Authors: Ashe Barker
Dear Lizzie
Or should I call you Beth? The news said you were called Beth Harte now, but I’ll always think of you as Lizzie. And an artist too, imagine that? I always knew you had talent, always drawing, colouring in. You loved all that stuff.
I saw you on the TV, and I cried. I’d thought you might be dead, even though I didn’t want to believe that. But there you were, alive, and looking so well. So grown up. I just wanted you to know that I’m proud of you. And I wish all that had never happened. You know, with Bill Findlay. I wish I could go back to that night and not say the things I said. I was wrong, I know that now. You were right about him.
We never got married. He wasn’t interested after you went. I blamed you for a while, but not that long really. I was a fool, a gullible, silly woman, infatuated. But I saw the truth in the end. By then it was too late though and you had gone.
He was arrested, you know. Got sent down for having pornographic pictures on his computer. Loads and loads of them, pictures of children mostly. He’s inside now, doing seven years. Still has five to go. He won’t dare show his face round here again when he gets out.
I tried to find you. I asked the police and the Salvation Army. I put pictures of you in the papers, asked all your friends but no one had any idea. I tried for two years, then I didn’t know what else to do. Where to look. I was scared, so worried. Anything can happen to a young girl on her own.
Years went by, and I wondered if you were still alive. If you were married. Perhaps with kids of your own by now. Then I saw you, on that programme last week. I looked up the firm you’re working for in the phone book, and I sent this letter there. I hope you get to see it. If you do, perhaps you could write back, or phone, and let me know where you are. I won’t pester, but I miss you so much and I would like to be in touch. Family is important, I should never have lost sight of that.
I’ve moved but my new address is on here. And my phone number.
I’m sorry. I love you
Mum
By the time I get to the end tears are rolling unchecked down my cheeks. I cover my face in my hands and weep. Moments later I’m lifted, picked up bodily and placed on Matt’s lap, his arms around me. He says nothing as I bury my face in his shirt and sob.
The rustle of paper tells me that one of them has picked up the letter. More rustling as it is passed between them. No one speaks. They wait, wait for me to finish crying. When at last I do, it’s Annie who hands me a bundle of tissues and places the rest in a box on the table.
“Well lass, she writes a fine letter does your mum.”
I manage a weak smile.
Annie continues, still glancing from the letter to me and back again. “You changed your name. You don’t go by Lizzie now.”
I shake my head. “I started calling myself Beth after I left home. I hoped it would make me harder to trace, if anyone ever tried. My real name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Hartnell. My mum always called me Lizzie.
Annie gives a snort. “Well, Beth suits you better. Matt thinks so too, don’t ye, lad?”
He offers me a wry grin. “Yeah, course I do. And now at least we know how she found out where you were living. If she saw you on the television though, and knew your professional name, why didn’t she find you online? Your website?”
I manage a dry chuckle. “Not my mum. She’s the least technical person I know. She doesn’t have a computer, wouldn’t have the first idea how to track me down via the internet. It would never occur to her. I doubt she even has a mobile. She never used to.”
“Right. And that reminds me.” Matt hitches up one hip to get his phone out of his trouser pocket and taps a number on his speed dial. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before.” He waits for the call to be answered.
“James? Hi, it’s Matt Logan. Listen, I have a job for you. A quick one. Could you check court records and let me have details of a conviction please. Bill Findlay. William perhaps. Child pornography charges. Somewhere between two and three years ago. Right. Send me what you come up with. Thanks.”
He ends the call. “That was a private investigator I sometimes use, when I need some research doing for a project. We’ll soon know just what happened to Findlay. Certainly sounds like he got his comeuppance though.”
“I hope so. God, I hope so. I just wish…”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What, Beth?”
“I wish I’d known. I could have told the police, given evidence.”
“The main things is, he’s behind bars and everyone knows him for the lowlife he is. Including your mother.”
“Yes, her too, But it’s too late.”
Matt says nothing. Annie picks up the discarded letter and scans the page again. She puts it down and looks at me.
“He sounds to have been a right nasty bugger, this Bill Findlay.”
“You could say that.”
“He’s caused you a lot of trouble, a lot of upset. You
and
your mum.”
