PORTRAIT OF A LADY

 

                                                         Chapter Thirteen

                                                         Life On The Road

 

After Jessica and Stewart's departure Steve was dejected beyond words, gradually losing all interest in the farm, and in the process selling off all his livestock at the local market at far less that the 'going' price. His situation had become common knowledge; everyone knew he was having a hard time and that there were bargains to be had. Thoughts of fair play and neighbourliness were discarded by most of the buyers ; not least because they were having a hard time too.

          He resolved to devote himself to painting but the dark mood permeated his work. Where before he had found a unique way to capture the essence of nature in its constant battle between life and death. Uniquely he had been able to convey the difference between predator and prey and the often very fine line between eating or being eaten. Above all his paintings captured the essence of life, through birth to death. 

          Now he could no longer portray that essence, the very meaning of what life, and death, was about. Where this had been at the heart of his early work. now all he could produce was cliché after cliché.

          That which had elevated him into the higher echelons of the art world was no longer there, and his fall from grace was even more rapid than his rise. What distinguished the difference however was that during his rise there had been people all around to cheer him on and to share in his glory. But there is no glory in being yesterday's man and by contrast the way down was silent and lonely.

          Despite his success financially he continued to struggle. The cost of celebrity were high, and most of his surplus money had been used to support the farm. Debts had outstripped the cash he had raised by selling his cattle and what monies he had been able to put by had largely been absorbed by trying, over recent, years to keep the farm afloat safe in the knowledge that his paintings would continue to provide a steady income. Attempts to sell off the rest of the land had proved futile. Little of what was left was considered suitable for building and it was of little use for anything else. Apart from a narrow strip by the trees and the brook Just one small field remained. At the top end of that field stood the house with the quadrangle at its front and the outhouses behind. It was all he had left and as none of the buildings were in good repair and as the house had not been modernized its value was minimal. Eventually it fetched a meager price allied to suggestions that it would most likely be demolished.

          'How the mighty are fallen', Steve mused knowing he was at the brink of bankruptcy.

          Just one small crumb of comfort was left to him, namely the stream and the trees along its length, and the narrow strip of land that accompanied it. Still his by virtue of the fact that no one wanted it. Until recently his livestock had shared that small oasis and now they were gone. Only the birds and the visiting wild-life, plus the small life that scurried in the fallen leaves and undergrowth, or those which found a home in the brook were left.

          Until something happened to lead him elsewhere 'Farrah's Haven' as he had decided to call it, would have to be his home too. Although he did not name it after himself, but rather his mentor and friend William, he knew all too well that it had been his haven too.

          All too soon the bulldozes arrived but before they came Steve had managed rescue some tarpaulin sheets and wood with which to construct a shelter for himself and for his paintings, those not yet complete, or not yet sold. Quite what he proposed to do with them hed not yet been decided, but that problem was soon decided, for his stay there in his little paradise was to be short lived. He was visited by a council official who told him that he still owned that small piece of land but he no longer had a legal right of access to it via the farmhouse entrance. There was an old right of way from the back of the old trading estate to his land over the little bridge where  Steve had first encountered Old Man Farrah. However its exit at the other side of the field had long since been lost to the builders, where it disappeared  beneath the houses so as it had become unused and abandoned no right of way existed over the little bridge and that an application for him to create some kind of shelter on his little strip of land would not be granted.

          Everything was working against him and Steve felt it was all over. He was back in no man's land just as he had been all those years ago. Once again it was him against the world but back then he was a kid, streetwise and fearless. What he didn't know he learned quickly in the remand home and later as a juvenile delinquent. Then he had nothing and there had been nothing to loose. Now he had lost everything. His home and all its contents, his career, his wife, his son, his good name, his reputation, and his dignity. Everything was gone and as his debts had become greater than his assets, he was bankrupt.

          A few weeks of camping out did nothing to settle his mind and slowly he came to a decision. He resolved to leave it all behind and take to the road until something turned up; something, somewhere, anything, anywhere.

          But there was just one thing he had to do before he left. He collected all the painting which he had rescued from where Farrah's car used to be. There and then he made a bonfire on which he burned every one. Technically they were not his any more they having been included in the sale of the house for a nominal value of on pound each. He laughed out loud as he heaped them one by one onto the fire. Somehow it amused him to remember that when he was sitting on top of the world all his work had a minimum value of at least five thousand pounds; indeed on one occasion at auction one picture had reached the staggering sum of fourteen thousand.

