Out of the Mist

Christopher stared open mouthed at a bust of Cassandra. There was no mistaking the model, but there was something different, something that he had never seen, in her expression, it was pure, unadulterated love. He had never seen a bust that was able to project such an emotion so clearly and unambiguously. This was a work of genius. Christopher made a decision there and then that he just had to have that bust.

The auction room was abuzz with anticipation, there were many important works on offer this evening and there were many important people present. Christopher waited patiently while several other lots were paraded and bid for, and then the lot he wanted was placed on a plinth at the front of the rooms. "Lot number fifty-seven is a bronze bust by the reclusive American artist Grantley Benson. Little is known of this artist and this is the first of his works that we have listed. I have a telephone bid of ten thousand dollars, do I have eleven?"

Christopher tapped the side of his head with his finger. The auctioneer looked at the person taking the telephone bids, she nodded. "Twelve thousand is bid." At the other end of the line at Christie's New York auction rooms the prospective buyer sat with the person making the bids on his behalf. A monitor was focussed on the auctioneer. Again the finger. Again the glance to the telephone. "Fourteen thousand." Finger, look, finger, look, finger, look "Twenty thousand is the bid". There seemed to be no hesitation from either Christopher or the telephone bidder. Finger, imperceptible pause, nod, immediate finger, nod, immediate finger, the camera panned around the room and stopped on Christopher. The New York buyer spoke for the first time. "Let him have it." All eyes were now on the phone person in London. A shake of head, it was Christopher's "Any further bids? Going once, going twice, for the third and final time. Sold to number," Christopher held up the card in his hand, "Three eight five. Congratulations Sir."

The bust was taken to Gabriel Priestley's office where it was placed in a small wooden box and stored in a secure cupboard.

"You will never guess who was bidding against you at the auction. It was Stephen Fielding, Cassandra's father. I think we should approach him and see what he knows."

"Let's do it." Christopher was anxious for closure. He could sense that the only way Cassandra would ever be happy again was for her to find Grantley and seek reconciliation with him, even if it meant losing her.

The catalyst for change was as unexpected as it was devastating.

Chapter 6 The beginning of the Emergence.

"What on earth is that strange thing?" Susan looked at the animal that I was forming in clay.

"I've gotten attracted to some of the strange animals in Australia, for instance, did you know that the only two monotremes in the world are to be found there?"

"No I didn't know that. I don't even know what a mono-whatever is."

"A monotreme is an egg laying mammal, an animal that lays eggs instead of giving birth to live young. They are this one, the platypus, and the echidna or spiny ant-eater." I pointed to the work. "What I'm trying to do with this is to create a water feature where this platypus will be almost submerged by water running over these stones to give the impression of it swimming. To achieve this I'm going to have to ask for a welding torch, do you think that you can do that for me?"

"I'll ask, but I won't guarantee anything." Susan and I had been living in this platonic relationship for almost five years now, and it was the most settled time for me. I didn't have to worry about anything other than my work, I didn't even have to go out and buy the clay that I used, there just always seemed to be a supply on hand.

But something was missing in my life, something that I was never able to put my finger on. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had a vague recollection of a different life, a different world, but try as I might, I could not penetrate the mists that had shrouded my past. This feeling was manifesting itself in my work. I sensed rather than knew that I had either done this sort of thing in the mists or I had watched someone else doing it. I could take a lump of clay and almost as if by magic I could push and pull, squeeze and stretch it until I produced something that, no matter how many times I looked at it, I knew that I couldn't improve on it. Working in this way was almost a second nature to me, but there was still something missing. Although it was second nature it was not my medium of choice. Every so often a clearing of the mists reveal a twisted and distorted medium that had a grace and flow to it. What it was I didn't know, all I could recall was that it was mine.

There was another bothersome aspect to my existence, and that was what happened to the sculptures that I did. When they were completed Susan would make a phone call, using her cell-phone, there was no land-line into this house, and a courier van would arrive and the work would be whisked off to who knows where. That was the last that I saw of it.

I once thought of using Susan's cell phone to contact the outside world, but as soon as I got my hands on it I was faced with several problems. Firstly; I found that I couldn't use it, she had a lock code on it that I couldn't get past, and even if I could, who would I contact, I knew no-one, I had no phone numbers that I could call, I was trapped in this prison, these prisons. I was trapped in the prison of my mind, there was no escaping from it and it was just as effective as if I was shackled to my bed. Then there was the physical prison, I didn't know where I was, I didn't know where it was, the only people that I ever saw were Susan, the driver of the courier van, and that was never the same driver more than once, and my psychiatrist who came on an irregular basis in response to a call from Susan when she thought that there was something that was either causing concern or had the propensity for concern.

It was on that basis that I received a visit from Doctor Wilkinson. "Why do you need a welding torch?"

"This work that I'm working on, if it is to be cast in bronze and my other works will have been, won't they?" I didn't pause long enough for a response, "If it is to be cast in bronze then it will have to be cast in three sections that will need to be welded together, along with the plumbing, to form the whole. It will not work unless it is done in that way."

