by Liz Graham
‘The Premier is on the side of getting re-elected,’ she warned. ‘He can see the sense of your plan.’
Sharon looked around to see who was within earshot.
‘I shouldn’t be repeating this, not at all,’ she said. ‘But the Premier is on yours, if he’s on anyone’s side. He can see the benefits to the region that the artists’ retreat would bring, believe me. And he also knows there’s something weird going on with Enoch and his application, that there’s someone else behind him, someone big. We just don’t know what or who or why.’
She sat back, her break over. ‘You just have to come up with fifty thousand dollars within two weeks.’ she said. ‘It's that simple.’
With everything going on in her life, Conor couldn‘t find the energy to think about what Sharon had said, or get her head around the fact that her little group would have to find so much money in such a short time. She had been hoping their difficulties would be solved by Seamus’s contribution from the gallery showing, but that was too much money to expect.
‘Oh, well,’ she thought, allowing herself one final despairing sigh. ‘What will be, will be.’
The artists’ retreat was still a solid idea. It would work. Perhaps they could look at it again, after the election, and find another suitable site.
Conor let herself into Doc Oster’s house, and was pleased to see her up and about.
‘How are you today?’ Conor asked. ‘You're looking much better.’
It was true. Oster had washed and brushed her hair to a gleaming silver, her cheeks were regaining their colour, and the woman’s presence was back in the steely eyes. The nasty cough was lessening now as her lungs loosened.
‘I’ll be back at work the day after tomorrow,’ the doctor replied. ‘I can't remember the last time I was so ill.’
‘Don’t think you’ve ever been that sick,’ Conor observed as she put away the groceries she had purchased. ‘Not that I've seen.’
‘Fortunately, Don is back from holiday tomorrow,’ Oster said. ‘So poor Devon will get a bit of a break.’
Conor hadn’t seen Devon since that hurried visit in the bakery on Monday. He’d managed a couple of phone calls, but he'd been working flat out in the hospital covering everyone else’s shifts. She hoped fervently that she would get to see him before she left in two days for Corner Brook. He'd had so little time for social life lately.
‘How has Seamus been keeping?’ the doctor was asking. ‘The flu never got him?’
Conor shook her head. ‘Tell you the truth, I haven’t seen much of him,’ she admitted. ‘And I would have if he was sick, believe me. I think he’s been spending most of his time in the studio.’
When she had moved back all those years ago to help her father recover from his heart attack, Seamus had finally moved his artwork out of the house. With the help of friends and an old woodstove he’d found at the dump, he’d converted the garage on the property into a wonderful studio for himself. After it was fully winterized with insulation, he’d put in an old plate glass picture window (also found at the dump) for the side overlooking the bay. With an electrical cord permanently stretched between house and studio, he had lights and power for the new CD player she’d given him last Christmas. Of course, he still insisted that his vinyl records gave a much better quality sound.
‘I hope he’s been working on the big one,’ Conor added.
The doctor knew which painting she was talking about. Everyone in town probably did, for Seamus was not shy in discussing his work, and it had been in progress for twenty years.
‘He said he would finish it in time for the show.’
‘If he said he would, then he will,’ the doctor assured her, who had known Seamus for a long time. ‘Seamus may not be the most reliable man when it comes to money but he would never lie about his art.’
‘Speaking of which...’ Conor hesitated, feeling it was really unfair of her to ask if the doctor would be attending the opening in Corner Brook.
‘I’ll be there,’ the older woman replied firmly, her voice even gruffer than usual due to the illness. ‘Seamus finally doing something with his talent? Wouldn't miss it for the world.’
Conor smiled as she left. Devon, too had promised to take the time off work and be there, and she planned to have Seamus all cleaned up and ready to present to him. She could finally be proud of her Dad.
When she returned home that evening, there was a message on her machine from Devon.
