Spirit

by Ashe Barker

  He leans forward, his head in his hands, and for the first time perhaps I start to truly comprehend the impact my departure had on him. I reach out, lay my hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, I never meant to worry you…”

  He swivels his head to fix me with a glare. “No? How the fuck else should I react then? You were so young, so vulnerable. I was shit scared of hearing that you’d… you’d…”

  “I was alright. Really, I was.”

  “Sleeping rough? How is that alright? You tried it already and it almost killed you.”

  “I didn’t. I mean, I wasn’t sleeping rough. That’s what I used your money for.”

  “What? You paid for a bed and breakfast somewhere? A night or two maybe. A hundred quid wouldn’t have gone far.”

  I shake my head. “No. I bought a train ticket. To Manchester.”

  “Manchester? So all that time I was stalking Big Issue sellers you weren’t even in Leeds?”

  “No. I left the city that same night.”

  Matt leans back against the upholstery of the seat behind him and lets his head fall back. He draws in several ragged breaths, clearly struggling to rein in his annoyance and frustration. After a few moments he turns to me again, fixing me with that compelling gaze I remember so well.

  “Right then, let’s hear it. The full story. Where did you go, how the hell did you manage to keep off the streets, and how did you manage to reinvent yourself as an artist?”

  Chapter Ten

  “Could we have more coffee?” I gesture towards the empty cafatière.

  Matt glances at the remains of our afternoon snack and shakes his head. “No, I have a better idea. Let’s get out of here, find something decent to eat. Pizza?”

  “There’s no need, really. I mean, I have food. I’m not…”

  He grins at me, that familiar sparkle back in his eyes as his moment of temper passes. “I know you’re not. In fact you look remarkably well nourished these days, and I’m glad of it. I want to hear the story of how you accomplished such an impressive transformation, and I don’t really want to do it here. Come with me. Please.”

  It’s that final word that convinces me. I do at least owe Matt Logan the courtesy of a proper explanation, and the reassurance that his generosity all those years ago was not in vain. I did indeed manage to turn my life around, and I can’t blame him for being curious to know how.

  “Yes, okay. That’d be nice. Pizza then.”

  Matt stands and returns to his desk to grab his suit jacket from the back of his chair. As I shrug back into my khaki style parka it occurs to me what an incongruous pair we make—the sharp, prosperous business man and the grungy artist. Still, if he doesn’t mind why should I? I start to hoist my backpack onto my shoulder but Matt takes it from me.

  “You can leave that here if you like.”

  I shake my head. “No, I prefer to keep it with me, if that’s okay.”

  He shrugs and makes for the door, my bag dangling from his left hand. He holds out his right hand to me and I take it without thinking. “Do you still like pepperoni?”

  I suspect the occupants of the banked desks in the MLR open plan offices are somewhat nonplussed at the sight of their chief executive leaving the office hand in hand with the peculiar little artist, but I concentrate on looking straight ahead to avoid confronting that issue. Matt chats to me the entire time we are negotiating the furniture, assuring me he knows a place where we can get a superb pizza and a light Chianti to wash it down with, just a few minutes’ walk away. This news doesn’t surprise me, Leeds was never short of eateries although I was more familiar with their waste disposal facilities.

  The place Matt has in mind is a large chain, brightly lit and full of cheerful family groups enjoying an after-school treat, or workmates unwinding at the end of the day. Matt and I find a table for two tucked away in a corner and he passes me the large laminated sheet that serves as a menu.

  I hand it back, unread. “Pepperoni, with extra mushrooms please. And could I have a diet coke too?”

  “No wine?”

  I shake my head. “Driving later.”

  Matt glances around the restaurant and a waiter materialises. We order a twelve inch deep-pan pepperoni, two large diet cokes, and a side salad. The waiter jots it all down, relieves us of our menus and scuttles off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Matt props his chin on his hands, his elbows balanced on the edge of the table, he looks at me, long and hard, then, “So, let’s hear it. You caught a train to Manchester. Then what?”

