by Ashe Barker
“I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t?”
“I, I just couldn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough.”
The plates rattle on the table as I jump to my feet, determined to get out of there. “It’s all I have. I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions, the wrong conclusions. I should never have stolen from you. I’m ashamed of that and I’ve apologised. I still want to repay you, and I wish you’d take the money.” I pause, waiting for some sort of reaction from him. There is none. I swallow my disappointment, and opt to try for that dignified exit. “Now, if you don’t want to know about my ideas, my work, there’s nothing left to say. I need to go.”
“Don’t run out on me again, Beth. I deserve better than that.”
I choke back a sob. He’s right. Of course he’s right. But despite my hard won maturity, my sense of perspective, my professionalism and confidence, not to mention months of counselling courtesy of the university health service, it doesn’t require much at all to scratch away the veneer to reveal the frightened child beneath.
I turn to him, pleading now. “Don’t ask me. Please, just leave it. Let it be.”
He shakes his head. “No, sorry, there’s more. I know there’s more and I want it now. I’ve levelled with you, and I’m prepared to share more if you want me to. But trust and honesty work both ways.”
“I can’t. It was a long time ago. Before you and I…”
He raises one hand to stop my flow of words. I fall silent.
“Okay, a straight question then. One I wanted to ask back then, should have asked. But I thought we had more time, and that you’d eventually tell me anyway. You didn’t, and I know you’re on the verge of trying to bolt again although I won’t be allowing that this time, so I’m asking now. Why were you on the streets? What happened to make you homeless?”
Allow indeed. Even so, I just sit there and I stare at him, trapped. I make a grab for my bag, on the floor by my feet. “You’re right. I have to go.”
“Stay there. You’ll leave when I say you can, not before. Now, I asked you a question. It’s a simple enough question, and I expect an answer.”
There’s something in his voice, something indefinable but compelling, a sternness, an implacable certainty that I will obey him. He expects it, demands it. And something deep in me responds. A tingling deep in my belly, a curious desire to drop my gaze, to obey. To be cared for, protected, forgiven.
“Beth, tell me. Now.” His tone has softened, but it is not gentle. He’ll encourage, support, he may even wait, for a while at least. But ultimately he expects to be obeyed.
“May I have a drink of water?”
He stands and goes over to a small drinks fridge set on a side table. He opens it and grabs a bottle of water, and snaps the cap on his way back to me.
“Drink. Then tell me.”
He resumes his seat behind the desk. I’m disappointed, it would have been easier if he would sit alongside me. Within cuddling reach.
I have no remaining doubt that I will share my story with him, in all its seedy, grimy, degrading detail. And once he knows, what then? Will he think I’m stupid, gullible, weak? All the faults I’m so fond of finding within myself.
“It was to do with Mr Findlay.”
Matt’s lip twitches, the movement slight but definitely there. Relief? Whatever. Having started, I press on.
“Mr Findlay lived along from us, on my street. We lived in Sheffield then. It was just me and my mum. My dad left when I was very little. Mr Findlay’s daughter was at my school, but she was older than me so I didn’t know her that well. He was manager at the minimarket where my mum worked, and he used to organise the neighbourhood watch. Everyone liked him. He was respected.”
“I see. What did you think of Mr Findlay, Beth?”
“I liked him. He was kind, and… and generous.”
“Generous?” Matt’s tone is little more than a murmur, but he’s homing in on the significant words with precision accuracy, scenting the meaning, the vulnerabilities laid bare.
I twist my hands in my lap as I continue. “He would let the local kids have sweets from his shop sometimes, even if we had no money. He’d just say we could pay later, or do a paper round or something. I hardly ever had any money.”
“So you delivered papers?”
I nod. “Sometimes. Mostly. At first.”
“But not always.”
“No. Not always.”
“How else did you pay for sweets, Beth?”
“Photographs.”
Matt says nothing, just lifts one eyebrow as he leans back in his chair. I continue with my story, amazed that it’s all coming out so smoothly, so easily. Perhaps I was ready to tell.
“Photographs of me playing usually, in the street. And sometimes in his shop, for advertising he said. My mum was there too. He sometimes took pictures of us both. It was for a brochure, and his website. It seemed alright. Normal.”
“But it wasn’t, right? Something changed?”
“Yes. Eventually it changed. It went on like that for ages though, and I liked him. He made me feel important, special. I’d go in the shop, sometimes I had money so then I’d pay for what I wanted, sweets, comics, crisps, that sort of thing. And occasionally I had no money, or not enough. On those times he’d let me have the stuff anyway and tell me I had to come back later, when the shop was closed, to pose for pictures. Then, one day, when I was perhaps fifteen, I went back and he told me to take off my top.”
“I see.” Matt’s face is expressionless, but he’s listening intently. “So, did you?”
“Yes. I thought it was odd. I said so. But he told me he needed pictures for his summer posters, selling ice cream and such like so photos of me muffled up in my jumper and coat were no use. I had a vest on, so…” I pause, and reach for the water bottle again. Matt waits for me to regroup. He’s patient but I have his undivided attention.