“Yes.”
“So, why let ‘im win? If you let yerself think it’s too late, and that the bother ‘e caused can’t be fixed, then ‘e’s still doin’ it. Even now that ‘e’s locked up, ‘e’s still controllin’, still abusin’.”
“It’s not him. It’s her. I can’t forget that she chose him over me. She believed him, not me.”
“She knows she got it wrong. She says she’s sorry.” Annie taps the sheet of paper with her finger to emphasise her point.
“That’s right.” Matt seems to agree with Annie’s take on things. “He was a manipulator. He was good at messing with your head, your mum’s head. He had to be, to get what he wanted from both of you.”
“But, she was an adult. I was only a child. And she was my mum. My mum. She should have known, she should have stuck up for me.” I’m sobbing again, the grief and anger at my mother’s betrayal as fresh and brutal now as it was on the night I ran away from home. I’m still that frightened, desperate child, still begging to be helped, to be believed. To be safe.
“Beth, listen to me. You remember Mick, how he confused you, made you believe things that weren’t true? How he twisted things and made you think that I might hurt you?” Matt’s tone is low, soothing, but with an edge of seriousness to it. He means me to listen to him, to take notice, I twist in his lap to meet his gaze.
“I never believed Mick. He was just insane, rambling.”
“Yes, but he put the ideas there, planted the doubts and it didn’t take much then. You saw something, something that wasn’t really incriminating, but you misconstrued it because he led you down that path. My guess is this Bill Findlay did much the same thing to your mum. She was a victim too.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Okay, but just think about it, that’s all I ask. I’m glad you gave me another chance even though Mick had poisoned your mind. Your mum’s asking for another chance, a chance to perhaps make things right between you.”
Annie gives an exasperated snort. “As a rule I don’t ‘ave much time for folk as are allus tellin’ others what they ought to do. Folk should just mind their own business, that’s what I reckon. But sometimes, you just have to say it like it is. An’ this is one o’ those times. You need to talk to ‘er. Talkin’ an; listenin’, that’ll be what puts this right. Not hangin’ on to some bastard’s lies as though they was gospel, excuse my French.” Annie plants her elbows on the table and holds my gaze, her expression as stubborn and as resolute as I have ever seen it. “You mark my words, lass, as one as cares about you. Me an’ this young man o’ yours, we want what’s right for you. You can ‘ave yer family back, an’ you ought to be takin’ it. Grabbin’ it. Don’t let ‘im win.”
“You think I should get in touch with her?”
“Aye, I do.”
“You too?” I turn my head to look up at Matt.
“Yeah. I reckon you’ll regret it if you don’t. What if she moves again, and you lose touch, miss this opportunity? You can’t let that happen.”
“Let me read the letter again.” Annie hands me the sheet.
As I re-read the letter Matt’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at the words flashing there. “Email, from James. That was quick.” He taps it, and I’m conscious that he’s reading the screen as intently as I’m studying my mother’s words. He lets out a low whistle.
“What? What does he say?”
“It seems our Mr Findlay was a member of a paedophile network, one of the organisers in fact. He supplied thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of pornographic images to his grubby little mates. The police were onto him, and arrested him in a massive purge they did three years ago. He must have realised what was about to happen and he tried to get rid of the stuff but they seized his computer and managed to retrieve the files he deleted. They found thousands of pictures, and correspondence with other men in his network going back years. It was enough to send him down, along with twenty two other members of their little circle. They all got between two and seven years. His was one of the longer sentences.” He smiles at me. “Good old British justice.”
“I suppose. They got there in the end.”
“They did.” Matt closes the email app and hands me the phone. “Her number’s there. Just say hello. That’d be enough for now. You can think about what else you might want to say, or ask. Or you could just leave it at that. But say something to her.”
He’s right. I know that. Deep down I always knew, the moment I saw my mum’s writing on that envelope. Annie and Matt have helped me to see it more clearly, but I think I would have reached this point on my own. It would have taken me longer, but I would have got here. I take the phone, and I get to my feet. I always prefer to make a difficult call standing up. I pace across to Annie’s Aga, my back to the pair at the table. I could resent their pushiness, but I don’t. It’s that ‘we’ thing. I tap in the number, which I’ve managed to memorise just on two readings of it.