  I hold his gaze as I reply. “Then, I got a job.”

  “A job. I’m impressed. Where?”

  “I didn’t know where I wanted to go when I walked into the station, but I checked the board and saw that a train for Manchester was leaving in ten minutes so I bought a ticket and got on it.”

  “Why go anywhere? You knew Leeds.”

  “So did you. You would have found me.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “So, I left.”

  “I see.” By the cool expression on his handsome face he does indeed see, and he is less than pleased at my determination to avoid him.

  It’s done now. I press on with the tale he is so determined to hear. “I came out of Manchester Piccadilly station, and just headed off down the road. I passed a bar—Ruby’s—just a couple of minutes away, and there was notice in the window saying they needed bar staff. So I went in and asked. They took me on.”

  “Okay. So you had a job…”

  “Yes, and the bar was on the ground floor, but above it were four storeys of flats. Three were let, but the top one, the studio apartment in the attic wasn’t getting any takers. It was tiny, and you had to go up four flights of stairs to get to it. So I did a deal with the owner that I’d work for her in exchange for that studio, and my board. Ruby’s did food so I could eat there. It was a good arrangement.”

  “It sounds like it. Very enterprising. So how long did you stay there?”

  “Until about six months ago.”

  “Oh. Right.” Now he does look surprised. I allow myself a moment of smug triumph as the waiter arrives with our drinks. “So, you’ve been working in a bar all this time?”

  “On and off. I worked in the bar for a couple of months, then Katie, the owner decided I was doing well and she gave me a raise. That meant I had money coming in as well as a room and food to eat. I sort of stopped panicking about what would happen next, where my next meal was coming from, and I started to plan ahead. I remembered something you’d said, about getting qualifications, finishing my education. So I enrolled at college and did my A levels.”

  “I’m glad I made such a positive impression. What about your job?”

  “Katie was great about it all. She let me just work nights and weekends, which left my days free for college. I applied for any grants and bursaries I could get, and with what I could earn in the bar I managed to get by. I passed A level art, English Language and English Literature. Then I got on a degree course at Manchester Metropolitan University. I studied Fine Art. I got a two one.”

  I pause, waiting for some sort of reaction. Even if I say so myself, my achievements are not inconsiderable given the circumstances.

  “Shit. Now that’s what I call a hundred quid well invested.” Matt doesn’t disappoint, clearly of the same mind. “So you lived above a pub, worked in a bar and financed yourself through college and university?”

  I nod. “That’s about it.”

  “You must have been determined.”

  “I was, but I had help. You first, obviously, then Katie. She was really kind to me…”

  “But a tiny studio in an attic…”

  “Oh, no, it was lovely little flat. It had just been refurbished when I moved in and it was perfect. It even had roof lights. I could lie in bed, all snug and warm and dry and look up at the stars. That meant a lot to me.”

  He smiles and reaches for
my hand. “I can imagine. I’m pleased, really pleased it worked out for you. And that I had some part in it. You meant a lot to me, Beth, in the short time I knew you. I was desperately scared for you after you left.”

  “You meant a lot to me, too.” My voice is small, and I know my words must ring hollow given my behaviour. Even so, they are the truth. And something of an understatement. I loved Matt Logan, in an immature, naive vulnerable teenager sort of way. I was besotted, enthralled by an older, charismatic man. I trusted him, and that had made his apparent betrayal even more painful, more frightening to me because it undermined my already fragile self-belief, and I suppose just reminded me of how badly I was let down by my mother too. I had no personal skills or resources to deal with it, any more than I had when I was sixteen, so I ran. I ran from Matt, and from everything that had gone before. I ran from all that had led up to that moment.

  “One pepperoni, and a salad. Will you be requiring Parmesan or black pepper?” The cheery voice of the waiter breaks into our moment. We both mutter our thanks as he sprinkles our pizza with flakes of cheese and spicy herbs, then saunters off to take more orders.

