by Ashe Barker
His lopsided, wonderful smile fills my vision and I lean forward to hug him, burying my face in his shoulder. “Yes, yes please.”
“Good. Do you recognize them? Chloe’s kittens? She hid the other two before I could rescue them and they’ll probably be running wild round my barns for years to come. But I managed to get these two away before she disappeared with them too. They’ve been hand reared since they were about four weeks old—keeping me up at nights—and seem very tame. You should have no trouble domesticating them. The black one’s female, the gray and white is a male. If we talk nice to Dan he’ll probably neuter them for you.”
“Oh, Tom…” It’s all I can manage for now, but it seems to be enough. He gently takes the kittens, handing one to Rosie and the other to Grace before wrapping his arms around me. I hug him, still blinking back tears. Eventually I manage to raise my head enough to look around the room again.
“Oh, God, you must all think I do nothing but cry…”
“There’s nothing wrong with showing how you feel, love”—Grace pats my hand reassuringly—“and I don’t think you’ve done nearly enough of it before. So you’re making up for lost time. You just let it all out.”
“Well, while we’re on this emotional rollercoaster ride, maybe now’s as good a time as any to hit you with our final present.” Tom stands, steps away to his wax jacket hanging on the back of the kitchen door. He pulls out his phone and taps a few buttons before looking back at me. “You ready for this last gift, love? I hope you like this one too. It’s from me and Nathan. A bit unconventional, but seems appropriate for today. I couldn’t work out a way of gift-wrapping it, though.”
Bemused, I stare back at him. “What is it? What do you mean?”
By way of answer he hands me his phone. I glance at the small screen and see it’s an email, dated yesterday, 31st December 2012. Puzzled, I start to scroll down. It’s a message to Nathan, from abroad, which Nathan has forwarded to Tom. The name of the original sender means nothing to me—Abi Karramin, Avukat. I recognize the name of the place he’s apparently sent the message from, Ankara, the capital city of Turkey. But what can it have to do with me? I look back at Tom, completely at a loss.
“What is it? I don’t understand.”
He takes the phone back from me, scrolls down a bit further. “This, sweetheart, is the address, email and mobile phone number for one Bajram Balci, hotelier and entrepreneur currently living in Manavgat, a small town in the Antalya region in south-west Turkey. Age forty-four, a widower with two daughters aged nineteen and fifteen. Sound like someone you might like to get to know?”
Nothing, nothing could have ever prepared me for this. Beyond words, I take the phone back and stare at the tiny writing on the screen. My father. My father—a real, living, breathing man. A man with a phone number, email and an address. And daughters. My sisters. A family. I have a family. Tom’s just handed me a family.
Speechless, at first I can only stare at the screen, then back at Tom, at Nathan, at all of them as they watch me. At last I find some words. Not especially erudite, but words nonetheless. “But, how did you…? I don’t understand. How did you find him?”
“Nathan found him. He does a lot of business in Turkey, and Abi Kahraman is his solicitor in Ankara. You gave me a lot of information to go on, I thought we’d track him down easily enough. I asked Nathan to use his local contacts, pull strings if he could, and find out where your father lives now, and good old Abi delivered.”
My gaze swings to Nathan, seated nonchalantly at the table with Rosie on his lap. She has my gray and white kitten in her arms and she’s watching me curiously, clearly a little bemused by all this. She’s not alone.
Nathan picks up the story. “Your father’s quite a prominent man in the Antalya region. A successful businessman, well known. It didn’t take Abi long to find out his contact details and email them back to me.”
“But, it’s been a holiday. Solicitors don’t work holidays…”
“They do for their best clients. We wanted this information to give you for your birthday. Well, Tom did. So I asked Abi to pull out all the stops.”
“So, now you can contact him. Let him know about your mother. Let him know where you’re living now. If you like. It’s up to you, love.” Tom’s voice is gentle, not pushing me.
I look back at the small screen, so full of promise and possibility. Can I? I could, couldn’t I?
Seized with doubt suddenly, I look around the room, a little desperately perhaps as I start to talk myself out of one of the most momentous opportunities I’ve ever had. “What if he doesn’t want to know? I can’t just phone him out of the blue. What would I say? What if he’s too busy, doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“You could always text him. Then if he doesn’t want to answer he doesn’t have to.” Rosie’s suggestion is brilliant in its simplicity.
I could. I really could do that. A text isn’t intrusive, a text isn’t pushy. Yes, I definitely could do that.
Impulsively, before I’ve time to think it through and inevitably lose my courage or manage to talk myself out of it, I reach into my jeans pocket for my own phone. I quickly punch in the mobile number, carefully including the international code for Turkey as set out in the solicitor’s email, then look expectantly around the room for inspiration about what to write.
“Keep it simple, light. Just tell him you’d like to talk, ask if that’s okay. It’s not going to be a total shock to him, he knows all about you.”
I know Tom’s right, so I jot a short message into the box—
Hello, Bajram. I hope you are well. Could we talk? Sharon (your daughter in England)
I hit send before my courage fails me entirely. Ball in his court now.
