Spirit (25 page)

Afterwards we flopped under the duvet, curled up together, and slept.

But now I’m alone, though I sense Matt is somewhere close at hand. There’s no sound from the en suite. Perhaps he’s making breakfast.

Ever the optimist, I pull the covers back up around my ears.

“Come on you. We don’t want them to start without us.” Matt’s footsteps are heavy as he marches across the room. I shriek as my duvet is dragged off me.

“Bloody hell, Matt. I was asleep. And anyway, they wouldn’t dare.”

“Probably not, but we don’t want to waste any more daylight than we absolutely have to. Here’s your coffee and some of those revolting sugary cereals you’re so fond of. Eat, drink, shower and let’s get moving.”

I prise open one eye to see him heading back towards the stairs. I notice he’s wearing his jeans and hiking boots, and a soft wool jersey.

“Are you coming too? With me? Not to the office?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love. Hurry up.”

Encouraged by the aroma of coffee I sit up, ignoring the remaining soreness in my butt, and reach for the mug. “Will there be press there too?”

“Hope so. I want all the publicity I can get out of it. That was my main reason for getting into this.” He pauses, “Sorry, my second main reason.”

“What was your first?” I wriggle out of bed and head for the en suite.

“It meant I got to fuck you.”

Bladder or no bladder, that remarks stops me in mid-stride. “No it didn’t. I might have said no.”

“But you didn’t say no. And even if you had, I’d have carried on asking anyway.” He lifts an admiring eyebrow at my naked state, then heads off down the stairs. “You’ve got thirty minutes, then I bundle you into the Range Rover whether you’re dressed or not. Come to think of it, a topless shot or two would guarantee me the publicity I want. You really do have the most beautiful tits.”

I’m downstairs in twenty seven minutes flat, a mixture of nervous energy and utter terror. I follow Matt out into the driveway to see Ethel already peering out of the rear window of the four wheel drive. She believes in getting her place booked early.

“I hate talking to journalists. What if I don’t know what to say?” I scramble into the passenger side and fasten my seat belt.

“You will. You can deal with any arty, creative stuff, and I’ll handle the technical questions. Anyway, I know you. Once you get started the problem will be shutting you up.”

“Are you saying I woffle?”

“I’m saying you’re passionate, Beth, and it shows. I’m delighted to say.”

“I love my art.”

“Yeah, that too.”

* * *

“Miss Harte, how long have you been a public artist?”

“Just for a few months. This is the largest project I’ve designed to date.” I can hear my voice wavering, I’m so nervous I suspect I could throw up, and the television cameras from the regional news programme don’t help. Matt seems to be in his element though, smiling, confident. He holds my hand behind my back, out of sight of the cameras, squeezing my fingers to reassure me.

“How did the collaboration with MLR come about?”

The question was directed at me, but I’m grateful when Matt fields it. “Miss Harte identified the site, and designed the image we are about to create here. She approached my company as we own the land, and I was delighted to work with her on this unique scheme.”

“How many solar panels will you be installing in total, Mr Logan?”

“Ninety three, in a range of sizes and colours.”

“And what will the output be? In layman’s terms?”

Matt answers easily, providing the technical information but in a way most people will understand. He explains how many homes could be supplied by a solar farm this size, and I’m impressed despite having heard all this stuff before. We even have Ned and Annie to hand, ready to explain their part in the endeavour and wax lyrical about the exciting new technology that will be fuelling their farm.

“What made you decide to create your artwork using solar panels, Miss Harte? Do you have a particular interest in sustainable energy?”

I answer that one myself. “Of course. I think perhaps we all do, at heart. But that aspect of the scheme was Matt’s idea. Mr Logan, I mean. He came up with the concept.”

“Ah no, we should share the glory. The concept is all Miss Harte’s, I just helped to make it happen. This is a brilliant example of art and science fusing to create something beautiful, but practical too, an iconic landmark to celebrate all that’s best about Yorkshire. And what better place to showcase our talents and our county than Le Grande Départ?”

“Will you be watching the race, Miss Harte? Mr Logan?”