  We eat in silence for several minutes. It is not a companionable silence, rather the empty, pregnant lull as we each try to work out what to say next, where to go from here.

  “Oldfield, you say?” Matt is first to break the silence.

  “What?”

  “You said you were living in Oldfield now.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s just temporary though.”

  “I see. Where will you go next?”

  I shrug. “Back to Manchester I expect.”

  “Back to being a barmaid?”

  “Maybe, for a while. Until I find another site.”

  “Another site?”

  “Well, if you won’t allow me to build my sculpture on your land, I’ll need to look for somewhere else along the cycle route. Which reminds me, I really should be going. Thank you for the meal. And for—everything.” As thanks go it’s modest enough, but heartfelt for all that. I owe Matt Logan much more than a hundred pounds and a meal. I fold up my napkin and down the remainder of my coke. A couple of slices of pepperoni remain, but neither one of us is interested.

  “Can I offer you a lift anywhere?” Matt gets to his feet, reaching for his wallet.

  “Thanks, but no. I came by train.”

  We leave the restaurant and stand looking at each other on the pavement outside. It’s awkward, neither of us wants to part, but there’s nothing to hold us together any more.

  “Will I see you again?” Matt’s smile is sad as he waits for my inevitable reply.

  “Perhaps. Who knows? It would be nice…”

  “It would.”

  “You have my mobile number. It was on my email.”

  “Ah, yes. Take care, Beth.” He leans in to drop a light kiss on my forehead. I put my arms around his shoulders and give him a quick hug, then I turn and rush off along the street in the direction of Leeds City Station. If passers-by are looking at me oddly, I ignore them. Surely I’m not the only woman to run through the city centre with tears streaming down her face.

  All the way back to Keighley I berate myself for leaving it like that. There was so much more I could have, should have told him. Things I should have asked him. Like, is he still into BDSM? Has he a regular submissive? What happened between him and Megan?

  He could have asked me some of those same things, but he didn’t. I suppose that indicates he’s not interested in me in that way anymore. In fairness, despite him saying I was stunning, he never really was. He’s right, I did initiate everything that happened between us. He didn’t exactly fight me off with a stick, but I made all the running. He obviously cared about me back then, and he still does I suppose, or he wouldn’t have asked me to come and see him today.

  But old times’ sake is not enough to motivate him to take a risk on my project. Nowhere close. So it’s back to square one.

  * * *

  The wind whips through my hair as I stand on the bleak, open moorland, and cast one last wistful glance around me at the spot I so wanted to make my own. It’s been two days since my meeting with Matt, and I’ve had time to take stock and reassess my options. He made his views clear enough so I know that this project is dead in the water. But there must be other suitable locations, I just have to find one. Maybe not as fabulous as this place, but still…

  First though, I need to pay a visit to the Boothroyds and explain why my plan won’t be going ahead after all. Annie seemed especially interested and I suspect she’ll be disappointed, but I owe her the courtesy of this last call. I turn and trudge back down the slope towards Alice parked on the lane perhaps a mile below me.

  Annie opens the door of the Upper Shay farmhouse before I even get out of my van. She waves and leaves the door ajar as she wanders back down her hallway. I hop out and follow her inside. My cup of tea is already on the table when I enter her kitchen.

  “Now then, lass. I was wonderin’ when we’d be seein’ thee agin. What’s tha been up to?”

  “I went to see the owner of High Whitley Scar.”

  “Aye?”

  “I couldn’t manage to convince him. I’m sorry.”

  “Nay lass, tha’s no cause to be apologisin’ to me. Was ‘e not keen then?”

  “You could say that. I’ll be moving on soon, but first I wanted to come back and explain why we’re not going ahead with the mosaic And to say thank you for your kindness and your hospitality when I was here before.”

  “Well, tha’s right welcome, lass. But I’ll confess I’m a bit flummoxed. Movin’ on, did yer say?”

