Seven Days Horizons

by Ruth Hay

  When Devon saw the huge polished table in the centre of the hall, he understood exactly what his grandfather meant. Not only would modern homes be unable to accommodate a piece of this size but, also, there was little chance of a buyer being interested in it. He could not previously recall noticing the size of chandeliers and other massive items on his Christmas visits to the house. It was another one of the new perceptions he had developed in recent months.

  Devon suggested starting with the unused rooms where furnishings were not on a similar scale and would not be needed while the family were still in residence.

  Aylward agreed, and gave his grandson permission to photograph whatever he thought was saleable then to let him approve of the choices before they left. He returned to his computer with a deep sigh. The problem with living for decades in one house was the inevitable accumulation of items. He was deeply grateful for Terrence’s suggestion to involve the boy. Aylward knew he needed all the help he could get. The task ahead was assuming greater proportions with each passing day. He was acutely aware of both the lack of time and the depletion of his energy.

  When Devon and the photographer had finished, Devon wandered into the garden to find his sister and see what was happening with Portia. He had no wish to disturb his cousin or even to talk to her. It was mild curiosity that drove him. He doubted she would even remember him from the Mexican resort. Doubtless, she had other things going on then, that were more important.

  To his surprise, he found Portia seated peacefully on a bench with a large canvas on a stand in front of her. She was painting brushstrokes with every appearance of skill and total involvement. He asked Abigail if he could go closer. She advised staying behind Portia so as not to disturb her work.

  “When did all this happen?” he whispered.

  “She has drawn and painted most of her life. It’s just that we never knew her well enough to realize what a talent she has.”

  “I guess we were judging by exteriors. I am living proof it can be deceptive.”

  “Listen to you, Mr. Tech Guy! You even look different these days with your new clothes and smart hairstyle.”

  “Well, I am not huddled in a dark basement any more. I have a public to impress now!”

  Abi laughed and gave her brother a friendly shove in the direction of Portia and he moved along the path to see what was on the canvas. It took a minute before he could interpret what he was seeing.

  At first, it was just a mass of green but on closer inspection he began to notice a variety of colours and patterns emerging. He looked up to see what Portia was using as a model and, although there were trees and flowerbeds in her view, nothing on the canvas represented these exactly. He was no artist, or even a person who had much exposure to art, beyond digital versions, but something about the vitality of the painting caught at his imagination. It was as if Portia had captured the essence of the trees and plants. The flat images were alive with movement. How was this possible?

  He looked away again then returned to the canvas to check his perception. It was some kind of magic she was creating. Thoughts about the environment and nature and the importance of preserving green spaces sprang unbidden to his mind. The painting was promoting these thoughts in spite of his lack of understanding of the art. He immediately wondered what a trained observer would find in this work. He turned and made his way back to Abigail.

  “Abi, has Portia made more of these paintings?”

  “Sure! There’s a stack of them in the garden shed at the end of this wall. She keeps her paints and easel there. It’s not locked.”

  Devon walked thoughtfully along the high stone wall dividing the garden into different areas. He was thinking fast. He wanted to purchase one of these paintings for his office. He had an idea to display it wrapped around a box-like frame so the effect could be seen from any angle in the open office. First, he had to find out if other paintings had the same unusual effect as the one his cousin was currently working on. It might have been a fluke; something that only occurred once. He hoped this was not the case, as ideas were beginning to flood his mind. There was a group of creative types in another section of the tech building who might be interested in Portia’s work. He had heard they had a client who was an environmentalist.

  The shed was dim inside because of a climbing plant obscuring one of the windows. There were empty pots piled in one corner and a bench with seedlings near a brighter window. He had to search past shovels and rakes to find the canvases turned inward against the rear wall. Even in the poor light he could feel the same unusual emotions stirring in him as he examined one after another of the deceptively-plain, green-toned paintings.

  There was something special going on here but he did not know what. Realizing it scarcely mattered what his untutored opinion was, Devon decided it was enough that he had found the art and the artist.

  The walk back to his sister was accomplished rather more quickly.

  “Abi, do you think Portia would sell a painting to me?”

  “What?”

  Abigail dragged her mind back from the writing on her laptop. What on earth could her brother mean? Portia was only playing with paint. It was more a therapy than actual art as far as she was concerned.

  “Why would you want a painting, Dev? You’re not an arty type”

  “I think you may be underestimating our cousin. I believe she’s doing a lot more than playing.

  Will you ask her for me later? I would really like to buy the one she’s working on today when she’s ready.”

  “Well, if you want it that much, I can ask her. I have no clue what her reaction will be. If she gets upset at all, I can’t pursue the matter. She’s been making good progress lately and I can’t risk damaging that.”

  “Oh, of course not! Do what you think best, sis. Let me know the decision.”

  Before she could ask any more questions, he marched off back to the house.