“Of course. We’re looking forward to it, and to revealing
Spirit
to the millions of people who’ll line the roads and the many millions more who will be watching on television, all over the world.”

“Is that what you’ll title the piece then?
Spirit
?”

“Yes. It represents the spirit of Yorkshire. And of this race. I thought… it sounded right.” Matt squeezes my hand again as my voice trails away. I only came up with the name a few days ago and it still doesn’t roll so easily off my tongue.

“What’s next, Miss Harte? Do you have further collaborations planned with MLR?”

“Ours is a dynamic, exciting partnership. I look forward to many more shared endeavours.” Matt’s pat answer holds wealth of meaning, but I’m confident only we two fully grasp that.

The next few minutes are taken up with cameras clicking and checking of names, spelling, ages. Eventually the reporters make their way back to their cars and it’s just Matt and I, the Boothroyds, and Matt’s installation engineers.

Ned and Annie return to Upper Shay, they have work to be getting on with apparently. We spend a couple of hours watching and dealing with any immediate queries, but soon start to feel superfluous. The team knows what they’re doing, and for now they don’t need Matt or me. We leave them to it.

* * *

My vision is taking shape.
Spirit
is materialising, emerging from the bleak moorland, a soft, fluid presence flowing over the hillside. The different colours of the panels reflect the light and blend together, then melt into the landscape as though they always belonged there. I prefer to view her from my original vantage point across the valley, often stopping on my way to the site to admire our creation at her best, bathed in the morning sunlight.

I’m not sure at what point she became female in my mind, but she is. I love her, and every day I become more proud as her form crystallises. Matt doesn’t say as much, but I know he agrees. He might have entered into this project for more personal reasons, but
Spirit
has captured his imagination too.

It is now three weeks since the works started, and the weather has been kind to us. The installation is on target, proceeding better than anyone hoped. I almost hug myself as I pull up in Annie’s yard, ready to end the day with a bowl of her lamb stew. I suspect I have eaten several of my the little woolly friends I chatted to up on High Whitley Scar last autumn, but have found it preferable not to enquire too closely. I enter the farmhouse, calling out to Annie. Her answering voice leads me to her kitchen

Where else?

There are four places set at the table, which means Matt is probably on his way too.

Annie notices me looking at the place settings. “That young man o’ yours rung up, ‘E said to start without ‘im but to save ‘im some ‘otpot.”

“It’s very kind of you to feed us, Annie. We appreciate it.” I smile to myself at her description of Matt. He never strikes me as a young man, though I won’t quibble that he’s not mine.

“It’s nice to ‘ave the company. Our Ned’s a grafter an’ I love the bones of ‘im, but ‘e doesn’t ‘ave much by way o’ conversation. An’ you two’ve been working’ all day. Yer don’t want to be starting’ cookin’ when ye get in.”

“Even so…”

“You sit yourself down, lass. Would ye mind cuttin’ some bread?”

I take my seat and start my assault on the huge, soft, home-baked loaf lording it in the middle of the table. The bread is still slightly warm from the oven and smells divine. A pot of steaming tea materialises at my elbow.

Soon Annie deposits a plate of hotpot in front of me, with a generous helping of mashed potatoes and a pile of carrots. She puts her own plate down opposite, bearing a similar meal and joins me at the table. We eat together, chatting about nothing much, until the sound of an engine in the farm yard alerts us to the arrival of at least one of the men. A couple of minutes later Ned saunters in. Annie serves him a portion of the meal as he washes his hands and peels off his overalls. Just as he sits down we hear Matt’s car purring into the yard too, so Annie starts heaping a plate for him.

Matt joins us a few moments later, drops a kiss on the top of my head and greets Annie with an affectionate hug. He nods to Ned as he takes the one remaining place at the table.

“Good day?” I pass him the plate of bread.

Matt helps himself to a couple of my doorstep slices, nodding. “Yes, not bad. We’ve had more journalists on the phone wanting to do features about
Spirit
. I reckon that piece on the television news last week did us some huge favours. It was marvellous publicity, struck just the right note.

