Seven Days Beyond

by Ruth Hay

  Bourneville had decided to take a nap on top of the script she had been reading. She left him there in peace, admiring his ability to blot out the world whenever and wherever he chose.

  It was not so simple for humans. She really wanted to talk to Zoe. She wondered what important negotiation was occupying her friend

  Thursday.

  Wesley Philips unlocked the gate and walked up the path to the front porch. He extracted the large, old key from his inner pocket and opened the door to Dunstan’s Close. He was deliberately early for his appointment with Zoe. He knew he would be alone for an hour or more but he needed the time. Tonight they had to prepare for a crucial meeting.

  He removed his fedora and hung it on a hook with his Burberry raincoat. At this juncture, he always felt impelled to pause for a moment. Although he had an intimate knowledge of the renovations that had been done here, it was a continual delight to appreciate the finished effect, so perfectly composed.

  It was originally a small parish church, tucked away in its own grounds along a quiet street, one of many tiny cul-de-sac left behind when the city builders move on to more profitable locations. It had been condemned because of dry rot and missing roof tiles; residual bomb damage from World War II, like many other parts of London. It was too small for the diocese to maintain and the parishioners had moved away years before when the gravestones were removed from the churchyard.

  She found it all by herself and the love affair began the first time she hoisted herself up on the lip of a foundation stone and peeked inside. Only someone with the imagination of a Zoe Morton could have seen anything other than dust, decay and detritus in that grim interior. Of course he had cautioned her about the futility of the plan, the extraordinary costs and the huge, and to him, disturbing, contrast between her ultra-modern loft and this antique wreck. She went ahead with the purchase anyway, stating the high ceilings were a common factor between the two residences.

  This he could not deny. He held his tongue while his other objections proved to be justified.

  She interviewed five architect firms and set up their models in her loft in order to study them from all angles. He was afraid she would be caught between two different styles and unable to get a compromise but she found her vision exemplified by the fourth and smallest firm, Angelov Associates, a husband and wife partnership. The name seemed appropriate, she declared.

  A million pounds went into the restoration of the exterior walls, the sub structure and the slate roofs at different levels before anything was done inside. The debate over the windows went on for months until Morna Angelov showed Zoe a simple version retaining the original shapes which could be devised from the remaining window sills. She suggested clear glass panels to let in every bit of light but with a special coating to exclude damaging sun rays and prevent anyone from seeing inside. She felt it was worth the additional expense, despite the large number of windows required. Zoe, of course, agreed at once. By this point she had dismissed the price factor. The project had begun to take on its own life and she and the Angelovs were co-conspirators in the restoration.

  Wesley’s own contribution was minimal but significant. The name, Dunstan’s Close, came from a lifelong interest he had cultivated in the tenth century saint. His first encounter with the name had occurred when he was a child and his sister attended a private school in Mayfield. The quiet village was on a rise amid the rolling hills of Sussex and had some very old features that had been preserved there.

  Most of this did not impress itself upon his child mind but there was a strange, almost castle-like gateway as an entrance to the school grounds and not much farther into the property was an ancient church called The Bishop’s Palace. This structure was his refuge when his parents were required to attend school conferences for his sister.

  The first time he set foot in the place was unforgettable. In some ways it was a standard English church building with arched roof, tall windows and stone floor. The kind of place he had been obliged to attend for Sunday services. But this church with the strange name had unusual features. Behind the small altar was a dais with a high-backed chair whose wood was so old it looked like black stone. A matching wood cross loomed over the chair. On the wall above the chair there was no stained glass window but a small raised pattern, almost like wallpaper. He moved closer to see what it was and found the squares were like daisies imprinted on the wet clay at some point. They were irregular in shape and size and he could see this effect must have been done by some person’s hand.

  After poking around and reading memorials set into the left side walls, he made his way to the entrance again and saw the parish announcements set out on a table. There was also a set of pamphlets telling about the building. He picked up one of these and discovered the name of the building came from a real palace that had stood on this spot hundreds of years before. A sketch of the interior informed him that the chair was the Bishop’s throne and the pattern on the wall was called diaper work. He had to stop and read that again. The only use of that word he had previously encountered had been in American movies with babies in them.

  He had stuffed the pamphlet in his trouser pocket and might have forgotten about it had it not been for his mother who unearthed it in crumpled state when she was doing the family wash. Shortly after this discovery he was returned to the scene of the crime, as she put it, and shown the sign asking for donations for any chosen printed materials. He placed a shilling into the box on the church wall and thought to ask his mother who the bishop was. He was promptly assigned a penance consisting of an hour’s study of the pamphlet and a verbal report to be given to his mother.