"Yes, we have had your other works cast in bronze, but there is another way for this to be completed."

"And that is?"

"We can cast it and get someone to weld it together and then we can bring it back to you to finish. How would that be to you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, you do not."

"I guess that's it then. I just wish that you could be honest with me and explain just why it is that I can't have a welding torch. I have this feeling that clay is not my medium of choice, even bronze is not my medium of choice. I look at a piece of metal and I can see so much potential in it, but I can't do anything about it. It is so bloody frustrating that I just want to give up on this whole exercise, to just sit around and do nothing, think nothing, be nothing. You are using my art as a rehabilitation from I don't know what, but for that rehabilitation to succeed I am going to, at some time, face up to what it is that I'm being saved from."

"All in good time, we don't want to rush this process for fear that, if we do, you will have a relapse that you may never recover from. You are just going to have to trust us."

And so it was for another three years. I moulded clay, it was whisked away, I ate, I slept, I listened to music on a CD player, there was no radio, there was no television, there were no newspapers, there was no contact with the outside world. This place was my world and there was no escape, at least not in the physical sense, but very slowly I was remembering snatches of my past. I knew now that sheet metal was my medium of choice and I had vague recollections of some of the shapes that I had created and I began to sketch them.

I also had vague recollections of another person and that person's work. The more that I thought about it the more that I was convinced that the other person was a woman and that we were very close, in a very different way to my closeness with Susan. The more that I tried to remember that person the more that my mind put up barriers, it was as if that person was responsible for my problems and my mind was protecting me from further hurt.

I said as much to my occasional psychiatrist who had made an unscheduled call because Susan had detected a change in my attitude that had disturbed her.

"Your mind is doing strange things at the moment. You are remembering some great times you had in the past, but those times came to an abrupt end and that was the trigger for the cathartic experience that has led to your being here. Your mind has adopted a screening process, it is not allowing you to remember the bad times, only the good. In its own good time it will allow you to remember the hurt that triggered this, and that will be when it knows that you are strong enough. Just give it time, relax and that time will come quickly, try to push it and the time will be slow coming and, worse still, it will seem much, much slower."

"That's easy for you to say, you don't have to live with the frustration of knowing that, while the work that you are producing is good, there is something even better there, something that was your life, and I don't mean the other person in my life, I have had glimpses of her in the past and I even created an image of my memory of her, but I didn't at the time have any knowledge who this person was. Now I know, I feel, that what I am doing, what I am producing is not really me." I took some of my sketches out of a folder on the workbench. "Have a look at this, this isn't something that I can produce in clay or bronze, this is a totally different medium, and that medium is me."

"I totally agree that you should be working in sheet metal, and yes, you are making progress, and yes it is almost time when we can allow you to move to the next phase, but take my word for it, there is a good and valid reason why we cannot allow you to move on just yet. You are going to have to trust me on this."

"I suppose I will just have to trust you, you have been right so far."

Back to playing with clay, back to seeing my finished model disappear into some void somewhere, never to return. Actually they did return now, the castings came back and I finished them myself to my satisfaction, grinding and sanding them to a smooth finish and then patinating them so that the features stood out. They were works of art, but not my art.

It was during this that I produced another image of the face that was my recurring dream and as I finished I lavished more attention to it than I had to any of my previous works and in the days before it was removed forever I sat for hours caressing it, touching it, tears welling up in my eyes and falling onto the bronze.

Mary mentioned it to my Doctor who made the decision that it was nearing time when I would be allowed to return to sheet metal sculpting.

Chapter 7: The Search Begins

July 7th 2005, a date that will be forever etched in the minds of Cassandra and Felicity Cullen. Christopher had set out, as usual, by train for the office. Some time after he left Felicity burst into Cassandra's workshop. "Mummy! I've just heard on the radio that there have been several explosions on the underground. I think we should try to contact Daddy's work to see if he arrived safely."

Cassandra tried the office number only to get the company recorded message telling her that the office was unattended and that she should call during office hours. The office should have been open for at least half an hour.

She switched on the television to be greeted by scenes of utter chaos. Scrolling across the lower edge of the screen was a message advising families of people who may have been on any trains at the time of the explosions to contact a hot-line number and leave as many details as possible to enable authorities to trace that person. She called the number and left a detailed description of Christopher and what he was wearing.

Then began the long and agonising wait for a response. "I'm sure that he's okay." Felicity was trying hard to be re-assuring. "I imagine that the rail system is in total chaos and he's probably walking in from some outlying station. It could take him forever to reach the office.

"Then why doesn't he use his mobile phone and call us?"

"I think I saw something on the screen telling us that mobile phone traffic is being restricted to emergency service use. Would you like me to make us a cup of tea?"

"A cup of something a little stronger than tea might be in order I think."

The day was spent watching the television and waiting for the telephone to ring. Cassandra couldn't work, she was in two minds, on one hand she didn't want Christopher to be one of the victims of this wholesale slaughter, while on the other hand it would release her from her promise to him. It wasn't as if the intervening years had been any great hardship for her, she enjoyed his company and appreciated that, not only did he honour his promise to her, he remained true to her, not actively pursuing any love interest outside the family. He was a good provider for her and Felicity, he took an active interest in not only what they did, what their interests were, but in the local community. He was universally loved by all in that close knit community.