And as I look around the room full of smiling faces, I know how happiness feels. What belonging feels like. Whatever my father’s response—and in truth he probably won’t answer at all—it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
My phone pings before I even have time to slide it back into my pocket, indicating the arrival of a text. I freeze, turn the phone over in my palm. The room is hushed suddenly, all waiting to know if it’s from him. And what it says. My heart in my mouth, I focus on the seven tiny words on the screen.
Happy birthday, Sharon. I’ll call you. Bajram.
He’s answered! He wants to talk to me too. My father, my half-sisters. I’d known he was out there somewhere but I never, ever considered that I could contact him, initiate a conversation. And that if I did get in touch with him, that my approach would be welcomed.
I put my phone down on the table, staring at it, wondering how long I’ll have to wait to hear from him again. Texting’s easy, no need to plan and prepare for that. Rosie was right, a text isn’t a big deal. It was easy to do and easy for him to respond to. But a phone call—now that’s heavy. That’s much harder. Much more difficult to control, to manage. Eager now to talk, now that the first move has been made, and reciprocated, I’m just starting to wonder if, perhaps, I could make the first move again, maybe I could phone him, when the ringtone starts. It’s quiet at first but gaining strength and volume as I just continue to stare, transfixed.
Tom grabs the phone and hits “answer” an instant before it goes to voicemail. He hands the phone back to me, winks. He’s seen, as I saw, that the call is international. My gaze fixed on Tom’s, I raise the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” My tentative greeting is barely audible.
“Good afternoon. Is this Sharon?” The heavily accented, male voice on the other end is strong and steady.
“Yes, yes, I’m Sharon.” I ignore the surprised faces around me. Only Tom, and possibly Nathan, know about my decision to be known as Ashley rather than using my original, ‘real’ name. There would have been no point introducing myself to Bajram as anything other than Sharon.
“Thank you for your text, Sharon.” He pronounced my name with the accent on the last syllable, and I smile, it’s both intimate and remote, as though he knows m
e, knows of me—which of course he does—but is not accustomed to saying my name. His English is slow but perfect.
Not sure what to say, I just mumble something about being glad he got it, glad he answered.
“Of course I would answer you, my daughter. Particularly on this special day when you are twenty-one. I was just thinking of you, and then you send your message to me. A gift from God.”
Thinking of me? A gift from God? Wow!
With an effort I manage to regain my voice, contribute something to the conversation.
“You knew? You knew it was my birthday today?” Of course he does, he always sends me cards.
“Yes, Sharon, I know when your birthday is. Susan tells me, she keeps in touch always.”
I note he manages to pronounce my mother’s name correctly. He obviously had it drummed into him years ago during their passionate few months together. And I also realize that he has no idea that she’s gone, that she’s dead. His next question clinches it.
“Is she there? Your mother?”
I pause, take a breath, then, “No, no she isn’t. I’m afraid, I’m sorry, I… My mother died. She died in March, a road accident. I’m sorry—I should have let you know.”
“Sharon, that is bad news. Very bad. I loved your mother, she was—beautiful. As you are, I know from your pictures. We spoke often, Susan and I. She told me all about you, sent me pictures. She gave you my cards, yes? And presents?”
His reaction is more than I might have expected, given that to my knowledge they never saw each other again after my mother returned to the UK before I was born.
“Yes, yes, she did. Thank you.”
“And she had no other children, no?”
“No, just me.”
“And I know your grandparents are dead also. Do you have others? Other family to take care of you?”
“No, no other family.” But as I look around the room I can see I have friends. And for now, that will do fine.
The rest of my twenty-first birthday passed in a sort of heady dream. After a stilted start, I found my father incredibly easy to chat to. He was interested in me, and already knew quite a lot about me. He even knew about baby David, though not my stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure. My mother was clearly in regular contact with him more or less up to her death. Many respectable marriages are less durable than their somewhat unorthodox relationship was, it would seem.
Bajram’s other two daughters, my younger half-sisters, were in the room with him when he phoned me and he suggested putting our conversation on speaker phone for them to join in too. That was my cue to do the same at my end, and soon all eight of us were chatting as if we’d known each other for years. Some of us sort of had.
Bajram soon sussed the relationship between Tom and I, and quizzed him quite closely regarding his prospects and intentions. It was all rather quaint, and to his credit Tom was incredibly polite to my new-found father. He promised to take good care of me when pressed and I daresay he was sincere, although I couldn’t help but wonder if Bajram would have included whips and spanking within that definition. My mother, too, would be turning in her grave if she knew what I was contemplating. And she would be positively spinning if she knew how much I was looking forward to it.
Chapter Five
The party breaks up after an hour or so as Nathan and his household get ready to drift off back to Black Combe, taking Barney with them. Under no illusion that I probably owe my life to that huge mutt, I’m incredibly sorry to see him go. On impulse I kneel in front of him, which puts his eye level a few inches above mine, and fling my arms around his thick, solid neck. I hug him as I did two nights ago, huddled under that wall out on the cold moor. He endures my attentions stoically enough. Then Rosie comes up with another of her brilliant ideas.