  She also imposed a tour of Mayfield village including an introduction to their larger parish church nearby, named Saint Dunstan’s. His mother was something of a history fan and she lectured him on being more observant about his surroundings, especially since he lived in a unique historical place. She pointed out many local wrought-iron signs with symbols inside and asked him what they showed. He knew the one on a tall post near the bus stop as his sister had told him about it. It showed a young girl who represented the village name but he had missed the significance of the inn sign swinging outside The Middle House on the other side of the street. His mother refused to provide this answer saying it was part of his penance.

  The subsequent report had impressed two things on his mind. One was that the church he had admired was, in fact, modelled after the original Palace’s Great Hall. The second was the story behind the inn sign. Saint Dunstan was a holy man with a job as a metalworker. One day while he was at work beating metal on his anvil, the Devil paid him a visit. Dunstan seized the Devil by the nose with his red-hot tongs and held on.

  Eventually the Devil made his escape and jumped a long distance to find a well to cool his nose. The water in this well, now in the city of Tunbridge Wells, retained the iron quality forever after.

  When Wesley had inspected the inn sign, he could clearly see the iron figures on either side. On the left was a red devil figure beside an anvil; on the right, stood a monk holding a pair of tongs.

  As the years passed, and other interests took their place in his life, most of this knowledge had been forgotten.

  When he qualified as a psychotherapist and began to practice in an office in the City of London, he found himself near Fleet Street. It was his custom to walk when he had a spare hour. This helped to clear his head and to acquaint him with the neighbourhood. On one of these walks he was astonished to find an elegant-looking church, built of pale stone and with a spire reaching into the sky above. He found it remarkable that the church even existed in this busy commercial street of modern newspaper businesses. The church was hemmed in by ugly buildings on each side, but what was beyond remarkable was the interior of this St. Dunstan-in-the-West. Suddenly his memory was awakened and all his youthful interest in the saint was revitalized.

  By this point he was an accomplished researcher and he made it his quest to discover more about this man who had l
ived over one thousand years before and yet was commemorated today in such different locations, including Westminster Cathedral which the monk had founded in 960 AD.

  When Zoe began the process of remodelling the ruined interior of her future home, she had asked him what he thought should be the name. She wanted something unique and significant of the building’s age. They tossed around a few ideas but nothing seemed right.

  It was then, Wesley had his inspiration. He took Zoe to see the Fleet Street church. He deliberately held back and let her experience the effect on her own.

  She was as thunderstruck as he had been at the octagonal interior with statues and artifacts preserved from the first church dating to 1000 AD. Immediately she peppered him with questions and he began to tell her about the monk, born in Glastonbury, who rose to be Archbishop of Canterbury, friend of kings, and patron of many monastic centres.

  Her quick mind grasped the reason why he had brought her to this place but she did not see the potential similarity between her old building and this unique church until he took her across London to St. Dunstan in the East. This site was entirely different. It was a garden set in the ruins of a former medieval church and had such a sense of life and peace that she could visualize her own building when the garden and trees around it were planted in the final stages of its transformation.

  Dunstan’s Close was named that day and the very fact of its name led to many of the choices for the richly, decorated interior space. One of the first items purchased was an antique pair of iron tongs. A bookcase wall now held a collection of works about the saint compiled from his own research and also from their travels together to the many sites in southern England with which Dunstan was associated. It was a pilgrimage of sorts and a time when they grew closer in mind and understanding. It was also to be an unlocking of long-held inhibitions.

  Wesley still marvelled at the way Zoe had put her stamp on the building. The entrance where he stood was to him a symbol of the journey she had made in her own life. The stone arches were painted white and rose fifteen feet above his head. The floor was composed of white and black marble tiles in a chequered pattern, the whole illuminated by a chandelier. This passageway led to a generous, black and white spiral staircase on one side but on the other it provided a transition to the glimpse of a more colourful space ahead.

  To him, it was as if the old Zoe had chosen to acknowledge her former state of mind and also to show how she had grown into a confident woman, freed from her old restrictions.

  The final stage of that transformation was to occur in this home. He needed to be prepared for the meeting between father and daughter.

  Years before, when Zoe had reached the point of being able to consider forgiving her father, Wesley knew it was a theoretical forgiveness. To fully forgive and move ahead, she would need to confront the man who had betrayed her mother and find answers to the questions her sessions with Wesley Philips had uncovered.

  She had withdrawn from the therapy when they had come to a mutual decision that she was able to function with the new self-awareness she had gained. Their relationship then moved to a more personal level and she had given him permission to pursue a line of enquiry that might produce further information as to the whereabouts of her father if, indeed, he still lived.

  Zoe was in no hurry to receive this information so he had proceeded with caution, all the while testing that her resolve had not changed in the interim.

  Michael Morton had not been difficult to find. From the start of the search, it was clear to Wesley Zoe’s father had not closed his mind to the idea of being traced by his daughter one day. He had retained contact with a friend at his former workplace in Glasgow. This led to Michael’s years working in Aberdeen and then to a period in Perth and, lately, a few years in Edinburgh. It was almost as if he had been circling round with the intention of returning to Glasgow one day.

