PORTRAIT OF A LADY

                   

                                                                           Chapter Eight

                                                                    Goodbye ‘Bill’ Farrah

 

As the seasons came and went Michael assumed more and more responsibility for the running of the farm. Farrah was now into his eighth decade, and though still remarkably strong for a man of that age, he was no longer the mental force he had once been. Not yet a cause for concern, but the signs were clear, and inevitably there was only one way it could go. Michael was not daunted by the gradual increase of dependence placed upon him, and was content to let things go the way that nature intended. In any case he reminded himself, Bill was still reasonably alert; so it might be a few years yet before he was totally dependant. The relationship between the two men was as near to father and son as it could be; and both of them were happy with that.

            One of the early signs of Farrah's loosening grip was his constant referral to Michael as Steven. At first Michael was irritated by this, but gradually he learned to accept, and then ignore it. But not until he had asked a few questions.

            "What happened to Steven then?"

            "Oh', he left home."

            "When was that?"

            "He left to join the army when he was nearly eighteen, and he never came back."

            "So you haven't seen him for many years?"

            "That's about it," Farrah replied, "more years than I care to admit."

            "Is he still alive?"

            "Yes, as far as I know. The last time I heard from him he was still in the army - probably still is."

            Michael didn't want to pry; he could see that Farrah was uncomfortable, but somehow felt it was important to get it out in the open. "You didn't get on then; what went wrong?"

            Perhaps Farrah too felt the same need to get it out of his system. It had been bottled up for so long, but unlike wine bad memories are not better for keeping. "I drove him away."

            "How come?"

            "I was into my forties when I married; a woman much younger than myself; and when Steven was born we were ecstatic. Then two years later we were waiting for the arrival of our second child, and my world collapsed when she and the child died during the birth." Farrah stopped for a moment and Michael was surprised to see signs of emotion in the normally very composed man. "Poor old Steven - poor young Steven." he smiled as he corrected himself . "Took all my anger and bitterness. I turned my back on him as though it was his fault, and threw myself into my work. I couldn't show him any love. Poor little fellow probably grew up lonelier than you." He looked across at Michael wearing a strange expression. "He grew up hating me and couldn't wait to get away. Shortly after that my brother died and I came to the farm ... I wrote to tell him of course, but he's never been here to see me."

            “Doesn't he contact you at all?"

            "Not any more. I had the odd letter at first but they stopped. I tried a few times after that to contact him but he never replied. I thought he might get in touch when I got older, but he never did. I guess he won't try any more."

            "He doesn't want the farm then?"

            "I think he would run a mile. He's done well in the army; last I heard he was a colonel in charge of a regiment. He doesn't need my money ..." he glanced across at Michael before he continued. " ... not that I've got that much any more... the farm doesn't make a profit, and it isn't worth much more than a peppercorn anyway."

            It was a depressing conversation and Michael was looking for a way to change the subject, but it was Farrah who gave him the lead.

            "It would suit you Steven much more than him."

            "You don't know you're doing it do you?"

            "What's that Steven?"

            "There you go again. You keep on calling me Steven; why do you do that?

            "I'm sorry Michael, I don't do it on purpose, if I'm not concentrating it just happens."

            "Well I don't like it." Michael hadn't intended this to come up but now that it had it seemed like a good idea to get it sorted. "I guess I don't mind you thinking of me as a son if it helps you, but I don't want to take his place. So if you can't call me Michael call me lad, though that's not all that good either."

            "Sorry Michael I don't do it on purpose you know; but what can I do?  I can't keep on calling you lad can I?"

            "I, maybe not!" Michael paused. "Did you ever call your son Steve?"

            "No, never."

            "Ok, I'll settle for that. I won't mind if you call me Steve."

            "But that's nearly the same."

            "Nearly maybe, but not the same. I won't answer to Steven any more so it's either Michael or Steve; OK?"