  What has happened to the aimless little brother who had lived a mole-like existence in a basement at home? It seems like everyone who had been exposed to the tropical sunlight of Mexico has undergone some sort of transformation.

  She resumed work on her laptop and dismissed the whole incident with her brother as highly unlikely to produce any results.

  * * *

  Meantime, Devon Beck had another project in mind. He tapped gently on the door of the library where his grandfather was working.

  “Enter! Oh, it’s you my boy! Come in. Your companion showed me the photographs and they are quite impressive. I think they will do the trick and get items sold speedily.”

  “I’m glad you are pleased, Grandpa, but there’s another idea I had when looking around the house. I noticed a collection of antique medical instruments you have in the cabinet upstairs. You know, there are people who would give a lot of money for such a collection. Of course, if it’s something you would take with you to the Bahamas…………..”

  He never finished the comment. Aylward Beck jumped on the idea with alacrity.

  “My boy! I would be most grateful if you can find a buyer for such things. If there are no buyers online, then perhaps you could donate this collection to a medical facility at one of the universities? It would be such a relief to me to know someone is handling these details. I can promise you a generous commission, Devon.”

  “Oh, I think you have already been generous enough to me, Grandpa. It would be a privilege to help out. What other items do you have and where are they stored?”

  Devon pulled out his phone and made a list as his grandfather counted off the collections on his fingers.

  Golfing memorabilia.

  Postcard collection from Great Britain.

  Victorian jewellery sets (never worn).

  First editions of Canadian authors’ books.

  African tribal masks.

  Five decades’ of fashion footwear (rarely worn).

  Designer hats in the original boxes.

  Devon stopped his grandfather at this point to say
he had better fetch his photographer to get some record of the size of these collections. It was obvious there was a lot to do. He would have to enlist the help of experts in the various fields.

  “I’m sure we can find good homes for your treasures, Grandpa. Just show us where to start and we’ll be out of your hair soon. I’ll keep you up to date with progress.”

  Chapter 14

  In England, anyone who could escape the summer heat had already left for the countryside, or for foreign shores, as soon as the school holidays began. London was never exactly quiet in any season. Tourists filled the spaces left by departing Londoners, but the atmosphere of the capital city was a little less frenetic than usual. Workers took extended breaks in the parks when the sun shone. Picnics could be seen. Girls wore flirty summer dresses instead of the obligatory business black, and braver males sported knee-length shorts. Bicycles sped along the embankment paths to catch the elusive cooler air from the river and spectators lingered on the Thames’ bridges to take in the view and plan their next river adventure.

  In the business world, there was a perceptible slowing down. Those with families had reserved time off, months in advance, leaving the singletons with more work but less stress about the pace of its accomplishment.

  This was Zoe Morton’s favourite month of the year. She issued a memo to all staff to reduce working hours and leave the Excelsior offices early, so as to exit the city centre and spend time enjoying the pleasant evening temperatures outdoors. She followed her own advice and headed home to Dunstan’s Close well before the twice weekly Skype sessions with Portia.

  Wesley was delighted to see how much more relaxed his wife was. Privately he hoped his wife was anticipating more sensible working hours when she had a child to care for. He refused to consider the possibility that she would not get pregnant. It was such a longed-for event in his mind, he could picture his beautiful Zoe with a baby in her arms and his heart swelled at the thought. It seemed the perfection of their love; a triumph of joy and fulfillment.

  He had not comprehended the pull of fatherhood before their meeting. This was a new feeling that had developed over the months of their acquaintance and risen to enormous heights once they married. He dared not talk about this too much. He was well aware of Zoe’s apprehensions about parenthood.

  He waited as patiently as he could for a word or sign from his wife. He counted the months since Dr. Ambrose had advised Zoe to halt the contraceptive pills. He knew there was a period during which pregnancy should be avoided until the chemicals were cleansed from her system. He knew it, but still he hoped every day that Zoe would introduce the subject.

  Each day passing without that conversation created a tiny doubt. What would be the effect on him if Zoe refused to try to be the mother of his child? Would he, could he, love her less?

  Would their love be diminished by his disappointment?

  He watched her as she wandered around the fenced property, picking dead blossoms from plants, tying up a rose branch to its trellis, humming under her breath as she worked.

  He imagined a baby in a pram listening to its mother’s voice and smiling happily.

  * * *

  In the summer evenings they seldom watched television, preferring to read quietly. In addition to his extensive book collection, Wesley owned an entire catalogue of classical music from vinyl recordings all the way to CDs. On one particularly beautiful evening in mid-August, he had a sense of nostalgia about the waning season and went upstairs to search the shelves for music to suit his mood. His hand hovered over symphonies and concertos until he reached the section where his favourite Russian composers were housed together. Settling on Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto, Number 2, in C Minor, he carried the recording downstairs and slipped it into the record player, selecting the fourth movement.

  Zoe was measuring a bench in the clock tower for some cushions she wanted made. Their tastes in music were dissimilar and he did not want to impose this extraordinary composition on her.