When it eventually came, it wasn't the sound of the telephone that broke the tension but that of the front door bell. "Mrs Cullen?"

The local Sergeant of police stood on the porch, his cap was in his hand, the look of bad news written all over his face, if it had been good news the contact would have been by phone.

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid it isn't good news, I'm sorry to inform you that a body believed to be Christopher's has just been pulled from the wreckage. We need you to formally identify the body, you being the next of kin. If you like I will drive you into London in my car, that way we can get in and out quickly. It's still chaotic in town,"

"Very well, can Felicity come too?"

"Certainly, if you feel that is the right thing."

"It's up to her but I'm sure that she will want to."

The trip into the hospital morgue was quick, the siren and flashing lights helped, and having pushed their way through the crowds milling outside the mortuary, Cassandra and Felicity were soon walking down the corridor to the examination room. Sergeant Morris showed his warrant card and ushered them into a room where several bodies were laid out on tables, sheets covering them. The attendant checked several toe tags before he pulled the sheet far enough down to reveal Christopher's head. He looked so peaceful, laying there, it was almost as if he had died peacefully in his sleep. Cassandra had the feeling that the attendant had not pulled the cloth further down the body because of the damage.

"Yes that is my husband." He was covered and Sergeant Morris led them from the hospital.

"Do you mind, I would like to break the news to Christopher's parents. Could you drop us in Knightsbridge?"

"Certainly. Look Mrs Cullen, if there is anything that I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, you have been most kind, I'm sure that we'll be alright."

Cassandra rang the door bell of her In-laws' apartment. It was a resolutely stoic Sir Timothy who answered it personally. "I presume that you are not the bearer of good tidings."

"I'm sorry, no. We've just come from the morgue. Christopher was one of the victims."

"Come here child." He held out his arms to Cassandra. "I know that this is hard for you, given the circumstances of your lives together I can understand it if you are angry at this turn of events, but we will help you in any way possible to get over this. We know it couldn't have been easy living the sham that was your marriage and we are thankful that you were willing to give it a try."

"What does he mean?" Felicity asked. "What is going on here?"

"Sssh. Leave this to me." Cassandra turned to her Father-in-Law. "My life with Christopher has been a good one, he was the perfect husband and father to us and any problems that could have arisen because of his sexual preferences didn't intrude on our lives. We were a happy family and for that I am extremely grateful. When we have the funeral service I would insist that we concentrate on our full and rich lives together and not make any big deal of the fact that he was homo-sexual. We will have the funeral in our village church and, if you have a family plot where you would like the body to be laid to rest that is fine by me. But the service, I think, should be held where we lived and where he had become such a strong community member."

"Very well, we will respect your wishes because we believe that they would also be his wishes. What about his other friends?"

"I am going to organise a memorial service for them where they can grieve in their own way, without the fear of public dis-approval, in much the same way as they celebrated our wedding."

"Are you staying in town tonight, or would you like us to drive you home?" Juliette asked.

"I wouldn't want to put you to any inconvenience, we can find our own way home."

"I won't hear of it, we'll drive you because, from what I hear, the transport system is still in chaos."

"What are your plans for the future?" Sir Timothy asked as the Daimler, having cleared the congestion of the city, loped along the motorway.

"I haven't really thought about it, yet. My life has been here for the last fifteen or so years and it will be hard to drag myself, us, away from that, but, my family is in the States and I think we should at least dip our toes in that water to see what it is like."

"We will support whatever your decision is, you should know that we love the two of you very much, and wouldn't want to lose you. Remember, if it doesn't work out in the States you are very welcome to come back here to us."

"Thank you for that. I know that we didn't get off to a very auspicious start but I have grown to love you too, and appreciate the way that you have taken me into your family."

There was a deputation of village people waiting for Cassandra's return, each of them armed with food of some description and a word of genuine sympathy. Before long the small cottage was bursting at the seams with people coming and going, all offering sympathy and support. That they included Sir Timothy and Juliette as their equal was a little disconcerting until the genuine way that Cassandra and Felicity were included and accepted demonstrated that class distinctions were non-existent in this part of the world.

"I know what you are going to ask." Cassandra and Felicity were alone at last. "Yes Christopher was gay, and no, he is not your biological father, that honour goes to a man called Grantley Benson. We were students together in New York and we were planning to marry when we finished our studies. My parents didn't like him, he didn't have the right breeding for them, so when they found out that I was pregnant with you they arranged for me to be brought over here, against my will, and for me to have an abortion, find a suitable husband and forget about him."

"Things didn't go as they had planned, firstly there was no way that I was going to abort Grantley's child, and I'm glad I didn't, and while, in Christopher, I found a 'suitable husband', I didn't ever forget Grantley. Christopher and I were husband and wife in the legal sense but we were never husband and wife in the Biblical sense in that we never had a sexual relationship. I love him as a companion, but he was never able to replace Grantley in my heart, and he knew that and accepted it."