by Ashe Barker
“Yes, it is. But the route takes the riders, and the crowds who’ll be watching up onto some of the highest spots in the area. The views from the route stretch for miles. You can definitely see this farm, and the land above it, from where the bikes will be. I know, I’ve just been up there, on the road from Oxenhope to Hebden Bridge. I saw your hillside, and I knew it was just the right spot for what I have in mind.”
“Oh, and what’s that then? Do you want to paint it? A landscape, like?
“Not a painting. I was thinking of a mosaic, or a sort of collage perhaps. May I show you?”
I have her full attention now. She may remain unconvinced, but she’s intrigued, which is most of the battle in my experience. Not that I’ve gained that much experience in the year or so since I finished my degree in fine art, but I’m working on that. Annie raises no objections this time as I lean down to get my laptop from my bag. I open it up on the table and hit the start button, just as the sound of the outer door opening and closing echoes down the hallway.
“Ah, that’ll be our Ned. Me son. ‘E works the farm nowadays, since ‘is dad passed away. E’ll have smelled the tea brewing I expect. E’ll want to see this, lass.” She stands and heads for the cupboard where she keeps her cups, turning to greet the hulking man of middle years who enters her kitchen. “Sit ye down, Ned. We have a visitor.”
“Aye, I can see that. It’s a right strange van tha’s got outside, lass.”
“This is Beth. She’s an artist.” Annie offers the introduction as though my occupation fully explains any oddness this man may have detected. Perhaps it does, though Alice is indeed idiosyncratic, even for one such as me…
“An artist, eh? We get a lot of arty types up here, paintin’ and the like. Are ye sellin’ pictures then, lass?”
“No, she does mosaics, does Beth.”
I keep opening my mouth to explain myself, but Annie beats me to it every time. Actually, she’s doing a good job and I get the impression I have at least one ally here. My elderly champion pours Ned his tea as I finish booting up my computer. Then I turn the machine so they can both see the screen.
“This is the site I wanted to work on. It’s quite high up, to the west, maybe a couple of miles away…” I gesture in the direction I consider west to be.
Annie and Ned peer at the screen. Ned cocks his head, and looks doubtful.
“It’s hard to tell really. Where did ye say ye were standing’ when you took the photo?”
“On the other side of the valley, on the Hebden Bridge Road.” I gesture at the screen, “So, is this your land?”
Ned starts to shake his head, but Annie is having none of it. “O’ course it is, lad. Look, them’s our ewes. Got our red marking on. Must be ours or else they’ve strayed.”
Her son regards the screen again, then nods. “Aye, I can see it now. That’ll be High Whitley Scar then, I reckon.”
“It is. Look, that’s the stump o’ that tree what was struck by lightning back in ninety seven.” They both peer into the picture, then back at me. It seems the matter is settled.
“Right, so, what can we do fer thee?”
I reach for the laptop and turn it back to face me. “Let me show you what I want to create there…” I pull up the other pictures I worked on as I studied this view from across the valley, the shots which outline my basic idea. “I specialise in outdoor art, I like to create things that everyone can enjoy, that they don’t have to pay to see, or to buy.”
“Hard to make a livin’ that way, lass.” This from Ned, clearly the more prosaic of the two.
“Yes, well, I get by. The point is, there will be a lot of artworks popping up along the Tour route. Some are just advertising, some will be celebrating the cyclists, and the sport. What I have in mind is something to symbolise the spirit of this area—beauty, strength, resilience, rebirth. I turn the computer back in their direction. “I want to create this, on your hillside.”
“It’s an angel.” This from Annie, in an awed gasp.
“No, a butterfly.” Ned supplies his opinion, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“A swan…?” Annie is less certain now, which delights me. My image is deliberately ambiguous, open to interpretation.
“It could be any of those things, depends perhaps on the angle, and the light. It’s like those optical illusion puzzles you sometimes see… is this a vase or two faces?”
“Eh?” Ned is clearly struggling with the concept. His mother gives him a sharp nudge.
“Stop catchin’ flies lad. It’ll look lovely, won’t it?”
I start to grin, sensing victory.
“Aye, I daresay. But she’d have to get that fancy lawyer to agree to it too. It’s not just up to us.” Ned folds his arms as he scrutinises the image before him, clearly considering the matter nowhere near concluded.
“Ah, right. The lawyer.” Annie flattens her wizened lips in disapproval. I get the impression she’s not overly impressed by this absent third party.
“Lawyer? I’m sure that won’t be a problem. I’d be happy to sign a contract…”
“No, not that. The owner’s lawyer.” Annie tries to clarify, but I fear I am now the one struggling.
“Owner? But that’s you.”
“No lass, we just lease the land. We own some of what we farm, but those higher acres are leased from the estate.”
“Estate?”
“MLR. It’s some big fancy conglomerate, owns most of the land round here. We lease from them, and pay our rent to this lawyer in Manchester.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’ll go and see them then. Do you have their address?”
“Oh aye, we have their last letter somewhere. Do ye know where it is, ma?”
“It’ll be in the bureau I expect.” Annie shuffles out of the room, I assume in search of said document, leaving Ned and me to regard each other in silence. He’s much less garrulous than his mother, and I confess I’m somewhat at a loss for words.