            “Can’t I slip the odd ‘Lad’ in?” He asked in an odd but amusing way. Perhaps it eased the slight tension that had developed, but it produced a gentle laugh from both men.

            “Michael or Steve; your choice.” Michael said, still laughing gently.

            “That’s fine with me; Steve!”

            It was a compromise that seemed to work, and on that day in the early nineteen sixties Michael died and Steve was born. It was also the time, if such a time could truly be identified, that the emotional ties between the two men were consecrated. Their growing respect for each other, had, somewhere along the way changed to something like love, fulfilling the different needs they shared, and giving them both once more a sense of family.

            The next few years were ones of change as Steve gradually took complete control of the farm, being responsible for husbandry, maintenance and administration. It was a complete transformation, for only a relatively few years earlier, any one of those tasks would have been beyond him. To have acquired skills in all those area's, sufficient at least to keep the farm solvent - if only just - was remarkable. Steve called on Farrah for help and advice whenever it was possible, not wanting him to feel redundant, but mindful always of his growing frailty, until the time came when even the smallest task was too much. For two more years Steve ran the farm, and looked after Farrah on his own, but even then he would consult the old man, and tell him the events of the day, and ask for his suggestions.

            Farrah must have sensed his time was close, for during this period he had asked Steve to change his name legally to Farrah.

             "It will make things easier," he said, "you know, when I'm gone; legal difficulties."

            "Are you sure. Is that the only reason?"

            "No; I think of you as my son now and I would like you to be my son."

            These formalities were concluded in January of Nineteen Sixty Six. The metamorphosis was complete, and on the first day of August in that year William Farrah died.

            In his thirty odd years Steve had experienced many emotions, but this was the first time he suffered the pangs of grief. Even the loss of his parents and sister had not caused the suffering he felt now. No doubt at the time he was upset, but it was more shock than anything. As a child he could not understand what had happened, nor could he identify a sense off loss. In any event it was so long ago, and his life had taken so many twists and turns since then for him to remember. Now the man who had come into his life and had filled a gap so large that he had become his whole life was no longer there. No matter that he had seen it coming, still he was not prepared, and did not think he would recover from the blow. All he could do was what he had been doing for much of the last decade, and that was to look after William Farrah, and Brook Farm.

            Now Farrah was gone.

            Bur there was another thing, something that at first turned out to be his salvation. Soon after he arrived at the farm, and had discovered that there would be little in the way of entertainment. Then he found, by chance and much to his surprise, that he could draw. At first his work was not much to write home about, but he found it very satisfying. Before long he was drawing quite well, and quite soon very well. He had taken to making use of short gaps in his busy day to sketch around the farm; anything that caught his eye, or took his fancy. It wasn't long before he was painting, and within a couple of years he had developed a considerable skill. It was of course no more than a hobby, always taking second preference to the needs of the farm, and in time, the needs of Farrah.

            Now, and on his own, painting gradually became a major priority, and from somewhere deep within came an outpouring of images born of the farm, or from the grief still generated by the death of his spiritual father. He felt driven to paint pictures depicting the life cycle on the farm, of its new life, and of death which, he had discovered, existed everywhere. He produced images of death; of new life that didn't make it; of remnants of hunting, and of man’s intervention. And though he did not feel anything about them but pain, he somehow produced powerful images, harrowing but enthralling. He worked furiously, and before long these pictures were beginning to pile up, thrown, almost as though rejected, into dark corners of the farm, and his mind.

            Perhaps Steve's life may have been different had he just painted the misery out of his system, and then returned, his suffering expunged, to looking after the farm. Fate however had other plans, for, as had happened before, two things occurred that were to change his life, two things though quite unrelated one to the other. However they became curiously connected, and were to turn his life around. Two things that would send Steve to the heights of ecstasy, into areas of blissfulness that he would not even have dared to dream of, and also, ultimately, to the depths of despair, a despair which emotionally was far worse than anything he had suffered so far.