          "Here’s another pound." he called as yet another 'masterpiece' was hurled into the flames.

          Then he was off, the flames still burning, and without a backward glance he strode into a new life. He had packed all he could carry into a large rucksack little knowing where he was heading or where he might end up. All he knew was that there was nothing left for him at Brook Farm. He was no longer a farmer, no longer an artist, no longer a husband and father, he was nothing. And he took nothing other than what he could carry save memories. Weightless happy ones in abundance to be sure, side by side with an equal quantity of sad ones which weighed heavy. Good or bad he hoped they would stay with him for the rest of his life.

          Curiously few of his memories were of times before Farrah. In a way that even now he could not fully evaluate, his life had started with Farrah and he knew he would never forget him. Most curious of all however as he took those first steps away from what had been his home for three decades, was that he felt happy. With each stride he felt his burden lighten, with every yard he felt a little more spring in his step. He had no illusions that ahead of him there would be some hard times, but he had no fear of the future or of the unknown. It was familiar territory; he'd been there before and now he was on his way again.

          Steve had no idea how far he walked that day or that first week. Once past the familiarity of his local area he deliberately chose the cover of wooded or open country, carefully checking that there was no one working the fields, using the roads only as a last resort. It was a cloudy period of weather with the threat of rain, but it was summertime so not too cold. Had it not been for the energetic pace he might have felt cold in the gusty breeze but he was determined to make a good start. By each nightfall he wanted to be as far away from Brook farm as was possible, and he didn't care in which direction he was going. It was as though he did not want to know where he would spend his nights as a 'Man of the road'.

          Steve consciously entered this latest - possibly the last - phase in his life with as little thought of the future as possible. After the bomb destroyed his home and all that he knew, he'd had a decade of foster homes and institutions, followed by a decade with Farrah. Then he had a decade with Jessica until she left and then there was a decade on his own. It was as if some unknown force had laid out his life all neat and precise. He laughed at the thought for it could not have been further from the truth.

          At first he had lived rough in woods or any place he could find away from people. But as the months passed so the winter approached and he knew that he needed to find shelter of a more substantial nature.

          It was here that he first tasted the ambiguity of life on the road. It might unsettle him, but it might also carry him through. He had found shelter in a dense copse which he thought would be free from unexpected visitors but was surprised when, at early light he was awakened by someone gently kicking his foot. He sat up to find himself looking at the wrong end of a shotgun.

          "Who are you?" a young man was asking.

          Despite his sleepy state Steve quickly appraised the situation. "My name’s Farrah, Steve Farrah." he answered.

          "What are you doing here?" the man asked.

          The man with the gun was about thirty, some twenty years Steve's junior, well built and tall, at least from Steve’s lowly position, and well built. His questions were asked firmly, but not too aggressively. "I was spending the night here. I thought I was out of everyone’s way." Steve replied. "Sorry. I'm usually away before anyone knows I have been on their land, and I try not to leave any evidence. I'm sorry that you caught me napping. I will not stay on your land any more if you don't want me to."

          "You're on my land; trespassing!" the young man said, somewhat bruskly "Did you not feel that you should have asked my permission?"

          "I'm sorry; but you see..." Steve was lost for words for a moment and he was interrupted by the man with the gun. "Let's see that it's the last time."

          "Yes I will, but you see it isn't easy to find places where I am not in anyone’s way or causing a problem, and I do try to leave a place with no evidence of my having been there."

          As he spoke Steve was getting to his feet and he was surprised to hear what at first he thought was chuckle, but given the man's somewhat haughty attitude he concluded that it was more likely to be barbed sarcasm.

          "You been here before then?"

          "Yes; a few times actually. Anyway I'll be off presently."

          "Where to."

          "Oh I don't know. I just walk, and wherever I end up I try to find a place to stay."

          "Don't you have a home, a job. What do you do?"

          Steve was a bit put out at all the questions. "I'll just be on my way if you don't mind. Sorry if my being here has bothered you."

          "Not really. I was surprised of course, but I can't see that you are doing any harm."

          Steve was caught off guard a little by the man's apparent change in attitude, and feeling that he had nothing to lose he took a chance. "So you won't mind then if I take advantage again sometime?"

          "No I guess not. But what about my questions?"

          "Well if you must know the answers are no, no, and nothing now."

          "Nothing now." the man emphasised the word now. "What came before 'now'?"

          "Before 'now', I was a farmer."

          "Were you now. I'm a farmer. What happened?"

