3 003

"Can you tell me about the history of the building?" I asked my interviewee, pen poised to take notes.

"The house was originally built in 1908, by a settler called Winston Brady. He lived here for about eight years before passing away and leaving it to his daughter, Maria, who was a prolific oil painter. She began giving painting lessons, which sort of morphed over time into complete school lessons. So from about 1925 to about 1935, the house was actually used as a school. Maria continued to live and paint here for many more years, and when she died in the late 1980s, the house was left to her children. But they had all moved interstate, and so the house was basically ignored and forgotten for years, except that the next door neighbour, who was a close friend of Maria's, tried to keep it respectable and keep vandals and squatters out. When Maria's children finally came back, they found the house absolutely full of these gorgeous paintings that Maria never really publicised, never sold. And so that's when they had the idea of turning it into a museum in her honour. "

I scratched notes furiously, despite knowing that I was recording the interview for reference on my handheld voice recorder. I was covering a minor story about the 20th anniversary of the little museum and gallery that was one of Cobbett's very few tourist attractions. Cobbett was certainly not known as a tourist town. A retirement town, maybe. The population had been getting older for years, and there was very little excitement to be had. Which was why I was there, writing an article for the weekend paper about the gallery.

I finished up the interview and thanked the manager for their time. It would be an interesting story, despite its lacklustre relevance. I took a moment to look at some more of the paintings. They were beautiful, though perhaps not as technically or artistically brilliant as the great painters through history. But they had a simple, earthy delight to them. They were mostly landscapes, though there were several series of detailed flowers, birds, and insects. They seemed to capture a very basic, but optimistic view of the artist's surroundings. I'd never actually set foot inside the gallery before, despite growing up in town and walking past it on my way to school every day for ten years. I slipped into another small room that housed dozens of paintings of small birds - wrens, robins, djidi-djidis and silvereyes. There was one other person there, which surprised me a little. It just didn't strike me as the kind of place to garner much of a crowd on a Tuesday morning. Even odder was the fact that the other patron was a young man. I'd definitely pegged this place as more of an attraction for the elderly. Still, he might have been an art student, or just one of the very few cultured men in Cobbett who appreciated things other than Emu Export and football. That gave me an idea, and I switched back into reporter mode and approached the guy.

"Hi there, my name is Bea James. I'm actually here from the Cobbett Chronicle, writing a story about this gallery. Is this your first time here?" I smiled my special journalist smile, the one that showed a lot of teeth.

He turned to face me, but didn't speak at first. He was definitely young, and handsome in an only-just-out-of-school kind of way. My smile began to drop as the seconds passed on. I wondered if he'd heard me, but, unless he had a hearing impairment, there was definitely no reason he wouldn't have. I was about to apologise for intruding and make a hasty getaway when his mouth moved.

But no sound came out.

My smile dropped completely, into what was probably a rude gawk. I was confused.

"I'm sorry for bothering you. I hope you enjoy the artworks," I stumbled awkwardly, smiling briefly before turning away. I figured he must be differently abled, and I'd just made a complete fool of myself and probably embarrassed him in the process. I began to hurry away when I heard something behind me. I paused and turned.

"First."

His perfectly pretty face was blank, but he'd definitely spoken.

"Sorry, what did you say?" I asked, smiling again.

"First." The word came out slowly, like he was unused to making the sounds. "First time."

"Oh, it is your first time here?" I stepped back towards him, wondering what his story was.

"First time... here."

"And are you an artist? Do you like to paint? Or just look at paintings?" I was aware that I was simplifying my speech for him, and speaking in a higher pitch than usual, like I would to a child.

There were a few beats of silence before he spoke again.

"First time. First time here."

I realised that I wouldn't be getting any useful information or grabs from him, but he seemed like he wanted a chat, and I still had a few minutes before I needed to go to my next meeting. I switched off reporter mode, shoving my notebook and pen into my backpack. I walked back into the room and stood beside him.

"Which is your favourite?" I asked, gazing at the paintings in front of us. He turned to look at the paintings. There was silence for a few moments. "I love this one," I said, pointing out a small painting of a splendid blue fairy wren on a twig. "The colours are incredible. The blue is so vibrant."

"Blue."

"Yeah, the blue, here. It's lovely, don't you think?"

"Blue."

I turned my head to look at him. He was staring intently at the painting. Suddenly his head turned to face me, and I was struck by his eyes. They were also blue, but there was something about them that seemed unusual, as if they were somehow brighter than most. There was also something incredibly familiar about his face, but I couldn't place it. It was like seeing someone famous in your hometown - you know the face, but it's in the wrong spot, so your brain can't connect the two. I gazed at his flawless skin, resisting the urge to stroke his cheek. I stepped back, realising we were much closer than seemed appropriate.

"You have blue eyes." I told him, smiling. I gestured awkwardly to my own eyes.

"Eyes."

"Yeah." I began to feel uncomfortable with our proximity in the small room, and made a show of checking the time on my phone. "I'd better get going. It was nice to meet you. Enjoy the paintings."

I smiled and waved a little as I slipped past him.

I thought I heard him say something else as I was leaving, but I was already passing the manager and saying my goodbyes.

"Thanks again. The article will be in the weekend paper. And don't forget to call Nadine if you'd like to place an advertisement to complement the story."

"Yes, I will, thank you," he said, gesturing to the business card I'd handed him earlier.

"The kid out the back seemed to love the bird paintings," I said, smiling.

"Who?"

"The young guy in the back room. He liked the wrens."

"Oh, I didn't see anyone come in. We're actually not open to the public today, I just came in for our interview. But I never turn away an art enthusiast!"

The man stood up and began to head out the back. I waved and left, noticing the "closed" sign by the door. I ran across the road and sat in my car, double checking the time of my next appointment. I had to go to the shire offices to speak to the shire CEO about the recent crack down on building approvals.

I started the car, then paused. I remembered that the gallery manager had arrived at the same time as me, unlocking the door to let us both in. We'd sat at the reception area opposite the front door for the interview, which had only taken about half an hour, and I'd never noticed the young guy come in either. I frowned. How could someone have entered two metres away from us, and slipped by with neither of us noticing? I peered across the road at the gallery. I saw the old man tidying up his things, then leave the building, locking up behind him. Half of me wanted to run over and ask him if he'd seen anyone, but the other half of me already knew the answer. I flicked on my indicator, checked my blind spots and pulled out, heading toward the shire buildings. I certainly didn't want to give anyone any reason to think I was utterly losing my marbles.

Which, frankly, appeared to be the most logical answer to the completely inexplicable and bizarre occurrence. Apart from ghosts, of course. It could always be ghosts.