            Had he known of Kipling he might easily have related them to those 'twin imposters' for during the next period of his life he found fame, and he found love.

            It was chance really that took him along a new untravelled road. He had put a stack of his paintings, all unmounted, in the back of the old van, uncertain quite what to do with them, but needing to get them out of his way. They were still there when he next went into town, and where he saw a poster advertising an art exhibition at a town centre gallery. Up to that point he had not looked at his paintings with a view to selling or even exhibiting. The thought of it had never occurred to him, nor indeed had the notion that they were good enough. Who, he might have asked, would find them remotely interesting?

            On an impulse he went to the gallery, and asked to see the boss who agreed to look at some of his paintings. It was clear he was not over impressed at the 'pretty' pictures of the farm and its surroundings, and was making polite conversation, gently steering Steve away from thinking he might show his work at the gallery. He promised to look again when he had more work to show as he casually flicked through the stack. Then he stopped.

            "These are different." he said, "What happened here?" He had come to the last dozen or so pictures in the pile.

            "I'm sorry, I didn't realise they were there ... I don't want to sell them."

            The two men were looking at a number of images recently painted in which Steve had managed to convey the futility of life via the darker, more brutal side of farm and country life.

            "But why not?" countered the gallery man. "They are the only ones worth hanging; I can sense the pain and anguish in them."

            Steve, gazing rather intently at his work looked up somewhat shocked at the gallery owners apparent dismissal of most of his paintings.

            "Oh forgive me," he continued, "the other pictures are fine, but I can get any amount of good country scenes." then he pointed the the few he was clearly interested in. "But these ... these are from somewhere else ... through the eyes of a fox just after she has decimated a chicken house; or a cow just as the stun gun sends it into oblivion.

            At this point the gallery man was insistent. "These are the ones that will make your name. Have you any more like them?"

            Steve could hardly speak let alone explain, but his face gave him away.

            "I can sense pain and anguish here, which I'm sure others will sense as well. Why don't you leave these with me, and see what happens. Then it's up to you?"

            Steve was reluctant but the gallery owner was very persuasive and in the end he agreed. A week later he called back and was astonished to see his pictures on the wall, all mounted, framed and magnificent. It was the first time he had seen his work displayed for public view, and despite the events and the suffering that had caused them to come into existence he was pleased with them. After another week and another visit Steve discovered that they had all been sold.

            "Better bring some more in," the gallery owner told him "and you'd better start painting again."

            So it came about that Steve's life entered into a new phase. Rarely had he been so busy. Not even during the recent years when Farrah had been so dependant on him, and the demands of the farm so great had he been so totally occupied. Now every second of every day was vital, for it became essential to paint at every moment that he was free from maintenance or husbandry. After Farrah's death the work load was so heavy and his concentration so great that the darkness of his life and the totality of his loss faded into the background. With each completed painting the weight was a little lighter. With each new work the memory of Farrah hurt a little less, and though he did not know it, each stroke of the brush took him further away from what little was left of Michael Selby, and more completely to his new persona, Steve Farrah.

            But the essence of those paintings produced at the height of his grief remained, his pictures grittier and stronger. No more tranquil scenes of animals peacefully grazing in the afternoon sun, or ducks on the pond. Now it was strong images of hard work; bloody accidents and death. Steve had unintentionally developed a style which soon was to become his signature. Before long people were recognising his work before they saw his name.

            It seemed such a short time since he had been miserable and lost. So strong had been his sense of loss for Farrah, who had become more like a friend than an employer, and more like a father than a friend, that he had believed he would never get over it. It had been a lonely time, but a time during which misery had gradually been overtaken by a new determination. Now, in that time of a new way of life he was basking in the glory of new found fame. Too busy to carry the grief forever, and too much in demand to be held back by those dark days. It was not that Farrah was forgotten. Rather he had been set aside to be remembered with affection when time allowed, or with gratitude when he thought of his new exalted position, and yes, still with sorrow when he was painting.