          "It was small, not very economic, it went pear shaped. I'm sure you've heard it all before." Steve answered the questions as briefly as he could.

          "You lost it then?"

          He was more than a little taken aback by this question, and was tempted to tell the other man to mind his own business but he realised that he was at a disadvantage. He was trespassing after all, and the man had a gun. "Yes I lost it, and my wife, and my son."

          The two men talked briefly before the landowner made to leave. the gun safely over his shoulder. "If you choose to stay on my land again you are welcome, but let me know first; OK! Don't want any mishaps you know." he concluded, as he gave his shotgun a couple of taps.

          "Thank you; but how do I do that? may I know your name?"

          "William."

          Steve's heart sank. Not William; anything but William, before the man completed. "William Stokesley. Hesketh Farm."

          It was a curious encounter which left Steve feeling unsure. Had he been welcomed or simply 'let off'? He did not know. He decided that on balance it was a welcome but if he thought that the rest of his time on the road would be like that he was going to be disappointed. However, it was the first time that he had been challenged, and he was quite pleased with the outcome. He knew all too well however that while not everyone would be so accommodating, some valuable lessons had been learned. The main one being always to expect the unexpected.

          The weeks passed surprisingly quickly and then the months and Steve became more skilled in art of survival. His years at Brook Farm had been valuable for he had learned how to mend the fences and fix the walls. How to keep out the rain when leaking roofs threatened his animals or their feed. He had learned how to make do and mend when money was short, but the needs were urgent. Moreover all the time spent patiently waiting and silently watching the wild life with pencil or paint brush in hand, had now become valuable aids to way of life. But where before his priority had been in his interest in their survival, now it had become a matter of his own.

          The transformation from observer to predator had not been an easy one but it was something that had to be done. He already had some knowledge of which wild plants were edible and which must be avoided. This was an area that needed to be expanded as speedily as possible, but with prudent trial an error learned to avoid the harmful stuff. Most of all he became skilful at catching small animals.

          So more months gradually became more years. Steve had carefully kept a record of the passage of time, for despite his embracing of the nomadic way of life some of Farrah's academic principals had found a home in his own thinking and he had not dismissed entirely all notions of civilised behaviour. In so far as that were possible not long after the start of his adventure he had found a good stout branch from which he had made a strong walking stick. Not so thick as to be heavy and cumbersome, nor too thin and light that he could not apply it were strength and leverage were required. On this he cut little marks that told him dates and the months. It was simple but sufficient. Early on the following year he searched for, and found, a new stick, for a  new year. Thus for a few years his calender was perpetual, repeated year on year. But there came a time when even that link with the world around him was abandoned, as no longer relevant. But time played tricks in his mind for while his lifestyle was essentially a matter of keeping alive, only the seasons mattered. For it was then the difference between warm and cold became paramount; when shelter changed from optional to essential. But the years went by regardless of Steve’s growing  indifference.

          There were many 'secret' sheltering places in Steve's nomadic life discovered and often discarded over time. It was in one such place that he emerged from a restless night, not quite aware of the new day. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness and almost at once felt that somehow something was different. He did not feel ill or even 'off colour', but different. As he emerged fully from sleep he quickly took stock of his surroundings, something he did most mornings, as more often than not it was different from the day before. He was in a shed at the bottom of a long garden as far from the house as the garden would allow. The shed served as a storage place for tools and also a den for the children of the house. The children were grown now and had little use for a den, so Steve was not disturbed. He knew that his visits did not go unnoticed and that the owners were sympathetic, and, more to the point, he could stay where he was as long as he wished. But he never outstayed his welcome, preferring to move on before he was asked. Most importantly, he never left his 'rubbish' behind. This way he had a better chance of being welcomed when his wandering brought him back again.

          But for the first time he could remember he had a feeling he had experienced before. He had dreamt of and was now thinking of Brook Farm.  He knew that he would not want to go back to that place, nor any of the hundreds of places he had found during his years of wanderings. Unaccountably Steve was homesick.

          He was now well into his 'sixties' and it was approaching autumn. Thinking that perhaps his mortal span was heading towards its end he set off on what he believed might be his last adventure as a man of the road. Considering his lifestyle his health was reasonably good but he could not help this strange feeling. Could it be that it was his time to die. Perhaps after years of solitary roaming he had lost sight of any point to his life. "What is it all about?" he asked himself many times. More recently however he was finding it increasingly difficult to come up with an answer. Now he was resigned to his fate but though he knew where he would like to make his final farewells, he was not sure how that could be done.