My list of tasks doesn’t vary much—sometimes I’m cleaning bathrooms and toilets, sometimes washing, dusting perhaps, always mopping the kitchen floor, always hoovering. And I’ve even had a go at ironing, practicing on towels and socks before trying my hand at shirts. It’s gone okay so far, no disasters. I’m getting quite good at this domestic goddess routine, tending to be finished before the allotted time.
Our agreement says I work for him for seven hours each visit so I should be done by three o’clock, allowing for lunch. After the first couple of visits I got in the swing of things and I could have easily gotten away by two, but I’m determined not to give him any cause for complaint so I’ve found extra jobs to do. Cleaning the windows, sweeping the backyard. The first time I did extra work he texted me afterwards to ask why I did that. I replied, explaining I’d had some spare time. He texted back to say it wasn’t necessary to do extra tasks. As long as my work is all done and done right I can leave when I’m finished. I thanked him politely but said I prefer to work my full hours. So that’s what happens.
Greystones is quite a large house, and Tom seems to only use some of it. Just one of the four bedrooms is furnished for sleeping. Another is used for storage and another has been converted into a high-quality home office. The remaining one is a spare bedroom. There’s a double bed in there but no bedding on it, and no other furniture at all. The ground floor is made up of the large kitchen where I spend most of my time, a utility room where the washing machine, dryer and boiler are housed, as well as piles of muddy wellies, a variety of waterproofs and hats, scarves, gloves. The large dining room is also virtually unused, despite its large French windows with a magnificent view across the moorland valley behind the farm. Tom explained that he always eats in the kitchen, or in front of the television.
There’s a large, comfortable sitting room, boasting two large leather sofas in a sort of dark brown, a drinks fridge and a huge flat screen television mounted on the wall. The small cabinet underneath it contains the Sky box, a Playstation, and DVD player. An expensive-looking Bose music system is perched on the top. I asked him why such a huge screen and he explained it’s better for watching sport. I understand he and Nathan spend a lot of their evenings together in here. The drinks fridge is kept well stocked with Budweiser and Corona lagers. And chocolate biscuits.
Both the sitting room and Tom’s bedroom, which is furnished in traditional oak and decorated in dark reds and black, are fiercely masculine without being butch or oppressive.
Tom spends a lot of time in his office upstairs, usually in the afternoons. I often hear him talking to his business contacts, the disembodied voices coming from his computer, courtesy of Skype. Mornings he seems to spend out on the farm, although I now know that most of the day-to-day work is done by his employees, primarily his farm manager, a middle-aged man by the name of Seth Appleyard, and his three strapping sons. A fourth son is away at agricultural college, and there’s a daughter studying to be a vet. They live in a tied cottage on the farm, about half a mile from the main house, and deal with just about all the tasks that need doing. Tom’s role is more one of sales and marketing, communication with suppliers, organizing new deals. And he handles all the finance. He’s also involved in a number of business ventures with Nathan Darke, the biggest one apparently the music festival that Mrs Richardson mentioned the first day I arrived.
Despite my resentment at having to come here each week, I’m finding Greystones itself a fascinating place. I usually bring my camera with me and I’ve got some brilliant shots of the livestock in the various barns and nearby fields. By quizzing the Appleyards I’ve found out that Tom exclusively rears rare breeds of traditional English livestock, sheep and pigs in the main, though he does keep some endangered poultry too. He has a small flock of Leicester Longwools, huge sheep with very long fleeces. Similarly, the Teeswater sheep trots around its pasture sporting a quirky little woolly topknot. Very comical. The farm produces high-quality wool, much sought after by hand spinners for miles around, local crafters keen to keep traditional crafts alive, sourced by local suppliers. Tom also breeds pigs, the British lop and middle white. These go for bacon, mainly to local farm and produce suppliers, although I suspect I’ve eaten plenty of Tom’s bacon too. I can hardly look the pigs in their little squinty eyes as I frame my shots, knowing I might well have scoffed their mum.
