PORTRAIT OF A LADY

 

                                                                      Chapter Fourteen

                                                                          The Big Storm

 

It was one of those times when something apparently insignificant turned out to be just the opposite. Steve was slowly making his way back towards Brook Farm. He had no plan, no agenda, but his decision to return to his 'home' was strong, even though he knew that it was no longer there. 

      It rained. Not just rain, but rain with a furiiousity one might expect once every ten years. He had found his way back to the cops where he had met the man with the gun. He had never forgotten that incident , for although there had been a good outcome Steve knew only too well how different it might have been. But the man had given his permission for  to use his land from time to time, and so occasionally he had done so.

          Notwithstanding the thirty or so years between that occasion and now, It was not something he was keen to repeat so his visits were rare.  This time he decided to 'walk on'.  

          Skirting the field in which the copse was situated Steve walked a few miles until he came to a very narrow lane. He might have mistaken it for a farm track had it not been for a worn but recognisable tarmac surface; that and an equally worn signpost directing would be worshippers to 'The Church'. This was something of a surprise to Steve for as far as he knew, other than a few farms, there was no potential congregation for miles around, but he was surprised that he had not been aware of that narrow lane. Nevertheless, though he had no intention of seeking absolution he started to walk down the lane in the hope that it might provide him with shelter for the night.

            Hardly had he started down the lane when he heard a clap of thunder.  The skies had been darkening and although he had long ago learned to tolerate the rain, a real downpour was a different matter. Steve’s 'sense' of the weather had been honed over the years and he knew all too well that a storm was imminent. Shelter was urgently needed it being much preferred to a soaking. The church was about two miles down the lane and appeared, as he got closer, to be abandoned. It was small by comparison to those found in large communities and though not quite a ruin it did seem that it had not enjoyed tender loving care for many a long year. Steve was sorry to see what at one time had clearly been a beautiful building, no doubt loved by its community - who ever they were - reduced to this. No longer wanted it was a decaying edifice, destined in the not too far off future to be a pile of rubble. Nonetheless the pragmatist that he had become told him that at least he was less likely to be disturbed.

          So he set about trying to find a place where he could find shelter from the rain. The accompanying wind was now winding itself up in advance of something much stronger, the sky darkening by the minute and Steve was in no doubt there would soon be a full scale storm. At the back of the church he found a wooden construction leaning against the wall. It looked as though it might have been a log store for when he managed to push open its door there was much evidence of this scattered about. Remarkably, for though it was now raining very hard it seemed that this little construction had been well built for none of the deluge was finding its way into his new found shelter. Steve was content for all that was needed now was patience.

          Earlier in the day a rabbit had succumbed to his magic and was now in his rucksack awaiting the heat of a wood fire to turn it into a meal fit for a King, or at least a 'man of the road'. And the makings of such a fire were all around him. Following the transformation of the rabbit to a stew, made possible by a few vegetables he had 'found', its consumption was soon accomplished, Steve settled down for the night his shelter proving to be as waterproof as he had hoped. And, as an added bonus he had the rare privilege of a good fire to keep him warm, instead of relying on every item of clothing he possessed.

          The night ahead however was not destined to be undisturbed and trouble free. Despite his general contentment following his good meal Steve was disturbed by the ferocity of the storm, which at times seemed to be centred precisely over his little shed, but he was well pleased that he had been fortunate enough to find this shelter knowing from experience the discomfort which can derive from a violent and sustained soaking. The rain fell heavily and the noise of it pounding on the sloping roof of the shed roof obliterated all other sounds. Despite that he was aware at one point of that something had happened. A kind of a rumble which he felt rather than heard. From Steve’s experience of storms knew it was a big one, and his shelter while not perfect would be far better than anything he would find in the open. Another shelter which he would certainly have added to the list he kept in his head had he not been homeward bound.             When the morning came Steve was shocked to discover that part of the structure had succumbed to the power of wind and rain, and had fallen to the ground no more than ten feet away from his shed. Religion had never played any part in his life so the concept of divine intervention was not uppermost in his thoughts despite having been saved from a thorough soaking and falling masonry, either of which may have hastened his departure. 

          Steve continued his slow meander in the general direction of Oatley though he had many miles to go. He felt no need to hurry but he was still aware of this unsettling state of mind and  a strange uncertainty.  Perhaps, the thought occurred that something was not right in his head. Sometimes he might not feel it again for a week or more; sometimes longer. However, the thought of a church falling on his head did little to ease his anxiety.

          The years had rolled by and Steve had grown older; not yet an old man but he was quite aware that he looked like one. The last few years had been different than those that had gone before, not so much in his sense of freedom rather than his sense of purpose. He had long since given up any sense of belonging or of ownership. The times he thought about Brook Farm had been  rare, and never with any sense of regret. Nevertheless he had become aware of a different feeling, something in his mind that would not go away, but would reveal itself.

          Curiously memories of his life at 'the farm' were beginning to be more frequent than before. The onset of this state of mind was about a year ago, if not more , though it was intermittent and varying in intensity. Since he was first aware of this unsettling state of mind he became certain that something was not right in his head.  All the years on the road had left Steve ambivalent about his life. Where was it going? Where will it end? Questions without answers, But he had reached a point when unanswered questions were troublesome, and the uncertainty of how and where it might end even more so.