            It was into this heady new world that had somehow opened up for him that another twist of fate was waiting for him. It was a fine spring day and Steve had barely completed his breakfast following the morning rush of milking and mucking, when a rat tat on the door caused him to look up in surprise. Visitors were not a luxury that Steve often enjoyed, but that simple knock was the fanfare to a scenario that was going to send Steve into an even higher sense of unreality. For when he opened the door he was greeted with a smile from the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, She was tall and slim, her red lips contrasted with the flawless pale complexion of her face, which was perfectly shaped and framed by a head of long auburn hair. Steve thought that she was almost perfect, and when she spoke the hint of an Irish lilt provided that final ingredient.

            "Hello." her voice sang, "I'm Jessica Cullen."

            Steve had never been a ladies man; never quite comfortable in their company, and the younger and prettier they were the more uncomfortable he felt. "Can I help you?" he asked cautiously.

            "I just popped down to say hello to Mr Farrar ... is he home?"

            "Do you mean William?" Steve asked rather pointlessly, and then stumbling, muttered "no he isn't."

            "Oh that's a shame, I'm just passing through, just thought I'd like to say hello ... haven't seen him for a few years, since I was a girl ... will you tell him I called?"

            "Who did you say you are?" Steve asked, feeling very uneasy.

            "I'm Jessica Cullen. My grandfather used to have a farm a few miles further along the road and he and Mr Farrah were good friends. He's gone now I'm afraid, but the farm is still there ... at least what's left of it."

             "I didn't know that there was another farm?" Steve seemed surprised.

            "No, there really isn't any longer; but before the developers moved in my dad managed to keep some of the land and turned it into a Garden centre. It took a long time to get off the ground, but it's doing quite well now."

            Steve knew of the garden centre, but he didn't pursue the matter, preferring to listen as Jessica chattered on, her soft Irish voice singing as she went on to explain that her brother now looked after the garden centre. "We all lived there for a while, but mummy was ill and daddy took the rest of the family back to Ireland leaving Sean to run it."

            Steve had vague recollections of a visitor with a schoolgirl when he was first at the farm, but he had never known who she was. "I think I remember seeing you but it must be about ten years ago."

            "I bit more actually but fancy you remembering; that must have been just before I went to university. Are you Mr Farrah's son?"

            It was an unexpected question, and there was quite a long pause before he answered. "I'm Steve Farrah."

            "My granddad said Mr Farrah had a son; I'm pleased to meat you."

            Again Steve was taken aback. He didn't want to go into details with a stranger, but he felt that he should offer some kind of explanation. What was more, he was beginning to feel slightly more at ease with the young lady, whose bright and cheery manner was starting to grow on him.

            Steve had no track record when it came to girls; his years in the detention centre had virtually excluded him from any real contact with girls and had left him with an ambivalent attitude to his own sexuality. He had dealt with that problem by simply avoiding any opportunity that had come his way that might have lead to a relationship. Indeed, the nearest thing to a ‘relationship' since he left the boys home had been the few years when he shared the flat with Ollie, but that had been totally asexual and nothing more than a convenient arrangement between friends.

            "I think you had better come in Jessica," he said, "there is something that perhaps you should know." Steve stood back a little to allow Jessica to pass, catching as she did the delicate smell of a rare perfume, and seeing in her glance something in her eyes that pierced his heart. Close up now her saw the perfection of her skin and the glow of her hair.

            "Mind the rug." he said offering his hand as she left the brightness of the sunshine to enter the comparative dimness of the hall.

          "Thank you kind sir." she replied, as she accepted his assistance, not really needing it but not wishing to offend by refusing. She was of course aware of the effect it had this seemingly shy young man, noticing how he cautiously drew her in and the slight shudder that seemed to emanate from within him.

            Looking again at his visitor, Steve confided in her. "You see William has taken the same journey as your grandfather."