The regional news report featured on the local teatime magazine slot when we started the construction phase was picked up by the national networks who wanted to run a major story about the explosion in public art surrounding Le Grande Départ. Excitement is mounting as the race gets nearer, as I knew it would. Matt is delighted, although I still find the whole thing pretty daunting. Still, it won’t do my own career prospects any harm. I’ll need to be starting to plan my next project soon so the more well-known I am off the back of this the better.

Matt and Ned exchange small talk as we demolish the rest of our meals, commiserating each other on the woeful performance of Leeds United of late and looking forward to England against Australia at Headingley. Matt offers to get tickets if Ned fancies joining him, for the match. Ned grunts, which is his version of effusive thanks. The matter is settled.

I clear the empty plates while Annie produces a large bowl of rice pudding from the bowels of her Aga. As she spoons a portion into each of our bowls Matt reaches for his jacket which is hanging on the back of his chair.

“I forgot. This came for you.” He gets an envelope from the inside pocket and hands it to me. I take it, puzzled.

It’s handwritten, addressed to me, Beth Harte, but at the offices of MLR in Leeds. I turn it over, but the reverse side offers no clues.

“Who would write to me at your office? My website gives your address in Hebden Bridge as my contact details.”

Matt shrugs. “No idea. It arrived in today’s post.” He grins at me. “You could try opening it. There might be a clue inside.”

“Ha ha.” I peer again at the handwriting on the front. It’s familiar, I’m sure I’ve seen it before. Not recently though, not since…

“Oh!” The blood drains from my face as I recognise the scrawl. The lop-sided T in ‘Harte’ clinches it. I can’t believe I didn’t see it straight away.

“Beth?” Matt leans towards me, concern etched in his expression.

“It’s from my mum. It’s her writing.” I stare at him, bewildered. “How did she know where to send it? What does she want?”

Matt takes the envelope and looks again at the handwritten address before laying the envelope flat on the table between us. “So, your mum, eh? Well there’s a turn up.”

“What does she want?” I repeat my question, despite knowing that no one at this table can answer it. Then another thought occurs to me, a dire possibility. “Did
he
put her up to it?”

“You need to open it love, read what she has to say. Then we’ll know how to respond.”

“Respond? If you think I’m writing back to her, after, after… Well, I’m not. I’m not.”

Ned leaves the table, excusing himself with one of his customary grunts. He must be desperate, he’s left half his pudding in his zeal to be elsewhere. Annie just watches me, curiosity and something else apparent in her features. Concern? Compassion?

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But you should read what she’s saying. What harm will it do? You can always tear it up after.”

“I take it you and yer mam ‘ave ‘ad words, then?” Annie gets to the heart of the matter with her usual clarity.

I nod. “You could say that.”

“‘Ow long since?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, ‘ow long is it since you last saw ‘er?”

I shrug. “A while. Nearly nine years.”

“Oh. That’s a long time ter be apart. ‘Ave you been in touch at all?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t, I mean, I never…” I turn to Matt. “How did she find me? Will she come here? What about
him
?”

“Beth, nothing’s going to happen, I promise you that. You’re safe here.”

“How can I be safe if he knows where I am? What if he finds me? He might…”

“Might what? What can he do? You’re not a child now. If it comes to it, you can brain him with a cricket bat. You’ve had some practice. Or Ned might help out with a shovel. I’ll deck him for you myself if you like. But I don’t think any of that will be needed because you’re able to stand up for yourself. You’re not a victim, not a vulnerable young girl any more and men like him don’t come after any other sort. That bubble’s burst. You’re beyond his reach, love.”

I look at him, then at Annie. She may not know the specifics, but intelligence gleams in her old, wise eyes as she puts together the gist of what we’re talking about.

“Open it, lass.” She shoves the envelope back across the table toward me. “Open it, then we’ll decide what to do.”

We? I smile at her, grateful for her support, and for Matt’s. It’s good to be part of a ‘we.’ But my resolve is fragile. I pick up the envelope and rip it open before I can lose my nerve. A single sheet of white, lined paper drops out. It’s covered in my mum’s handwriting, one full side and half of the back. I spread it out on the table and lean over it to read.