“I never saw any ice cream posters. I never saw any adverts for deodorant or body lotion either, but he made me pose for those shots too, in just my underwear. Then, one day, he told me he was installing a tanning machine in the back room of the shop, and I’d be perfect to help promote that. Some nice, tasteful pictures of me with an all-over tan.”
“Did you have a tan? You certainly don’t now.”
“I didn’t then either. But I asked my mum about the tanning machine and she confirmed it, said it was being installed the following week. I told her about Mr Findlay wanting me to undress so he could take my picture and she said that would be fine too; he’d use camera angles and such like to make it look as though I was nude. But he didn’t.”
“No, I don’t suppose he did. What happened?” Matt’s expression is tight, angry, though I know it’s not aimed at me. I’m an adult too now. I know what it is I’m describing though back then I’d no idea what grooming was. No idea how an adult could suck in a child, twist their perception, confuse their reactions until things seem, if not quite right, then not entirely wrong. I see Mr Findlay now for the skilled manipulative predator he was, drawing me in, making me trust him, even using my mother as part of his evil, self-serving facade. She told me that what was happening was okay, and I’m sure she thought it was. I believed her, even though I was no longer sure about Mr Findlay.
“I went to the shop after it was closed. I’d borrowed a strapless bra from my friend, because that would help, I thought. Hoped. And a thong. I hate thongs.”
“Noted.”
“He told me to undress. Completely. I stripped down to my underwear, and he said that all had to come off too. I refused, said he could take the pictures and make it look as it should. For the advert. He got really angry, shouting, threatening, telling me I’d had loads of stuff from the shop and I needed to pay my way or he’d be out of business. And my mum out of a job. Or he’d ask her for the money I owed. My mum had nothing spare, I knew that. We barely got by as it was. We’d have even less, sh
e might be out of work, and it would all be my fault. All he needed was a few pictures, he said, and it wasn’t as though I had anything special to hide. So I did as he told me. I just got it over with. I remember I was crying, but he didn’t take pictures of my face so no one would know.”
“Did you tell your mum what had happened?”
“Not then. And not the next few times either. He always wanted nude photos after that, and they were getting more and more—explicit. Each time I went to the shop he refused to take my money even when I offered it. I didn’t want to continue our ‘deal,’ but he insisted. Then when I stopped going in at all he sent messages with my mum saying he missed me, I was his best model, he needed me to come in and do a sitting for him.”
I pause, this next part is difficult, the memory even now causing my stomach to churn. I look at Matt, who smiles at me.
“Tell me, love.”
I nod, and fix my eyes on my hands, folded in my lap. “I went in, through the back door as usual. But this time, it wasn’t just Mr Findlay. There were two other men there, quite elderly men. I had never seen them before. At first I thought that was a good thing, he wouldn’t expect me to undress if there was anyone else there. Would he? Wrong. He told me these others had seen my pictures and they were very impressed. They’d asked to meet me. I should be flattered, he said.
I asked him where they’d seen pictures of me. By then I knew it wasn’t for adverts, and I wanted to know where he was displaying the photos. One of the men just laughed at me, said I was an internet sensation, and if I played my cards right I could make money out of being a model. I said I wasn’t interested, I was planning to be an artist. I didn’t need their money. I said I wanted to leave, but Mr Findlay locked the door. Can you believe that? He actually locked me in there with them. I was terrified. I asked them to let me go. Begged them.”
“How did you get away?”
“I didn’t, not really. Not until they were ready to let me out. I undressed, posed for them. I even let one of them touch me. He didn’t put his fingers inside, but he asked if I was a virgin. I wasn’t, but I said I was and he seemed to like that. When they eventually let me get dressed I saw him handing money over to Mr Findlay. He pocketed it, and told me I had to be back there the next night as he had other admirers of mine who had booked a viewing. He even said he might share some of the money with me if I was really good and didn’t make a fuss.”
“Did you go back?”
I shake my head, vehement. “No. No way. I never went back.”
He nods. “Thank God for that. Did you tell anyone? Your mum?”
“Yes. I got out of the shop as fast as I could and I ran the whole way home in tears. My mum was there, watching television. I told her what had happened, all of it.” At this part I’m struggling to continue. Perhaps the worst part, the most betraying part of the entire ordeal, had been my mother’s reaction. “She told me I was lying. She said Bill—Mr Findlay to me—was a good man. A kind man. A man who looked after people. She accused me of being jealous, of wanting to keep her to myself so I was making up vicious lies about the man she was in love with.” I stop, gaze at Matt through tear-filled eyes. “Can you believe, she was actually having a relationship with that worm? I’d had no idea till that moment. She was planning to marry him, she said, and I’d better get used to that and stop causing trouble. She even accused me of trying to split them up because I wanted him for myself.”
“She sounds to be a very deluded woman. Rather confused.”
“She was. Is. I told her there was no way I’d be living under the same roof as him, that if he was marrying her, it was only because he wanted to get at me, to live in the same house as me. I said he was using her, and I still think he was. She actually slapped me then, hard, across the face. She told me to get out, but I was already half way up the stairs. I grabbed as much of my stuff as I could ram in my bag. This bag. I had it for going camping with the scouts, it’s a good quality one. And I left. I never went back. I never will. I spent the next few weeks dossing on various couches, friends’ floors, hostels. Eventually I used up my welcome everywhere, and I ended up on the streets. I think you know the rest.”
