view to getting his hands on that painting and thought he'd finally cracked it. Today was the day, he'd decided, for Mother and Rembrandt to part company and go their separate ways. And not, in Grant's opinion, a moment too soon.
Grant, whose appreciation of art was limited to leering lustfully at page three, glared at the painting with hideous distaste. Rembrandt glowered back stonily. Valerie Muriel Mckinley "Bloody gloomy thing," Grant muttered, thankful that Flo was a trifle deaf, "Depressing, if you ask me."
Rembrandt had been radiating cash for as long as Grant could remember. Flo, who seemed inordinately fond of him, had positioned her rocking-chair in such a way as to be able to admire the self-portrait constantly as she knitted endless multicoloured blanket squares for distribution to the worlds less fortunate souls.
Grant swore that she and Rembrandt (who'd been a wedding present from an obscure second cousin) smirked idiotically at each other across the expanse of the ancient Axminster.
"Nutty as a chippie's toolbox," sneered Grant. He was referring, of course, to his doting parent and not the second cousin, now deceased, to whom he was, he hoped, about to become forever indebted.
"Listen Ma," said Grant aloud, slick black hair glinting metallic blue in the lamplight, "I've come up with a great idea. You're going to love it." He handed Flo her tea and waited.
Flo smiled at him brightly and sipped.
Grant glanced impatiently at his fake Rolex.
Flo tucked a stray wisp of silver hair behind her ear.
"Yes, dear?" she said.
This was where it could get tricky. Grant's plan was designed to appeal to his mother's vanity. The trouble was, Flo didn't seem to posses any. Apart from a few outrageously expensive holidays, the only thing Flo spent any money on was her garden. And those awful wishy-washy pastel watercolours that she daubed at endlessly in what she was pleased to call her 'art studio'.
They hung prettily all over the house, jostling for space. Rembrandt was incongruously surrounded. Bloody silly he looked too, thought Grant, framed as he was in all his sepia solemnity by delicate shades of primrose and pink.
They were even plastered all over the loo. The last thing Grant wanted to see when he did his business, was a multitude of saffron blobs poking cheerily through jade stalks, waving against a backdrop of cinnamon stripes.
When Flo wasn't pruning pears, potting petunias or slaying slugs, she was locked away in her 'studio' producing yet another 'masterpiece'.
Running out of available walls, she'd even resorted to giving them away at weddings, birthdays and garden fètes.
Wheelie bins for miles around must be overflowing with the stupid things, thought Grant sourly.
Still, as gardening and painting seemed to be Flo's sole raison d'ètre and Kew Gardens wasn't, as far as he knew, for sale, Grant had decided to attack the latter.
He took a deep breath, cleared his throat nervously and launched into his spiel, "Your water-colours are really stunning, Ma. I've always thought so." He gulped tea, fervently wishing it was gin.
Flo eyed him warily from behind foggy bi-focals.
"Cake, dear?" she beamed, indicating a burnt offering sitting grimly on a teak coffee table that looked about to buckle under the weight, "I baked it myself."
"Christ, no!" groaned Grant horrified, but before he could stop himself, "I mean no, thank you Ma, I've already eaten. Now, about your paintings. Don't you think it would be lovely if more people could see them? Such a waste of a brilliant talent. They need to be admired, appreciated, enjoyed..."
Flo glowed at the flowery compliment and Grant, encouraged, pressed on, "What you need, Ma, is a gallery of your very own to display them in!" he rubbed sweaty palms together in nervous anticipation, "Well?" he wheedled, "What d'you think?"
Flo's wrinkles rippled and her eyes danced with delight, "Oooh," she exclaimed, " what a brainwave! Why ever didn't I think of that myself?"
Then her face crumpled, "But Grant love, where would we get the money?"
'Gottcha!' sniggered Grant, who was a Noel Edmonds fan. He prepared to deliver his coupe de grace.
"Now don't you worry about a thing," he smirked, "I've got the perfect solution. We'll sell the Rembrandt and buy a shop with the proceeds! Turn it into the best art gallery ever!" He held his breath, itching to throttle the old trout and make off with the painting there and then.
Grant, of course, had no intention of buying his mother a shop. He did have every intention, however, of paying off his huge gambling debts and buying Miranda that mink she'd been whining about for months. He'd worry about explanations later. Old bag'd probably be dead by then anyway.
Flo, meanwhile, seemed to be in a terrible flap. Her own gallery would, of course, be a dream come true. Elation, doubt, joy and indecision flitted in quick succession across creased, rosy cheeks.
"But whatever would your dad say?" she finally asked plaintively, "He loved that painting. And it was a wedding present. D'you remember when I sent it off to be restored? He was terribly upset. Missed it dreadfully, he said."
"Pa's been dead for 10 years, Ma," said Grant sarcastically, "so I'm sure he won't mind. Besides, your water colours are much more eye-catching. And just think, you might get famous!"
Flo twisted her hanky between knotted fingers. She looked at Rembrandt doubtfully. He winked back at her in the flickering firelight.
Flo seemed to make up her mind. "Alright, then. Why not? I've always wanted to do something really silly. I'm sure your Dad'd understand. Just think, my own art gallery! Will Rembrandt fetch a good price, d'you think?"
"You bet! In fact, I've a buyer in mind already," cried Grant, elated. Whipping Rembrandt from his perch before she could change her mind, he wrapped him carefully in the sheets of bubble-wrap and brown paper he'd had the foresight to bring with him.
"Wonderful..." sighed Flo, as Grant scuttled out, Rembrandt tucked tightly under his arm. He couldn't believe his luck. Almost too easy...
Flo sat immobile for a while and stared at the bare square that had been Rembrandt. The wall looked empty. The pastels faded into it and became one. Then, picking up her cane, she made her way slowly to her studio and unlocked the door.
She wondered sadly what dastardly deeds she'd committed in a previous life to be saddled with such a revolting offspring in this one.
Still, she had to admit the gallery idea was brilliant. Pity she'd spent all the money on those trips to France and Italy, educational as they'd undoubtedly been.
She looked round lovingly at the easels, the brushes, the paints and the palettes. Shelves heaved with books explaining how to 'Daub with Degas' and produce 'Stunning Sunflowers at a Stroke'.
Canvasses were stacked neatly against the walls. She drank in the golden sunflowers, revelled in the nubile dancing girls, sympathised with the sodden absinthe drinkers, admired the rainbow Haitian maidens and sighed. Shame, she'd been rather fond of Rembrandt. He'd been her best effort yet.
Still, it'd probably only take her a couple of weeks to knock up another one...