  None of this information was revealed to Zoe until Wesley had been able to make contact with Michael Morton and sound out his feelings. Exposing Zoe to further trauma was not an option. He had to know what this man wanted and who in fact he was, at a most basic level, before any further progress could be made.

  The meeting took place at an Edinburgh hotel. Wesley had sent a letter to the address he had been given asking if Michael Morton was interested in meeting to discuss his daughter. The reply came almost by return post which Wesley took as a good sign, but there was still a long way to go. What were his expectations of such a meeting? What was his mental state with regard to past events? How did he recall these events and the subsequent actions of his teenage daughter?

  Wesley had no preconceived ideas about the simplicity of this venture. It could only be a shot in the dark. He was instinctively wary of this man and arrived in the Edinburgh hotel foyer fully armed with all his senses on alert for any kind of prevarication or subterfuge.

  The man he saw had no particular resemblance to Zoe Morton. He was someone you might pass in the street without noticing him. He was of average height with lank, grey hair in need of a haircut and his chin showed evidence of some nervousness as there was a small red mark where a razor had nicked it. He wore a dark business suit and carried a navy raincoat over his arm. His white shirt was new but the tie at his neck had wrinkles indicating long years of wear. Wesley had sent a photoprint of himself along with a list of his credentials so he was ready to rise and greet the man who headed across the foyer and straight toward him.

  “I am so very grateful for your letter,” Michael began at once. “I do not know your relationship to my daughter but I am prepared to answer any and all questions you may have if it can help her in any way at all.”

  He collapsed onto a chair beside Wesley and passed a hand through a lock of hair that had fallen forward.

  Wesley noticed at once how similar his hands were to Zoe’s. It made him more sympathetic than the conventional words had done.

  “I will come right to the point, Mr. Morton. Your daughter does not yet know of this meeting but she does know I have been making enquiries about you on her behalf.”

  His companion took in a great deep draught of air and sat up at attention. “You cannot know how happy this makes me, after so many years when I knew nothing about any change in her feelings about me.”

  “Your daughter’s feelings are not the subject of this meeting. I am here to find out from you some information about the tragic circumstances around the suicide of your wife, Grace Morton.”

  His face altered at once, and a deeply sorrowful expression hollowed out his cheeks. He swallowed convulsively and then began with a statement Wesley Philips had not expected.

  “The truth of that event has never before been told to a soul. I will be honest with you, Dr. Philips, but first I need to be sure you have my daughter’s best interests at heart.”

  Wesley was impressed. This man was concerned about the impact his supposed truth might have on Zoe.

  Establishing an actual physical contact with his daughter was not his main worry.

  “I can assure you, sir, that I share your concern. Zoe Morton came to my office a number of years ago. She was a young woman in a powerful position, as I am sure you know. She had reached a place in her life where she was ready to acknowledge that the pain she held inside was a detriment to her future.”

  Wesley was watching his companion and saw him flinch when he heard the word ‘pain’.

  “I counseled her and found her to be remarkably intelligent and insightful. Our sessions together are privileged information, of course, but she has entrusted me with this task and I mean to do anything that may help her.”

  “I have to rely on your professional discretion, Dr. Philips.” He looked around to see if they could be overheard. Wesley knew he was about to hear something disturbing.

  “My marriage to Zoe’s mother was not perfect. At first we were deeply in love and I kept that feeling to the very end despite what happened in our life together. I never truly betrayed Grace. Yes, there wer
e brief flings with other women. I won’t dignify them by calling them affairs. Grace was one of those women who lavished energy on others around her and by the time she got to her husband she was too depleted to attend to his needs. That’s all I will say about it. I am not proud of my behaviour and if I had ever suspected what would happen to her………………”

  He broke off and resumed in a different tone of voice.

  “The truth is Zoe’s mother became addicted to prescription drugs. I blame her teaching ambitions for this although she did not succumb until after Zoe was born. The pressure of the college’s incredibly high standards and the need to simultaneously care for a much-wanted baby, put her at risk.

  I had no idea this was happening. She found a doctor who prescribed medication for stress and eventually she applied to a whole series of doctors and duplicated her medication until she had access to far more opioids and tranquilisers than she could cope with. It altered her perception of events. She began to accuse me of infidelities at every turn.”

  “How is it you knew about this abuse of medications and did nothing about her condition?”

  Wesley could not conceal his anger. The man must be a fool.

  “You must understand, doctor. I was unaware of all this. Grace was secretive about her drug taking.

  I wrung this out of her family physician after her death. He, too, confessed to ignorance about her habits. As far as he was concerned he was treating her for a mild depression. He had no idea how deep into denial she was. He was as horrified as I was when he saw the range of drugs Grace had used to commit suicide. At my daughter’s pleading he disposed of most of them and promised to conceal the truth from the authorities for his own sake, as well as that of his patient. He was an older man. He died shortly after this. I believe the shock hastened his end.”