“I guess I do. So this was what, eighteen months or so before you and I met?”
“Yes, about that. It was summer when I left home. I spent that first winter in a hostel when I could get in, and a squat for a couple of months so it wasn’t as bad as it might have been. The following year though the squat had been busted up and I couldn’t find anywhere else. Until you, that is…”
“Until me. Right. But then you ran off again.”
“You know why I did that. Maybe I made a mistake, but I’ve managed alright on my own. I came here to show you my designs, and to tell you about my work. I brought loads to show you, and I…”
“Okay. Show me your stuff.”
“What?”
“Your stuff. Your idea for building some sort of monument on the wild moors above Haworth. I gather it has to do with the Tour de France?”
“Yes, it does. Le Grande Départ…”
Grateful for the opportunity to present my case I spend the next thirty minutes explaining my aspirations, my desire to create a spectacular image visible from miles around, something to celebrate the culture and vibrancy of the Yorkshire region, something iconic, showcased by this global event where all eyes, not to mention cameras, will be turned on the county. It’s to be a once in lifetime opportunity, one I want to seize with both hands.
Matt looks up from my laptop screen where my initial design is sketched out. “Your enthusiasm is infectious. And I admire your sense of timing. I confess, I’ve heard the hype about the bike race, but I hadn’t really appreciated the media implications of it all.”
“So, you’ll agree to this then? You’ll let me create this, on your land?”
He shakes his head, then rakes his fingers through his hair. “It’s not that simple, unfortunately.”
“It is. It really is. You just have to say yes. I’ll do the rest.”
He leans back in his chair, his expression kind but full of regret. “How will you do it? It’ll cost a fortune. Have you costed this?”
“Yes. Well, sort of. I intend to make it as a mosaic. I told you that. I’ll use glass, to catch the light. I thought recycled materials…”
“So where would you obtain this reclaimed glass? How would you get your materials up the moor to High Whitley Scar? That is the name of this place, yes?”
“Yes, it is. I’ll set up collection points in the area, get people to donate their old glass. Like a bottle bank.”
“Okay, but you’d need to process it. Even at its most simple you’d need to melt the bottles down to reshape them. Do you have any means to do that?”
“I never know how I’ll create a project at the start. I’ll work it out as I go along. I always have, and I never give up. I’ll do this. I will.”
“But will you do it in time?”
“What do you mean?”
“You only have six months. Seven at the outside. You need this thing to be done and dusted well before the race. You’ll have local objections to deal with, the planners at the council…”
“I spoke to the Boothroyds. They’re keen.”
“Maybe, but there’ll be plenty who won’t be. I can just hear the Bronte lobby now, complaining about despoiling the Wuthering Heights landscape. It has the makings of a PR nightmare. Even if you could deal with that, the logistics will be a challenge to say the least. You need to think this through and come up with more details. A lot more. At the very least you need a way of processing that glass, assuming you can acquire it, and a means of transporting the stuff. And time is not on your side.”
I listen to his words, pouring cold water on my dream. I hope my desperation isn’t too obvious as I reply, though I’m not in the least confident about that. “I promise you, I can do this. I just need you to agree to let me try. If it fails, then it�
��ll be my time that’s wasted, my effort.”
“And your money?”
“Money?”
“Yes. Money. Glass collection depots don’t come cheap, petrol costs a fortune. Hell, I should know. What about storage, insurance, labour costs?”
“I’ll do the work myself.”
“If you had more time, then maybe. But in the timescale you have available, you’d need to hire in someone to do the heavy work. An army of someones, actually.” He stands, turns to me. “As presented, it’s a non-starter, Beth. Sorry.”
“Why won’t you let me have a go? What do you have to lose?”
“My professional reputation, for one thing.”
“What do you mean? What does my plan have to do with your reputation?”
“Beth, do you know what MLR stands for? What my company does?”
I shake my head. I’d assumed some sort of development or construction thing, but really, I don’t know, never thought about it really.
“Mathew Logan Renewables. We’re in the recycling and reclamation industry. We specialise in renewable energy production, but we do have interests in glass and metal reclamation too. So you see, I do know this stuff. If my company was linked to this scheme, and it flopped, my reputation would suffer. It’s a risk I’m not prepared to take. Sorry.”
“But…”
“Drop it, Beth.”
I heave in a ragged breath, the taste of his dismissal bitter in my mouth. “I see. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“It wasn’t wasted. I wanted to see you. I’ve wanted to see you for six years. I missed you, Beth.”
I close my laptop and shove it into my bag, followed by my sketchpad and pencils. “I missed you too. You were very kind to me. Then.”
“I looked for you, you know. I spent months looking for you. Walking the back streets in the city centre, asking every tramp and drop-out I saw if they knew you. Every shelter, every soup run. Shit, I didn’t even have a picture of you to show them. I felt sick every time there was a news report of some woman being found, injured or worse. I imagined all sorts happening to you…”