The pregnant black cat I saw that first morning was around the front yard a lot the first two or three weeks I was coming up here, although I could never get near her. Then she suddenly disappeared. I found her in a barn, led to her makeshift nursery by the high-pitched squeaking of her tiny blind kittens. I started to leave food out for the mother, who I’ve privately named Chloe, but she continues to hiss and spit every time I go near. Tom found me trying to tempt her with a cold bacon sandwich and explained that she’s feral, and there’s no chance of taming her. Even with his best bacon. He only let her stay because she’s a good mouser and too tiny to be a threat to his free-range poultry. I asked what would happen to her kittens, but he only shrugged. I get the impression her days, and those of her babies, are numbered. Tom may be a humane farmer, but he’s not sentimental about animals. If the family of stray cats pose a threat, they’ll be gotten rid of.
The weeks go by and I begin to look forward to my weekly visits to Greystones. Apart from anything else, this is the only time I get to talk to anyone apart from the occasional shop assistant when I buy groceries. The rest of my week is spent in pretty much total solitude, walking the moors or perfecting my pictures in Photoshop. I’ve never minded my own company. In truth, I longed for more of it in recent years, in prison and when I was with Kenny, but the glory of solitude is becoming oppressive. I don’t want to think of myself as lonely exactly, I’m not Norma no-mates—not quite. I know there have been times when I’ve been much worse off than I am now, but still…
Yes, my Fridays have become the highlight of my week.
My work is going well, despite having to get to grips with a new camera. I much preferred my old one. Well, not mine of course, not really, but still, I did like it. It sort of fitted my hand, and the results were stunning, effortless. I have to work at it more these days. One worrying development, though, has been the withdrawal of my retail outlets in Haworth. My main hope, a bookshop-cum-arts and crafts gallery, seemed really enthusiastic when I first approached them and showed the owner my work but she suddenly changed her mind. I called in to drop off some samples and she told me she’d had second thoughts—my pictures weren’t what she was looking for just at that time after all. No explanation, and baffling as I hadn’t even asked her for any money up front. She’s nothing to lose by displaying my stuff. And it
is
good, even though I may be biased. But she was adamant.
The only other possibility in Haworth is a much smaller shop, and tends to sell more mass-produced souvenirs. Not my best market probably. Reluctantly, I’ve had to start looking farther afield, to the Yorkshire Dales and maybe Cumbria. But I’ll have to develop local collections to place in those areas, which will mean traveling and overnight stays. That will cost money and I’m somewhat strapped for cash just now after shelling out over a thousand quid for my camera. My cash flow issues will ease once I get paid for my student accommodation in January, but for now I’m skint.
* * * *
The weeks slip by, November passes and we’re into December. Seth Appleyard asks me if I’m ready for Christmas. I just look at him, mumble something predictable along the lines of ‘more or less’. In truth, I’d forgotten. Or tried to. Christmas is not a lot of fun on your own. It’s not a great barrel of laughs in prison either, which is where I was this time last year. But it’s even less fun with a scumbag like Kenny getting drunk and forcing himself on you on the filthy floor of a squat while his vile mates look on and cheer, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. That was Christmas two years ago. And I’m reasonably certain that’s when David was conceived. You can’t be fussing with condoms when your girlfriend’s struggling and screaming under you and trying her best to kick you in the nuts. I lost that fight, he had his fun and a couple of weeks later my period was overdue.
Seth’s still chatting about his busy, noisy family and the monster turkey they’ve ordered to feed them all. I try to sound polite but I’m not really listening. Instead I’m choking on the unexpected surge of grief, stunned momentarily by the vivid memories usually so well buried but triggered now by his innocent remarks. And I’m drowning under a crushing sense of loss. No family Christmas for me. I miss my mum. And my baby. So much.
Chapter Nine
One Friday in early December Tom asks me to concentrate on cleaning upstairs. He wants me to clean his office, his bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. No problem with that. I get my routine stuff in the kitchen sorted quickly and make my way upstairs, dragging the Hoover behind me. The office is straightforward enough—sweep and mop the hardwood floor, dust round the desk and computer, wipe the paintwork. I start on hoovering the landing, then move on to tackle Tom’s bedroom.