          Then, as often it was something unexpected that brought into sharp focus Steve's desire to go back to Brook Farm. He came across the body of a dead fox. It was not caught in a snare and there was no signs that it had been shot, nor of any other injury. Of course he could not know for certain if poison had been used, but there was no evidence that it had. It was clean and vibrant in colour as though it had just laid down and died. It was as if he could see the animal in front of him as it might have been the day before, trotting as foxes do across a field. So he preferred to think that nothing untoward had happened, and that it had simply died.

          This was one of those occasions when in his mind's eye he was thinking of Brook Farm, so clear was the image  it was as though he was there. He vividly remembered that during his time there he had seen many foxes and even got to know some of them. Despite their wild status he treated them almost as friends, and they he. He had done countless sketches and paintings of these animals, and some, often the dead ones, had ended up being sold in the galleries.

          His had been a love hate relationship with these animals for he did suffer some losses because of them. But his love for all things wild had always been stronger than his anger when one of the creatures had outsmarted him and his defences. They were after all only doing what nature designed them to do and his chicken run was too good a target for them to ignore.

          Now he felt that he too was doing what comes naturally with a strong urge to paint his new find which in death was as magnificent as no doubt it had been in life. After he had mentally sketched the animal and was preparing to cover it with leaves a thought occurred to him, one which he could not recall having before. Was it pure chance that this fox had died here or had it chosen this place. Did it know its time had come, and was this place - in a way that Steve felt able to comprehend - was this place 'chosen' by this fox as its final resting place?

          He would never know, but somehow that idea remained in his subconscious through the rest of his wondering. He could not accept the idea that it was a random act and as the time went by, more and more the idea inhabited his thinking that he too must choose a place where he too could die in peace. He thought of the many places his wandering had taken him. Places where he could be content and alone. But as each place was considered for one reason or another it was rejected.

          His first thoughts of course had been Brook Farm but the idea of facing the memories, memories as raw now as they had been then, that he knew would be waiting, was daunting. The farm itself of course no longer existed, nor the house where he had lived. He had learned many years earlier, that In its place was an estate of some twenty detached houses. He shuddered at the idea. But what of the brook and the field beside the new houses? The only part of Brook Farm that legally that was still his - if it was still there. Stubbornly he did not allow the thought to linger - has that little oasis had gone too?

          He struggled with these thoughts for a long time through the summer and into autumn. The problem remained unresolved until the first chills of winter and the return of a recurring chesty cough. Over the years his health had remained robust, but during the previous couple of winters he had been troubled with a persistent cough. That was another reason that made Steve want to hit the road. A feeling, not quite formed but very strong, was that the time had come to make a move. He had not felt like this before, at least not in such a positive way but now he knew where he was heading. He resolved to make his move as soon as was possible. The thought that one day his body might be found dead in a ditch somewhere made him shudder.

          He had considered the many places his wandering had taken him; places where he could be content and alone, but as each place was weighed against another all were rejected. His earlier thoughts were of Brook Farm but he had been reluctant. The idea of facing his memories of life there with Bill, and then with Jessie and Matthew, memories he knew would be waiting, were daunting.

          Memories had started to be a problem in another way for found it increasingly hard to relate to events and places.  Had he actually learned some time back that the farm itself no longer existed, nor the house where he had lived, or was it his imagination?  He could not remember the source of that knowledge, nor how he had found out that In its place was an estate of some twenty detached houses. He shuddered at the idea, but was it real or fanciful dreaming?

           But what of the brook and the trees through which it flowed and the narrow stone ridden field beside them, regarded by the developers as useless for development for building more houses. Was it legally still his ? Is it still there? Perhaps it had that gone too!

          He was beset with these thoughts and others through the summer and into autumn. All the problems remained unresolved and when the first chills of winter made themselves known, and with them the return of a recurring chesty cough his resolve to return was firm.

          Over the years his health had remained fairly robust, but during the recent winters he had been troubled with a persistent cough. That was another reason that made Steve want to hit the road; a feeling, no more than that, but very strong was that the time had come to make a move. He had not felt like this before, but now he knew and despite his previous uncertainties he had at last made up his mind and inevitably it was to go back to Brook Farm - what ever he might find there.

          That became his plan. He would start walking in the direction of that place which so many years ago he had abandoned, a place that was now uppermost in his thoughts. Was it too much to hope that it, or somewhere near, could become his home again for the remainder of his life?

          The walk back to that place he used to call home was long and yet unhurried. Life had been kind to Steve since he left Brook Farm some eighteen years earlier. Not perhaps the kindness other people would understand, and indeed not in a way that he himself might have anticipated. But that it had been kind he had no doubt for he had learned things he might never have known. He had managed somehow to feed himself and to find shelter when he needed it., and he had acquired more knowledge of nature and the wild things there that he could never have imagined. Most of all after all these years he was still alive.

          Almost from the start he knew it, a feeling he never expected to feel again, for during those first few miles when he left his paintings burning so long ago he had felt it then. He remembered a light headed feeling, euphoria, even even though he was leaving the farm. He remembered the feeling of release at the thought that apart from his rucksack he had nothing on his back;  that he had cast aside all his cares and woes.

          Now, his only fear was that in going back he might find all that ‘baggage’ waiting patiently for him to 'pick up' on his return.