PORTRAIT OF A LADY

 

                                                                          Chapter Nine

                                                                              New Life

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For most of his life Steve had lived his life without the benefit, or the hindrance, of emotion. His early recollections were vague, and what memories he had of his life as a child were sketchy. He could recall little of his parents, and sometimes he wondered if what he thought he could remember was only what he had been told. Sometimes an image of an old lady would invade his thoughts. His Grandma perhaps; it seemed most likely, but it was an image he was never able to clarify or explain. He did however have some feelings about his sister even though he didn't clearly remember her either. But some vague memories of her lingered, perhaps just the sense of knowing of her. He knew, but in a way he had found hard to fathom, that they had been very close during the early years of their lives, but more than that he had a sense of knowing her even before they were born.

          The words were etched into his subconscious even though no one had ever said. She had been his sister, and when, on those rare occasions when he was moved to look at his picture of her - no longer kept in that old brown envelope but in his wallet - he always had a strange feeling. Was she looking at him? Of course not; she's dead! The final conclusion was always the same. But each time when he put the picture away it was always with a feeling of frustration for he knew that whatever she was trying to say was lost along with their parents in the rubble of their home. 

          Recollections from later years were stronger, more formed and less likely to be swayed by other influences, and yet in none of them did Steve feel either a sense of either happiness or sadness, neither bitterness or joy. Things just happened and the years went by more things happened and more years went by.  Even his time with Ollie and that period when he was living on the seat of his pants while indulging in petty crime did not produce any feeling in him. Had it been an exciting time, or dangerous, or fun. Mentally he shrugged, not committing himself one way or the other.

          Steve didn't need reminding how much he had changed over the years, or what had brought about those changes. He knew without doubt that the failure of his attempt to steel from Brook farm and getting caught had been the turning point. He hadn't known it at the time but far from being unlucky to be caught, that had been his lucky day. Just as he knew without doubt that Farrah had been the catalyst for all that had happened since. Perhaps now he had learned that things don't just happen, that people can affect their own destiny, and, he had reason to know, that here and there someone else might be pulling a string or two on your behalf.         

          The summer came and spread its warmth, but all too soon it was gone. By Autumn Steve had amassed a growing collection of new paintings which in due course found their way to the gallery where Paul the owner perused them thoughtfully.

          "I don't know." he muttered. "They're different somehow; haven't got the edge they used to have."

          Steve's reputation was now well established, and he was no longer 'bound' by what Paul or any art dealer might say, and felt sufficiently confident in his own work to stand his ground. "But I can't keep on painting dead animals." he argued. "I'm a different man now; and everything else is different."

          The gallery owner was also aware of Steve's new stature, and of the fact that the name 'Steve Farrah' at the bottom of the painting was enough to guarantee it's selling ability, so he conceded. Besides he was able to judge for himself that although Steve's new paintings were different, they retained the artists unique quality. And of course there was something new in the form of the sensual but tasteful nude studies of his wife. So it was agreed that some would be mounted, framed, and hung directly in the showroom and the rest would be held back until December when the gallery's major exhibition was held every year.

          Long before that Steve received a message from Paul telling him that all the paintings which had been designated for the showroom had been sold and asking if he could take some of the exhibition paintings to replace them.

          Steve was pleased. That he had been vindicated and that his supporters had gone with him was cause enough, but everything in his life was good and he felt that his future as a successful artist was assured. More than that, perhaps for the first time in his life he felt that he had a future to look forward to.