Maybe ten awkward, self-conscious minutes creep by before Annie reappears, clutching a bunch of papers. “Here we are. You should be able to find ‘im from this lot.” She thrusts the bundle at me.
I flick through, glancing first at an invoice for the last quarter’s rent on some three thousand acres, then at a letter informing the couple that the firm of solicitors acting for MLR in this matter have relocated to an address in central Manchester. I recognise the name of the firm, and their new address. I could call in and see them easily enough.
“Is there a named contact you normally deal with?”
“Aye, it’s this Mr Barnes. At least, he’s the one as’ allus writes to us…” Annie points to the signature on the letter, one A. M. Barnes, Senior Account Manager. I pull out a tattered notebook and jot down his name, his phone number, and his email address as well as the address of the office.
“Thank you, Annie, Ned. You’ve been so helpful. And thank you for the tea as well. I’ll get in touch with Mr Barnes, and can I tell him that I’ve spoken to you and you have no objections to my proposal?”
The pair look at each other, and I see Ned readying himself to turn me down. I get the impression this man regards anything unusual as not to be encouraged, whether in camper vans or outdoor artworks. Annie halts his mental gymnastics with a glare.
“Well, ye can tell ‘im we’re prepared to listen. There’d be stuff to sort out, lots of it. You’d need to get your materials up there, and we’d not want a lot of disruption with lorries and such like. There’s no road, an’ we’d not want one building. Oh, and we’ll not be payin’ for any of it.”
“Right, I understand all that…”
“And nothing’s to ‘appen that’d disturb our stock. We still ‘ave lambs up yonder an’ I’ll not have me ewe’s upset.” This from Ned, obviously keen to have the last word.
“Of course. But, in principle…?”
Ned looks uncertain, but Annie answers for the pair of them. “Ye can tell �
��em we’re ‘appy enough, so long as it causes no bother.”
That’s as good as I’m going to get, better, in fact than I’d hoped for. I close down my computer and shove it back into my rucksack before getting to my feet. The ancient dog totters to his feet in the corner close to the stove and wobbles across to help see me off as I make my goodbyes.
“Let us know ‘ow it goes, wi’ the lawyer. An’ don’t be a stranger. We’ll want to be knowin’ what’s ‘appening. Either way.”
“Of course. I’ll be in touch soon.” I wave to the pair from the driver’s seat as I manoeuvre Alice around the yard and back in the direction of the track leading to the main road. I formulate the next part of my plan as I bump and roll downhill over the rough terrain.
I need to email this Mr Barnes, and maybe arrange to meet with him. He won’t be easy, he’s sure to have all sorts of objections to throw my way—it comes with the legal territory. But I know the planning regulations for the sort of plan I’m considering, and I think I can deal with his queries.
First things first though. I need to sort myself out with a job, and place to stay.
Chapter Eight
I take my leave of Annie and Ned up at Upper Shay Farm. My next stop is the nearest village, Oldfield, situated about two miles along a winding and narrow country lane. Oldfield is a small place, very pretty, and most important to me, it has a pub with a decent sized car park. I tuck Alice away in the far corner of the parking area of The Fleece and head into the bar to seek out the landlord, one Robert Reynolds according to the sign above the door.
Robert, or Bob as he’s known, is a nice enough man. I learn that he’s an ex-police officer who retired after twenty five years and invested his pension lump sum in a country pub. He runs a quiet enough house, and is amenable to my proposition that he let me work in his bar for a few evenings a week in exchange for my meals, and his permission to park Alice on his forecourt. This, or a variation on it, is a system which serves me pretty well in locations where I need to take up temporary residence whilst I’m working on a project. I’m experienced in bar work and waitressing, it’s how I financed myself through university for the most part, though I did also max out my student loan. I work hard and I offer good value.
The deal struck, I fire up my laptop to put the next part of my strategy in motion. I have an email to write.
From: Beth Harte
To:A. M. Barnes
Date: 6 September 2013
Subject: Land at High Whitley Scar, West Yorkshire
Dear Mr Barnes
I understand your firm acts on behalf of MLR estates, the company who owns the above land. The property in question is leased to Upper Shay Farm, Oldfield and is used for the purposes of agriculture. I have attached a map which indicates the precise location.
I am a public artist specialising in creating outdoor pieces. I have identified this site as being especially suitable for a project I would like to pursue linked to Le Grand Départ, which will be taking place during July 2014. I have been in contact with MLR’s tenants at Upper Shay Farm, Mr Boothroyd and his mother, and they have agreed to my proposals in principle. Indeed, the current leaseholders seem very interested in the project and I would hope to involve them fully in its execution.
They have advised me that I will require the consent of the landowner before the project can proceed. I would therefore appreciate it if you could pass my request on to your client in order that I can explain my ideas in more detail and agree plans for progressing this scheme.
My contact details are below. I am available to meet with MLR at any time, and would be happy to come to their offices in Manchester.
Best regards
Beth Harte
Landscape Artist
Satisfied with my progress so far I close down my laptop and stow it safely under Alice’s rear seat. Time to go to work.