A short silence, then the dialling tone. Three rings, the phone is answered on the fourth.
“Hello?” Her voice hasn’t changed, not at all. I gulp, I have no idea what to say now.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
I remain silent.
“Hello?”
There’s a click as the kitchen door closes. Ned isn’t the only one with pressing business to attend to elsewhere. I appreciate their consideration. This is a private moment.
A deep breath. “Mum? Hi, it’s me…”
July 2014
Two million people, and I swear most of them are right here in our little bit of Yorkshire! Crowds line the roads and lanes, dozens deep along the entire route. Voices, accents, so many different languages, all descending here on this one weekend to watch a cycle race. Roads are closed. Apart from the cycles themselves Yorkshire has come to a complete stop it seems, but no one cares. The mood is one of joy, of pride, of celebration, a glorious coming together of locals and visitors. The towns, cities, and villages have thrown open their doors to welcome the influx of tourists and cycling enthusiasts, the roads are decked with the yellow bikes and spotted jerseys which have become the emblems of this fabulous occasion. They are everywhere, in shops, on buildings, hanging from trees. In people’s homes, on their gates and fences, in cars, everyone sharing their enthusiasm.
Le Tour de France
is here, in Yorkshire. The world is here. And they are looking at
Spirit
.
She looks fabulous from the air. The helicopters covering the event have broadcast my iconic image all around the world, my artwork has been discussed on CNN, on Fox News, on sports channels across the globe. Matt is ecstatic, me too. And my mother is bursting with pride.
She stands beside me, Annie on my other side as we watch the peloton in the distance, labouring up the steep incline out of Oxenhope. The international field of elite cyclists have swept across the county, from the leafy grandeur of Harrogate, through the industrial pomp of Keighley. They have clattered over the cobbles of Haworth in the footsteps of the Brontes and swooped down into the quaint, compact millstone grit of Oxenhope before hitting the open countryside again. Now they battle their way up the hills, across the bleak moors which are today bathed in soft July sunshine. Yorkshire is at her best, the landscape glowing, glistening. And my
Spirit
is at the heart of it all. Even after the cycles and cheering crowds have gone, when the madness is over, just a memory,
Spirit
will remain.
My mum grabs my hand. “It’s wonderful. Just look at it.” She points across the valley at the flowing, graceful lines of my creation, mine and Matt’s, etched on the opposite hill. Over a mile across and almost half a mile in height, the blues, golds, reds and purples of the solar panels shimmer and blend in with the natural kaleidoscope of the moors.
Spirit
changes constantly as the light plays across her contours, sometimes dappled by the cloud cover, sometimes fading into near invisibility when there is little or no sun, only to re-emerge in all her dazzling glory when the light catches her wings again. She’s mysterious, startling, an enigmatic presence embracing this dramatic, rugged vista.
Spirit
is calming, romantic, and above all she is every bit as beautiful as Matt promised she would be.
I was determined to be on this exact spot today to see the final outcome from the place where I first imagined it. We’ve been here since seven o’clock this morning, to make sure we got the vantage point we wanted, and over the hours since we have been joined by hundreds more spectators, most arriving on foot as it is impossible to get anywhere near here in a vehicle right now. An intrepid few have cycled up from the villages below, in a staunch show of solidarity with the Tour competitors.
We cheated. We came straight over the moors from Upper Shay Farm on quad bikes. Annie shrieked a bit as she rode pillion with Matt, but I think she enjoyed the adventure. My mum climbed on the back of my bike, and I can’t recall ever seeing her so excited about anything. Ned insists he has sheep to see to, but I know he’s up there on the hills, watching too.
My mum came to Yorkshire the day after I phoned her. She’s been here ever since. She stayed with us at Matt’s for the first few days, then she accepted Annie’s offer of her spare room. She shows no sign of wanting to return to Sheffield, and is even talking about getting a job. I gather Bob at The Fleece has been run off his feet over the recent weeks as the bike race crowds started to descend, and even though this madness will soon calm down he insists he’s short-staffed again so I might be able to put in a good word for her.