‘Hi Conor, it’s me,’ the deep voice said. She could hear the fatigue in his voice. ‘Don's cutting his vacation short and coming back to the hospital this evening. I really want to see you.’
He groaned. ‘I’m going to need to catch up on my sleep though. Give me twenty-four hours. I know you're leaving for Corner Brook to help Seamus setup his art show in two days — can l see you tomorrow night? How about around eight? I should be making more sense then.’
Devon paused. ‘I’m really looking forward to sleeping in my own bed — this hospital cot is not the most comfortable. Maybe I can persuade you to join me tomorrow?’
She replayed the message again, just to hear his voice. Yes, he was tired, but the fatigue deepened his voice and made him sound even more seductive if that was possible. A giggle of glee escaped her lips as she danced a little. Tomorrow night? She was more than ready.
SHE CLOSED UP SHOP the next afternoon, after writing a schedule for Susan and detailed instructions to deal with anything that might go wrong.
‘You can reach me at the Gallery or the hotel, any time,’ she told her.
Susan managed to shake her head and roll her eyes at the same time. ‘I am entirely competent to do this, and besides, nothing will go wrong.’
The kettle began its high-pitched shriek and she poured boiling water over the teabag in her mug. Dumping the used bag into the sink to drain, her eye was caught through the window by movement in Seamus’s studio. The wide door was open and she could see bodies moving inside.
Quickly crossing to the old garage with the mug still in her hand, she peeked in his studio. Seamus and his friends had gathered with bottles — whiskey, not beer, and were having an uproarious time.
‘Conor, my daughter,’ he called to her. ‘Come have a drink with the lads. We‘re celebrating the end of an era.’
He swept his arm with a flourish to the rear of the studio where the large canvas sat as it had for years, lit by the bare overhead bulbs and the northern light from the window. Even in this less-than-perfect lighting, she could see it was a masterpiece. The men cleared away to give her an unobstructed view.
There was Sedna, rising from the waves, although a bit older now, and perhaps with a kinder look in her eye. The Viking she approached too, had changed, less arrogant and perhaps more respectful of the land he was to invade. On the mountains behind the goddess she could see shapes rising from the air, gods and demons of cultures long forgotten on the shores of North America, and in the clouds behind the white man in his tiny boat were Celtic warriors, Christian saints and off in the distance, she could make out the halls of Valhalla and the fires of hell.
It took her breath away.
‘Oh, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘It truly is a masterpiece.’ Everywhere her eye fell, she saw something else, figures in tiny and exquisite detail. She felt she could look at it for days and still not take it all in.
She was staring at the huge work in stupefied awe as Seamus began to herd his friends out of the studio.
‘We’re just off for a wee nip down the cove,’ he said over his shoulder.
Conor forced herself away from the painting. He was on such a creative high right now that their planned early departure would have completely left his mind, even though the coming show was the reason he had pushed himself to finish the work.
‘Don’t forget we’re leaving early in the morning,’ she called out to him. ‘And don't go further than the cove, you hear me? Be back by seven this evening.’
She sighed as she watched his
departing back, knowing he had already forgotten her presence. Her Dad was on the whiskey tonight, so there was no telling what he might get up to. Conor decided with a nod that she would go out looking for him after visiting Doc Oster. The party would be starting in earnest by that time but he might still be pliable enough to leave it if she scolded him.
‘You don’t need to come looking after me now,’ Doc Oster said in exasperation as she opened the back door of house on West Street. The evening was still early at seven o’clock for the sun wouldn’t set for another three hours. Conor stepped in.
‘I'm much better, and can cook for myself.’
‘I know, I know,’ Conor laughed. ‘Just checking to make sure.’
‘Don't you have enough to occupy yourself with?’ the older woman asked as she led the way into the kitchen. ‘You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?
‘Yeah,’ Conor agreed. ‘But everything‘s ready. Except for the large one, and that’s going down in a separate truck.