  * * *

  As the first chords rose into the air, he relaxed into the couch and closed his eyes. Within a minute, he cared for nothing other than the emotions evoked by the soulful notes springing from the piano keyboard and soaring into the cathedral ceiling above his head.

  Years before, he had been so moved by this music that he had researched the composer’s life.

  The concerto was so imbued with such pathos the listener could not help but wonder from where the origins of the emotional journey had come.

  Wesley’s instincts were confirmed when he learned Rachmaninov had, indeed, had a troubled life. His first symphony was poorly received in Russia in 1896, sending the composer into a downward spiral for a period of three years. After this, he became engaged to Natalia Satina, a cousin and fellow composer. Her parents opposed the match but they married in 1901 when his famed Piano Concerto, Number 2 was acclaimed as a virtuoso romantic composition far beyond Russia, resulting in a tour of the United States in 1909.

  Another low period emerged as a consequence of the Russian Revolution in 1917. Rachmaninov lost his estate, his lifestyle, his beloved country and his entire way of life. He accepted invitations to join other Russian exiles in the U.S. but, despite being greatly admired as a brilliant pianist and performer, he completing few original compositions during this period. It was as if his heart was broken long before his death in 1943.

  With this background knowledge in his head, Wesley could follow the themes of the fourth movement as a prediction of the sorrows in the composer’s life that were only on the horizon when the work was first played in his native land. It was a foreshadowing with immense passion; a mixture of triumph and pathos impossible to hear without being deeply affected.

  When the last crashing crescendos vanished into the air, Wesley was transported. He had been on a journey that perfectly suited his state of mind but he was, as before, left with a feeling of dissatisfaction.

  He opened his eyes with the idea of going outside to attempt to change his perspective and found Zoe leaning over the back of the couch watching his face.

  “Darling, what’s the matter? You only listen to this music when you are disturbed about something.”

  He sat up, abruptly, embarrassed at being observed when his emotions were so obvious. There was no point in denying it. He asked her to sit down beside him and after a few deep breaths and a quick assembling of his thoughts, he began.

  “My dearest wife, I did not mean to interrupt your work but you are right, of course. Months have gone by and we have not discussed the matter of having a child together. I did not realize how much this meant to me but if it is not to be, I need to come to terms with that and try to restore my equilibrium.”

  She immediately pulled him into her arms and hugged tight.

  “I am so sorry to have given you such trouble, Wesley. I have been silent about this longer than I intended. I had to examine all my feelings and come to a conclusion. It would be a huge alteration in our lives and affect everything in our future and I needed to be sure it was the right thing to do at this point. I told you about my emotional experiences in Glasgow but I had to know I had thought it through from every angle.”

  Wesley’s heart sank. These words were logical but not particularly hopeful and yet, he would not want his Zoe to embark on any life-changing journey without due thought. He turned her face toward him and looked into her eyes, prepared to accept her decision with as much equanimity as he could summon.

  “Oh, my dearest man, I see your apprehension and I will eliminate it at once. I have an appointment next week with Dr. Ambrose. I intend to tell her I am ready to follow whatever course she suggests to make a pregnancy possible as soon as reasonable.”

  Zoe was prevented from saying anything more on the subject. Her husband lifted her up in his arms and ran around the lounge laughing with a sheer joy that was echoed by Zoe.

  They finally collapsed back on the couch when they were entirely out of breath and lay there content to
say nothing more. Everything important had already been communicated.

  Chapter 15

  Devon Beck was more and more grateful, as the summer months passed, to know he had reliable old friends to call upon. His original crew from the basement days were on his speed dial and came through for him whenever they could. With his plate full of a diverse selection of projects, he could not have managed to keep on track without their help.

  On the back burner, but still valid in Devon’s plan, was the online game idea he had first envisioned in Mexico. A recent encounter with Portia’s paintings had awakened his interest in combining advanced 3D techniques with realistic objects to create an environment for interaction between gamers and their perceived surroundings. This would require expensive equipment including game headpieces to be worn while playing. He had a starter fund for this eventual purchase but more immediate projects had to be completed before he could afford to add to that fund. Meantime, two of his buddies were busy working out the parameters of the technology and devising virtual characters for the game. They were spending time watching and re-watching James Cameron’s Avatar movie as well as a 3D film of Cirque du Soleil made by the director.

  Devon was able to enlist the help of another of his crew to scour internet sources for sales of the antique collections held by his grandparents. It allowed him to concentrate on more money-making schemes like advertising plans for new companies who had been impressed by his work for his father’s restaurant.

  Abi had passed along the news that Portia was delighted to sell her paintings and she was really encouraged by his interest. He had gone ahead and mounted the finished foliage piece on the board box for his office wall and it was definitely garnering a lot of interest. Abi was informed she should keep their cousin busy with more paintings as he could assure her of more orders.