            "I'm sorry to hear that." she replied. I didn't know him all that well, but I know he and my granddad were good friends.

            Steve was surprised at that remark, for he had always thought that Farrah was a lonely man and had never referred to 'friends'. But that moment of reflection was soon ended when he heard Jessica laughing quietly. "I expect they'll have got together up there." a slight upward movement of her hands emphasizing the point.

            Steve smiled back, not quite able to respond to her laughter. "That would be nice." he agreed, "I'd like to think he had a friend; even up there." He did not copy Jessica's hand movement, but the raising of his eyes conveyed understanding of his visitors remark, creating more laughter.

            In no time they were sharing their reminiscences as far as it affected their association with Brook Farm. Jessica was completely open and free with her history, while Steve, knowing that his side of the story was less than strait forward was slightly reserved. But in spite of himself he was feeling more and more at ease with his delightful visitor.

            All too soon it was time for her to go, and for Steve this was a moment of critical importance. Never before had he met a girl who he wanted to see again, but he did not know what to do or what to say to bring that about. Then he had an idea and jumped up from his chair.

            "Don't go just yet," he said, "there is something I want to do; it will only take a few minutes." Shortly  he returned with a sketch pad and some sticks of charcoal. "Do you mind?" he asked, drawing up a stool so that he could sit facing her.

            "You're an artist?" she asked , as a little smile started to appear at the corner of her mouth.

            "So they tell me - do you mind?" he asked again. "It'll give me a reason to see you again."

            Steve was surprised at himself for displaying such boldness, hardly realizing that when he held a stick of charcoal in his hand, or a brush, or a pencil, he became a different person. "Just a quick sketch, and I will finish it later."

            Steve worked furiously, wanting to capture not only the beauty of the young lady sitting opposite him, but something of the light that was within her. He didn't say much as he worked, but Jessica, not being hindered by self consciousness kept up a stream of chatter, little caring that it was a one way conversation. During this period she mentioned her brother, and his farm, and that she was staying with him for a couple of weeks.

            "There;" Steve announced after fifteen minutes of rapid sketching, "that should do."

            "Can I look?" Jessica asked.

            "I'd rather you didn't." Steve replied. "It's not much to look at at the moment; better wait until I've worked on it a bit more."

            "Then what?"

            "Then I will bring it to you if you like."

            "Better if I collect it - would that be alright?"

            "This time next week - would that be alright?" Steve had not intended to imitate his guest, but doing so made her laugh.

           "I can't wait." she answered still laughing. Then she stood up and held out her hand. "So pleased to have met you Steven."

            "Steve," he corrected her gently, "just Steve." But when he took her hand he knew that this was something special, a sensation he had not experienced before. Soon she was gone and without wasting a second he was in his studio with his sketch and a picture of Jessica in his mind that he did not want to lose.

            For three days he spent all his free time in front of his easel; every moment he could spare and some he couldn't; determined to capture for ever the magic he had seen in her eyes and in her smile. Steve had never experienced the elixir of life before; didn't know what it meant and yet he knew that he wanted a picture of this lady. If he never saw her again at least he would have that. By that time an image was emerging though in some apparently random fashion, almost frantic smears of paint, much dabbing and shaping with brush and knife, and constant corrections with a spirit soaked rag, until the oils, squeezed with growing excitement from their tubes, spread thick and thin brought forth a living thing. During this time his charcoal sketch had hardly been consulted, for it was all in his mind. Three more days were spent on small adjustments and minor improvements, fearful all the while of doing something that might ruin it. He was very pleased for he had indeed caught that special something he had seen before; something in her eyes which was now in his, and something in her smile which had gone straight to his very soul. Now he was impatient to see if his memory matched the reality.

            'Tomorrow' he reminded himself. 'She said she would come tomorrow'.  Steve had heard the saying 'Tomorrow might never comes and for a while it seemed to be true, but the needs of the day forced Jessica from his mind, and as usual tiredness born of a full and active day lulled him into a solid sleep. As far as the animals were concerned it was just another day and so he was up with the first light of dawn and busied himself with them. There needs were simple and routine, but could not be overlooked.