I take the precaution of gaining Bob’s agreement to my living arrangements, and I’ve done an evening’s work for him before I allow him to clap eyes on Alice. I consider that the wisest courses, so by the time he actually realises the nature of the vehicle which is to be gracing his car park it’s sort of too late.
Ned Boothroyd was not wrong when he described Alice as ‘right strange.’ I thought so myself when I first saw the camper van I have made my home. Previously owned by a somewhat eccentric archaeologist, Alice has been extensively customised. Her exterior is pretty much covered in wooden cladding so she looks a bit like a tea chest on wheels. She is painted in a variety of garish colours, which I suppose I could apply my own talent to tame down at some stage but haven’t got around to it so far. And if I’m honest, I sort of like her as she is. I have considered a mural of some sort, but inspiration eludes me so far. I’ve had other matters on my mind, most particularly my attempts to establish a reputation as a public artist.
I went to university intent upon getting a qualification which would grant me entry to a career as a museum or gallery curator. I like such places, developed a sincere fondness for them during my eighteen months or so among the homeless of Leeds. You could generally get warm and dry in a museum, provided you didn’t attract the notice of the staff. I found I could usually manage to melt into the background, and I liked looking at the exhibits. Art was a natural choice for me, especially as I’m not bad at drawing. But I haven’t so far felt inclined to waft a paintbrush in Alice’s direction, and I can appreciate that Bob was somewhat dismayed when he discovered her languishing in all her technicolour glory, in sharp contrast to his eighteenth century stonework.
“What the bloody hell is this?” His shriek of outrage wakes me from my sleep that first morning. He takes some calming down, but we eventually settle on a solution whereby Alice is banished to the bin yard at the rear of the pub, and I still have a job.
A couple of days pass. They are uneventful. I make myself useful at The Fleece, and manage another trip to High Whitley Scar to further develop my plans for my creation up there. On the third morning I check my emails, and find I have a reply from Mr Barnes.
From :Andrew Barnes
To: Beth Harte
Date: 9 September 2013
Subject: Land at High Whitley Scar, West Yorkshire
Dear Ms Harte
Thank you for your recent correspondence with regard to the above property.
I have to advise you that rural conservation is an extremely high priority for MLR. The land you have identified is designated as being of particular ecological interest and is therefore not available for uses other than light agricultural. I am afraid therefore that I must decline your request.
May I take this opportunity to wish you every success with your future projects?
Regards
A. M. Barnes
Senior Account Manager
Shit! Bloody hell! I’m not having this.
From: Beth Harte
To: Andrew Barnes
Date: 9 September 2013
Subject: Land at Wiley High Scar, West Yorkshire
Dear Mr Barnes
You misunderstand me. I was not requesting your consent or otherwise to my proposal. I merely asked that you convey my interest in this matter to your client at MLR. If you feel unable to do so I am happy to approach your client direct.
Best regards
Beth Harte
Landscape artist
There. That should do it. I hope. I’ll give this solicitor a couple of days or so to come up with a more promising response, but failing that I’ll need to start researching contact details for someone senior at MLR.
Three days later I have my reply.
From: Andrew Barnes
To: Beth Harte
Date: 12 September 2013
Subject: Land at Wiley High Scar, West Yorkshire
Dear Ms Harte
Your persistence is to be applauded.
I apologise if my response caused offence. In advising you of my client’s current policy re
garding this particular location I had hoped to spare you the inconvenience of wasted time and effort.
In view of your ongoing interest in this matter I have forwarded our correspondence to Mrs Helen Kerry, the Director of Estates at MLR, who will no doubt be in touch with you when she has had an opportunity to consider your request. I should advise you however that the company’s priorities are exactly as I described in my previous email and I do not anticipate Mrs Kerry will be in a position to agree to your proposal.
I hope you find this response more helpful.
Regards
Andrew Barnes
Senior Account manager
From: Beth Harte
To: Andrew Barnes
Date: 12 September 2013
Subject: Thank you
Dear Mr Barnes
Thank you so much. I am sorry if I seemed a bit sharp, but this project is very important to me. I am sure I can allay any concerns MLR may have regarding the preservation of the ecological features of the site, and I look forward to discussing my ideas with Mrs Kerry in person.
Once again, I do appreciate your help in this matter.
Regards
Beth Harte
For want of something more constructive to do I spend the next few days working full time in the pub. It’s the weekend, but still I check my laptop every chance I get for a reply from Mrs Kerry. By Monday I’m seriously eager. Surely she’ll contact me today.
I spend a sweaty morning swilling down the toilets at The Fleece to emerge stinking of chlorine bleach and ready for a shower before facing the regulars. I negotiated access to the bathroom and related facilities as part of my deal with Bob, so wander off upstairs in search of hot water and soap suds. By the time I feel fit to face the world again it’s just a couple of minutes to opening time and Bob’s putting the finishing touches to his blackboard proclaiming today’s lunchtime specials. A hot pork baguette sounds good to me and I wonder if I’ll be able to sweet talk him into parting with one. Failing that I can rustle up the three pounds odd to buy it. Times are lean, but they’ve been harder.