‘There’s only one thing left to do,’ Conor added wryly. ‘And that’s to collect Dad and get him out of the party in the cove. He won’t want to be traveling with a hangover tomorrow.’
Doc Oster gave a small laugh as she passed a mug of tea to her.
‘A little late for that,’ she said bluntly. ‘They’ve been in the pub for the past hour. I heard the bally-hoo as they arrived.’
Conor looked up from the tea in horror.
‘But he promised,’ she began, then set her lips in frustrated disappointment. If Seamus had already made it to the pub, then he was drunk enough to forget his promise to her. Knowing her father, he was probably drunk enough to forget she existed.
‘I’d better go, before he gets into too much trouble.’
Closing the door behind her, she saw him. Seamus was leaving the pub across the road, the noise of the continuing party clear through the open windows. He turned his wavering path homeward.
Conor was touched. In his own way he was showing his respect for her request, and she marveled at the force of will it must have taken to remove himself from his friends and the alcohol, especially in the state he was in. She started down the steps of the veranda, intent on calling to him.
Her attention was grabbed momentarily by a familiar sight just leaving the coffee shop next to the pub. It was Devon. Her heart sank as she saw Mellissa firmly attached to his arm and smiling up at him. Then horror struck.
Seamus was weaving towards them, crossing the parking lot of the franchised donut store, and headed right for them. He walked with the careful intentness of the habitual drunk, attempting to weave in a straight line but not quite succeeding, with his fine voice raised in song although he slurred the words. Just as he drew level with the two, he stumbled to his left and fell to the ground.
Devon made as if to go over and help him, but Seamus picked himself up, dusting his pants.
‘Must have been an earth tremor,’ he told them quite seriously, carefully enunciating each word of his nonsense. ‘Tis earthquake season, you know.’ With that he resumed his careful path across the parking lot towards his home.
Melissa was almost bent over with laughter. Devon, a smile on his face, slowly shook his head. The blonde woman straightened up, and bringing her other arm to his shoulder, whispered something that set her off laughing again. She looked as though she was about to kiss him. Devon placed his free arm on hers, still shaking his head.
Conor’s feet were rooted to the step in horror. In her mind, she was back in the fifth grade, just after her mother’s death, when Seamus’s drinking had hit its lowest point. She was that ten year old girl again, not understanding her father’s terrible grief, only hearing the cruel laughter of her schoolmates as they mocked the drunken man. She had had to distance herself from her Dad, to stay hidden from their sight or they would have verbally attacked her too. Conor took refuge beside the overgrown rose bush by the side of the veranda, willing the two not to look her way.
Only after Melissa and Devon had disappeared in the other direction could she move her feet again. Her heart was breaking, for her father and for herself. Seamus, good old Dad, was only trying to make it home early as she had requested.
And as she moved, she pushed forward through the years. She was no longer a vulnerable child dealing with the pain of her mother‘s loss and the terrible changes that this had brought to her life. She was a self-made woman who knew who she was and knew where she came from. It was as if a dam broke inside her mind, the anger within finally loosened. She placed her feet firmly on the ground and ran towards her father.
Finally, perhaps many years too late, she realized that she didn't have to give a hoot about what anyone thought of her, or of her Dad. Seamus was her father, and she was his daughter, and they had been poor when she was young, and her father sometimes drank too much. Forget all of them. She couldn’t be bothered to deal with people who couldn’t handle the facts of her life.
Even if this included Devon, his friends, and his family.
‘Besides, what was he doing with Melissa, anyway?’ The thought struck her and she paused to think. They had looked very cozy. Too cozy, for her liking. Conor narrowed her eyes, her fury finding a new vent.
Seamus saw her headed determinedly toward him, and made a great display of looking at the wrist watch which he never wore, the one which lived permanently on his bedside table. He seemed surprised not to find it under his sleeve.
‘Am I late?’ he asked, slurring his words just a little. ‘Forgot the damn watch again. I left early, like you asked.’