            Breakfast was interrupted by frequent visits to the window, and even more glances at the clock, before Steve reluctantly forced himself to get on with his work. "Silly bugger," he called himself, "she'll be gone in a day or two and you'll not see her again anyway."

            He was in one of the buildings behind the house trying to fix a door that had decided not to close properly when he heard her call. In his well used overalls and Wellington boots, with dirty hands and hair blown by a warm but persistent breeze, he was far from looking his best. He walked round the house only to be met by the vision that had all but emptied his mind of anything else. Now she had come looking for him.

            "I thought I heard you working at the back," she said almost laughing, and smiling broadly, "Hello again."

            "Hello to you too Jessica."

            "Jessie;" she answered, "just Jessie."

            Steve thought at first that it was a mild reprimand, a getting even for his having corrected her at their first meeting, but her smile and her demeanour soon told him different. In the house over a coffee Steve listened as she chatted away, the music of her voice touching him more than the words themselves. So much so that he had to force himself to concentrate lest he be swept into a dream-like trance. Indeed he almost fell into that trap but was rescued when through the mist he heard her sing the word 'picture'.

            He was on his feet at once, and putting a finger to his lips he smiled. "Ah', the picture; just one moment." Two minutes later he returned carrying a frame hidden from view by a white linen cover. Carefully he placed it on the sideboard so that when he removed the cover it would receive the full light from the window.

            "Close you eyes." Steve said quietly, yet with an authority which Jessie could not; did not, ignore. Carefully he removed the cover. "You can open them now." he whispered.

            Jessie stood up and stared. It was a while before she spoke again, and for the first time the music in her voice was stilled. Steve also stared, but not at the painting. He noticed that Jessie's eyes were shinning, moist, catching the light from the window. Almost a tear.

            "You've made me so beautiful," she said at last, "so beautiful."

            "I only paint what I see."

            "So beautiful; too beautiful." she murmured.

            "That is not possible." Steve answered.

            Now Jessie was looking at Steve in a different way for she knew that they had somehow crossed a bridge. Steve, in a way that she might never fully understand, had painted his heart into the picture. What she did understand however was that he meant more to her now than she could ever have imagined.

            She walked across the room to where he was standing and gently placed her lips on his. Not too long, but long enough for Steve, even with his lack of experience, to know that it was more than just a polite thank you.

            But her words when they came were electric. "Thank you Steve. You have seen something in me that I never knew was there." Then she kissed him again. Much like the previous kiss, light of touch, soft and warm, but held for just a moment longer.

            Steve was ecstatic. To have such beauty so close, and to feel her lips on his was beyond anything he had ever dreamed of. He threw caution to the wind and put his arms around her and kissed her back, and when the rebuff he half expected didn't come he squeezed a little tighter. He knew little of the art of kissing, but nature, and Jessie's obvious greater knowledge of close encounters soon got them over that obstacle. In a short time and at the age of thirty two he was lost in his first passionate embrace with a member of the opposite sex.

            He had never had a girl friend before, and because of his past experience, which he had learnt to tolerate as a form of affection, he had always been uncertain about his sexuality. Now he found himself with a girl who clearly liked him, and who was not averse to taking the lead.

            When finally they broke away from each other they both knew that a door had been opened which neither of them could know where it might lead. But lead it did and in a matter of days Steve, his virginal state left behind forever found himself engulfed in a whirlpool of emotions the like of which he never new existed; emotions he had never expected to know; and of a love that he had never dared to hope for. Jessie, more worldly that Steve had been quick to move from polite intimacy to intimacy of a more lusty and down-to-earth nature. Despite his lack of experience in matters of the heart and body Michael was soon able to match Jessie in his enthusiasm for lovemaking.