  I nod. “Yes. Today.”

  “Because the mosaic’s not ‘appenin’?”

  “That’s right. Sorry.”

  “What makes ye think the mosaic’s not ‘appenin’ then?”

  “The owner, Matt Logan at MLR. He won’t give his consent to use the land.”

  “Well, he sounded keen enough when he was ‘ere. ‘E was full of it then.”

  I stare at her. The Yorkshire accent can be a little obscure at times. But even so, I don’t think I misheard. “Here? Matt Logan was here?”

  Annie nods as she pours me a second cup of tea. “‘E was, lass. Yesterday it were. Nice young chap, too. Very polite.”

  “Here?” I’m struggling with the core concept.

  “Aye, lass. ‘Ere.” Annie’s gaze is level as she surveys me across her table top. “There was stuff ‘e wanted to talk to Ned about.”

  “Does he come here often?”

  Annie grins, the cliche not lost on her. She shakes her head. “Never ‘as before. Never ‘ad any need I suppose.”

  “But, why would he…?”

  “Things to discuss. Details. ‘E wants to use our farm as a base.”

  “A base?”

  “Fer t’ workmen, I expect.”

  “Workmen? What the hell’s going on? I never said anything about workmen—I do my own work.”

  She shrugs. “As far as I can recall that’s what ‘e was sayin’. Oh and ‘e wants to lay some cablin’.”

  “Cabling? As in—wires?”

  “Yes, them’s the ones. It all sounds very technical.”

  “The bastard. He never had any intention of doing anything here until I pointed out what a good site it was. He’s stolen my idea.”

  Annie shakes her head, looking doubtful. “Oh no, lass, I think you’ve got it wrong, Tha’d best ‘ave a word wi’ ‘im, I reckon.”

  “I would. I bloody well would if I had his number.” Two words, in fact, neither of them polite.

  “I know…”

  “Sneaking about up here, talking about cables and workmen. I bet all the time he was listening to me going on about my ideas he was bloody planning this. The git!”

  “Well, I think…”

  “He’s not getting away with this. I’ll bloody well wait here until he shows up again…” Annie make
s as though to interrupt me. I can’t say I blame her. She’s made me welcome, but now I’m imposing too much on her hospitality. “No, no I won’t. I’m going back to that office of his in Leeds. I want to know what the hell he’s thinking of…”

  “Well, that might work. Or tha could just ring ‘im up.”

  “Like I said, I don’t have his number.”

  “‘Ere it is.” She shoves a neat business card across the table at me. “‘E left that, said to pass it on ter thee if I saw thi.”

  I stare at the small oblong of white card, the words neatly printed across the face. Matthew Logan, Chief Executive, MLR and beneath, a mobile phone number and his direct email.

  “He left that? For me?”

  “Aye lass. ‘E’s right keen ter talk ter thi. In fact…”

  I pick up the card and dig in my jacket pocket for my phone. “I’ll call him now.”

  “I don’t think…”

  I punch in the numbers and ram the receiver against my ear. It’s answered almost immediately.

  “Beth? Hello, nice to hear from you.” Despite my righteous indignation the rich, warm tone of his voice still does something a little bit peculiar in the pit of my stomach. I’m determined to stifle that sensation, strangle it at birth.

  “I’ll bet. I want to talk to you.”

  “Great. Where are you?”

  “I’m at Upper Shay Farm, with Annie.”

  “See you in a moment then.”

  “What? Matt, you just…”

  “See you in a sec. Bye.” The phone goes dead and I’m left glaring at it. Did he just hang up on me?

  I start to stab his number back into the phone, determined to have my say. A clatter outside followed by the sound of the front door opening and shutting interrupts me. Annie gets to her feet.

  “That’ll be ‘im now, I expect. An’ our Ned. They’ll be ‘ungry. Will you be stayin’ fer tea as well, pet?”