Conor smiled at him gently and took his arm.
‘You're fine,’ she said. ‘Just fine. Now let's go home and get some coffee into you. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.’
When she got home the first thing she did was phone Devon's home number to leave a curt message.
‘Can’t make it tonight - far too much on the go,’ she said abruptly to the message manager. ‘But I'm sure you won’t miss me. You’ll find - other things to occupy yourself with.
‘Oh, and about the other night,’ she continued coldly over the protests of her breaking heart. ‘It was a great trip down memory lane, but I don’t think we’ll be repeating it.’
She hung up the phone, satisfied that her message had been clear.
Chapter 9
T o begin with, it was a beautiful evening. As Conor stood on the deck of the Pine Arts Building away up on the hill overlooking the Humber valley of Comer Brook, the sun was setting over the narrow Bay of Islands, painting the clouds with red and orange streaks and the mountains in the distance with violet. The fine weather had attracted a crowd, and she’d been told by the excited curator that everyone who was anyone in the provincial art world was here, many having flown in from St. John's, Halifax and even Montreal. It was a very successful night.
She recognized the faces of politicians, business owners and others in the public eye, and would have known this was a big occasion just by the way the women were dressed. Glittery cocktail gowns, upswept hair-dos and lots of jewellery were on display. Conor herself wore a simple knee length black velvet cocktail dress, one bought many years ago when she was a student but rarely brought out in the past four years. Fortunately, little black dresses never went out of style.
The success of the evening was all Seamus‘s doing, she knew, but how he had managed amazed even his loyal daughter. He had made a lot of contacts over the years with people who‘d passed through St. Anthony and the pub. They had met a visionary artist, not the town drunk, and he had called on every one of them tonight to come out and support him. She could hardly identify the individual people through the forest of the crowd.
Conor wandered once again through the while-walled gallery, thrilled to see her Dad’s work finally displayed with such dignity. Meticulously positioned spotlights highlighted each of the two dozen paintings so that the vivid colours of his imagination shone out. Alone on the far wall with no others to crowd it hung the glory of th
e show. Seamus had named it ‘The Collision of East and West‘, an apt title for the content. The passion on the faces, the strength of the waves and the dizzying heights of the cliffsides — each square foot of the canvas was a work unto itself, yet none of the viewers crowded the painting to examine the individual brushstrokes. The painting itself created an unseen velvet barrier, keeping them at bay so that they could only stare, speechless with awe.
The snacks were delicious too, she was happy to discover. In keeping with the tone of the evening, the event was being catered by the finest restaurant in the small city. Cheeses of every description lay on the huge trays, accompanied by sliced fruits and herbed biscuits, and the tiny savoury pastries were lightly made and crisp. Each one was a pleasant surprise to the palate.
‘Mmm,’ Conor said, as a brie and cranberry pastry melted in her mouth. She quickly wolfed down a sausage roll then another pastry filled with mushrooms and onions. This should do her for a while.
‘It's a great night, Dad,’ she said to him in a low voice when she got a chance. He was in his element that night, the guest of honour holding court with his fans. Seamus had a glass of champagne in his hand, supplied by the gallery in anticipation of garnering large commissions on the sale of his works.
He turned to her fondly.
‘It's for a good cause,’ he replied warmly, his love for her shining through his eyes.
‘They’ve asked me to go up and introduce you,’ she said. ‘I’m a little nervous speaking in front of so many people.’
‘I have no doubt you’ll do fine,’ Seamus assured her. ‘After all, you’re your father’s daughter, and l must have passed on some of my gift of the gab.’
She smiled at him gratefully and squeezed his hand, then drew a deep breath and approached the podium. She spread out her painstakingly prepared speech before her.
The crowd quietened down its murmurings and turned to her en masse, looking expectant.
‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen,’ she began with a rush. ‘I’ve been asked to introduce the artist, Seamus McLowrie, for two reasons.’