Spirit (12 page)

“Hello. I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s Beth Harte. I was hoping to talk to the person who owns this farm?” My intonation phrases the question, and I wait, my hand outstretched, for some sort of reaction. People round here are friendly if a little gruff. I doubt she’ll set the dog on me, and by the looks of the decrepit old canine shuffling along the hall behind her it’d probably be a futile effort even to try.

She grimaces at me, her grey eyebrows tangling together as she peers round the door. She doesn’t take my hand, but she does the next best thing which is to step back, open the door wide and turn to walk away from me.

“Well, tha’d best come in then. Shut the door behind thee lass, it’s proper thin out there today.” She tosses the words back over her shoulder as she makes her way back into the nether regions of the farmhouse, the dog trailing at her heels.

I do as I’m told, closing the front door and following the pair down the dimly lit passage into the farm kitchen at the rear. I find myself in an old fashioned room, though it’s pretty much as I expected. The kitchen is dominated by the huge oak table in the centre, and of course the ubiquitous solid fuel burning stove, which all rural properties seem to use around here for cooking, heating, hot water, the lot. As I enter, my taciturn hostess is dumping a kettle on the top of the stove.

“Tha’ll be wantin’ a pot o’ tea, no doubt.”

“Well, if it’s no trouble…” I know better than to even consider saying no, or suggesting that I’d prefer coffee.

“Sit thee down lass. I’ll be with ye in a minute and tha can tell me what’s up.”

I accept her hospitality, taking a seat at the table. I place my rucksack on the floor next to me and start to unpack my laptop.

The woman scowls at me from her position by the stove. “Ee, tha can leave all that fer now, lass. Just tell me what’s on yer mind, then we’ll work out what’s to be done. After we’ve ‘ad our brew, o’ course.”

She pours hot water from her kettle into a large brown teapot and brings that over to the table where she dumps it on a mat in the middle. I notice the scorch marks on the mat, indicating that pots of scalding tea are a regular occurrence around here. I remain quiet as she bustles around the room collecting cups, a jug of milk from a fridge which looks incongruously modern in this setting, and a couple of teaspoons.

“Will ye be needing’ sugar, lass?”

“Yes please, if you have some.”

She puts a bowl of sugar alongside the teapot. “Tha’ll be needing’ a biscuit as well. I’ve some grand ginger nuts, just fresh yesterday. Tha can tell me what ye think of ‘em.”

She sets a tin of home-made biscuits next to the sugar bowl, then sits down herself opposite me. She makes a production of pouring me a cup of tea, offers me milk, then insists I take two biscuits. I know better than to interrupt the ritual. I just accept what I’m offered and wait until she’s ready to move on to the business in hand.

My teacup has been emptied and refilled before our conversation takes the turn I’ve been waiting for.

“So, lass, are ye lost then?”

“No, not at all. I have a proposition for you, Mrs…?”

“Ooh, my manners. It’s Annie, Annie Boothroyd. And who did ye say ye were again?”

“Beth Harte. I’m an artist, Mrs Boothroyd, and…”

“Annie.”

I offer her a polite nod. “Sorry, Annie. Yes, I’m an artist, a sculptor to be precise, and I’m interested in creating a piece of art on your land.”

“Art? Here?”

I nod, emphatic. “Yes. Here.”

“But what’d be the point in that? No one’d ever see it.”

I note she hasn’t dismissed the concept, just taken issue with the logic underpinning it. These doubts I can easily dispel. “Yes, they would. Millions of people would see it. In July, the bike race…?”

“Bike race?”

“Le Grand Depart. You’ll have heard all about it, it’s been in the news for months now.”

“You mean that French thing? The Tour de France?” Her expression suggests she will require a deal of convincing that this forthcoming event has anything at all to do with her and Upper Shay Farm. I settle in for a third cup of tea and start my explanation.

“The Tour de France always finishes in Paris, but it starts in different locations, not even in France. This year it’ll be starting here, in Yorkshire. In Leeds, then it goes through lots of towns and villages, then down into Derbyshire and the first stage finishes in Sheffield.”

“I knew it was all going off somewhere round these parts, but not right here. It’s miles away, over near Haworth.”

“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.

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.