Spirit (17 page)

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…”

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?”

“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.