Doris by John Bailey Painting: The Girl With The Green Eyes By: Henri Matisse

Doris

I must tell it now, before she fades away completely, taking my memories with her. I saw her again early this morning, briefly and against the light, standing in her familiar place by the picture window, looking out at the view. Her smile was a happy one. She becomes more and more indistinct on each sighting, and her visits are less and less frequent. I'll be happy for her when she's finally gone of course, though I shall miss her dreadfully.

The house was so sad and lonely when we bought it, oh, three years ago now, that it's not surprising I didn't detect the presence of a ghost. The place had been standing empty for a number of years, pools of condensed moisture lay on the floors, and wallpaper hung in strips, falling from the walls. We were so busy thinking of potential that we weren't looking for ghosts.

Not long before our first sighting the house clearance people had visited and stripped the place. The one thing they'd left behind should have tipped me off. But it didn't register. Hugely out of style, a remnant of the fifties, it was an ornate wall clock hanging over the fireplace in the living room. I remarked on it, of course, and how it had hung there for those empty, silent years, keeping faithful and near perfect time. I even waxed a little poetic about it, defending it, saying that it had a right to go on keeping time in it's familiar home after such faithful service. The clue was the battery of course. It should have expired long since, the clock freezing to mark its exhaustion.

There were other clues, of course, though less obvious, but it wasn't easy to spot them amid the clatter of buckets and the fizz of detergent and hot water. And the agent had said nothing about a ghost, or much about the state of the previous occupier. Well, you don't mention a ghost, do you, when you're selling a house? Of course you don't, any more than you mention problems with the plumbing or the worrying crack under the window in the guestroom.

The first sign that Doris hadn't altogether vacated her old home came from Harry Cat. He and I were sitting early one morning, huddled by the electric fire, trying to get warm before starting the business of the day.

I was thinking about how long it would be before the heating would be installed and working when I noticed Harry was doing that psychic thing that cats sometimes do to keep you on your toes. You know. He stood up suddenly, fur bristling, looking at the door, then followed something unheard and unseen across the room to the window.

"Oh, come on Harry, you silly old thing," I said. "You're not going to catch me like..."

And that was when I caught sight of her. Standing by the window, insubstantial, a shadow of a shadow, was the image of a small woman, aged but straight as a ramrod, looking out at the view. I got an impression of sadness and of loneliness then... she was gone. Wow.

I'll not claim familiarity with ghosts of course. That would be too silly for words. But I do know enough about them to know when I've seen one. And enough to know they're almost never a threat to the living. Harry's level headed about these things, too, after the first surprise.

So although we'd been shaken out of our morning gloom, neither of us were much affected and, anyway, we had chores to do. Harry had an entire garden and set of outhouses to clear of mice and I had some walls to paint.

I made a note to mention it at dinner that evening, and put the thought aside.

Not long after, the performance was repeated. Now it was clear. We had a ghost.

My curiosity well stirred, I did some research. It seemed obvious to me that there was a connection between the poor trapped spirit and the previous occupier.

Many local people remembered Doris and her little dog very well indeed. There were tales of her lonely life in the house, her walks with the dog and, from less sensitive and caring sources, of her increasing dementia and eventual death from old age and neglect.

More importantly, I was told something of her life that marked her out for me as a remarkable woman.

A local girl, she'd grown up in one of those tight, respectable circles we English seem to form about us without much thought or design. She was well liked and her mother, with whom she lived, was respected. She took a nice comfortable position as sales assistant in the local everything for the home emporium. Doris did everything a good girl of her period should do, attending church, helping local charities, being polite and nice to everyone she met. Eventually she met and fell in love with a nice young man and everything looked set for a classic English middle-class life.

In those days an engagement was taken seriously, and at a leisurely pace, with marriage being planned for, and financed, very carefully indeed. Doris and her young man were no exception to the normal model. At first, that is. Then, out of the blue, the young man decided suddenly that things were going too slow and that he needed a sounder financial footing and a sight of the world before he settled down. And took himself off to South Africa.

There's a hole in the story here, accounted for no doubt by the protective circle that surrounded and supported Doris. It seems she folded her trousseau and her dreams, took up gardening, and settled to a quiet life, waiting for her young man.

He wasn't in any hurry to come back, though, and married a girl in South Africa. Doris remained faithful, and lonely, and the years ticked past.

Then, one fine day when she was a little over fifty, Doris looked up from her roses and there stood her young man, young no more.

What had happened to his South African wife I don't know but the reunited pair married, moved in with Doris' mother, and slipped into a happy contented life. I know she was happy. Lots of people have told me how happy she was.

The couple inherited the mother's house when she passed on, and then they retired quietly.

Doris woke one morning to find her husband had died in the night. The romance and happiness in her life died with him.

Again, there's a hole in the story, but it's not too difficult a hole to imagine being filled and tidied away and that Doris carried on as best she could. Judging from the relative state of neglect I'd guess she came to take much comfort in her garden again.

This is when most people's direct memories chime in and I have a good account of her, living alone with her little dog, walking to the shops and growing old and a little confused. Well, eventually, a lot confused. There are stories that tell, and some evidence was clear from damage and wear in the house, that she grew less and less able to cope with the burden of everyday life. Quietly and without drama, she became ill and died.

All in all it was an unremarkable life I suppose but it's not often you come across someone so faithful, so loving, and when you do the story of it should be told.

I think it was her confusion that made Doris so unhappy in her later years, that and the decline of the home she loved so much. And that's why she's hung around the house for so long.

She's reappeared in the same place and at the same time of day so often that Harry doesn't do more than lift an eyelid anymore. Her visits seem to coincide with the major stages in the repair and rejuvenation of the house. Rooms enlarged, fittings replaced, major improvements like the heating installation and running hot water. Each of these seems to have stirred her and on each visit it seems to me she's been less unhappy.

This summer the garden receives its makeover and then the job will be complete. I think that's the last thing Doris is waiting for. When that's done she'll fade away finally, happy at last that her home is in good hands.

All that will be left will be the clock, moved into my study now but still keeping good time. One day soon it'll need a new battery.

Bio: Henri Matisse 1869‚1954, French painter, sculptor, and lithographer. Along with Picasso, Matisse is considered one of the two foremost artists of the modern period. His contribution to 20th-century art is inestimably great. Painting Located at The Girl With The Green Eyes by Henri Matisse