I don’t come in here very often but I have to confess I really like this room. It’s the sort of bedroom I’d have if I could afford it. In sharp contrast to the ultra-modern office next door, in here the furniture is solid oak, well worn, much used over the years and timeless. As good now as it was on the day it was made, which could have been a hundred years ago. Every time I come in here I find myself stroking the top of the beautiful dresser, imagining how many others have touched this same piece of wood, used it, enjoyed it. Two heavy double wardrobes, also in beautiful weathered oak, stand guard either side of the door, and a heavy blanket box squats at the foot of the solid wood bed. He likes his mod cons in here, though, and there’s a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed.
I get started, dusting and polishing the wooden surfaces, reawakening the glossy shine lurking just below the slight covering of dust. Tom tends to keep his stuff pretty tidy so the task doesn’t take long. I hoover the carpet, and hook up the tools to reach under the bed. There are a few boxes tucked tidily away under there. I nudge them aside to reach farther—I like to do a thorough job. There are also some old leather belts, strangely for Tom not tidily put away in a drawer. Anyway, they’re in my way so I shove them to one side with the sucking nozzle contraption. I move round to the other side of the bed, and realize I’ve pushed a couple of boxes so hard they’ve slid out the other side, along with the tangle of belts. Rather than work round them this time I just kneel down and reach under, grab the leather belts and pull the whole lot right out.
And crouch there, in stunned realization, as it dawns on me what I have in my hands. Not a bundle of old belts. What I’m holding are straps. Leather straps with loops at each end and some sort of connecting device holding the bundle together. I drop the contraption as though burned.
This is bondage equipment. This is what Tom Shore uses to strap women to his bed so he can do Christ knows what to them. I stand, gaping in horror at the tangle of leather at my feet. I suppose at some level I knew that Tom must have something like this, and I guess under his bed is the obvious place to keep it. Along with his whips and chains, though I can’t say I’ve spotted them yet. On a quest now, I glance at the boxes on the floor behind me. The boxes I pulled out to dust under. I know I shouldn’t pry, but I’m gripped by morbid fascination. I have to look. The flaps closing the top of the first one are loose. I open it and peep inside. Books. Old school exercise books to be exact. I glance at the handwritten cover of the top one—
Thomas Shore, 4B, Geography.
Unaccountably disappointed, I close the lid carefully and slide the box back under the bed. Kneeling, I lift the flaps on the second box.
Tom Shore’s treasure trove of kinky toys. Bingo!
Fascinated and repelled at the same time I gaze at the collection. Some of the objects are obvious. Familiar even. I find a vibrator, shaped like a penis. A somewhat well-proportioned penis if I’m any judge, though I’m probably not. I’ve only ever seen one, in the flesh so to speak, and that was an uninspiring sight. Not like this big boy. I investigate further and find there are several more similar items, many less familiar, in a range of shapes and sizes. And colors. After my Internet research as ordered by Tom I recognize two or three sets of nipple clamps. These look fierce and sharp. I shudder, hug myself in self-protection, though he’s hardly likely to want to use them on me. I’ve hardly got breasts to speak of, let alone nipples that could withstand that sort of punishment. Then I spot a range of what I think must be butt plugs, some metal, some made of brightly colored plastic. Some quite small, some less so. Terrifyingly less so. Christ!
Other items are less obvious to me, although I guess they must be part of his bondage paraphernalia. I find pairs of metal balls strung together, and a short string of metal beads, handcuffs, several blindfolds, scarves and Velcro fastening straps. A coil of black rope, cable ties. A restraint of some sort made up of four leather ‘bracelets’ strung together on a short metal chain. The middle section is rigid and extends. I turn it over in my hands, puzzled. Obviously intended for wrists and ankles but I can’t work out how it might be used. There are a couple of tubes of lubricant too, and a
lot
of condoms.
But no whips. No chains or canes or obvious instruments of torture. Maybe he’s not into the more brutal stuff after all. Except…that comment of his after he spanked me then brought me to orgasm. “Force of habit,” he’d said. Oh yes, he’s definitely into inflicting pain. And pleasure.