“Why don’t you take Barney with you when you go out taking pictures. He gets lonely when I’m at school, and he has to stay at home. But he could be out with you. Then you can carry on being his friend. And when it’s not school, I’ll come too. I could, couldn’t I?” She was looking from me to Nathan, expectant, hopeful.
I guess she’s missed her excursions with me as much as I’ve missed having her along.
“I— That’d be lovely. As long as your daddy doesn’t mind…?”
Nathan grins from behind her, his arm looped casually around her neck. “No, Daddy doesn’t mind. It’s a good idea, princess. Barney’ll love it, especially chasing along after a quad. It’ll be good for him, help keep him fit.” He glances up at me. “Just come round by our place whenever you want to pick him up.”
“Thank you. I will.” And so, I now have a companion for my trips up onto the moors. At least one.
* * * *
Tom and I take the quads up onto the moorland behind the farm on the pretext of checking his stock but really because we can’t resist the exhilaration of the chase. Tom’s two border collies bounding along behind us, we all have a brilliant time, whooping and screaming and scaring the wildlife—and I’m hoping that the powers that be at the Rock and Heifer never find out about our scandalous behavior or that’ll be me barred as well as Tom and Nathan.
Eventually we cruise sedately into Tom’s stone-flagged farm yard as dusk is falling. We stroll companionably into the house, dropping our coats onto the backs of kitchen chairs before Tom holds out his hand to me, a silent invitation to go upstairs with him. I smile and take his hand.
Tomorrow, I meet with Abbie.
* * * *
Abigail Delaney turns out to be not at all what I expected. I suppose I had in mind some sort of femme fatale in a slinky black dress and six inch fuck-me heels. Or maybe a plain, Sunday school type, all puritan in buttoned-up blouse and sensible lace ups. Instead, the woman waiting for me by the automatic ticket machine at York station is fresh and sporty, her light brown hair pulled back in a bouncing pony tail. She’s wearing khaki chinos and a bright yellow padded jacket, her Nike trainers tapping to the beat of whatever’s coming out of the tiny little buds pushed in her ears. She whips out the earphones as she sees me approaching, her smile wide and welcoming.
“Hi. You’d be Ashley?” I nod and she leans forward to hug me and briefly kisses my cheek. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Abbie, obviously. I’d have recognized you anywhere, you look just like Nathan described.” The lively stream of chatter just bubbles from her as she links her arm through mine.
“Where do you fancy going? Pizza? Italian? Indian? I’m starving. Eating for two, actually…” She pats her still flat stomach and winks at me. “Don’t look so horrified. Me and Mike have eased up on the canings since I found out I was pregnant.”
Painful memories well up of the way Kenny did anything but ease up on his beatings when I was pregnant, but I say nothing. I gulp, pushing those memories back where they can do no harm, for now, and just say the first thing that pops into my head.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me, to talk to me. It’s very—kind—of you.”
“Not at all, any friend of Nathan’s and all that.”
“I’m not sure I’d call him a friend exactly…” I pull myself up short. However inauspicious our early relationship, Nathan Darke certainly treats me like a friend now. And I know it’s not just for Tom’s sake.
“No? Well he seems to like you. Are you and Nathan thinking of…?”
“No!” I interrupt her, perhaps a little too quickly. But bloody hell, what a thought! “No, not that. Not him. It’s, well it’s his friend, Tom, actually. Tom Shore?”
“Ah, yes, Tom. I remember Tom. Tall bloke, blond hair. Very good-looking. And very good with a whip.”
Shit! Talk about going straight for the jugular.
“Er, right. So I’m beginning to understand.”
“I’m guessing, from your face, and the fact that you’re here wanting to talk to me, that you’ve not taken the plunge yet. Not bottomed for him yet.”
I blush furiously and shake my head.
“Okay. But he’s asked you to and you’re thinking ab
out it, yes?”
This time I nod, just once, slowly. “Yes, I must be mad.”
“Do you think I’m mad?”
Her tone is mild, matter-of-fact. The casual question stops me in my tracks. I turn to look at her, embarrassed.
“God, no. No, I didn’t mean that. Christ, I’m sorry.”
She laughs, pats my arm. “Chill, Ashley, we’re cool. Our lifestyle seems strange to you, I get that. I just wanted to make the point that lots of very ordinary, very boring people love these funny little ways of ours.” She grins and takes my arm again, marching me out of the station. “There’s a lot of it about, chuck.”
Our conversation stays with the mundane as we stroll across the dual carriageway in front of the station and through the ancient gates in the massive medieval walls, to enter the historic city. I’m not really here to play Tommy Tourist, but still, the atmosphere of this place is undeniable, the centuries of history lying right under our feet. We make our way along the riverside path and decide on an Italian trattoria opposite Cliffords Tower as the place for our lunch. We soon find ourselves tucked into a small table, cheerily decked out in red, green and white table linen, a bottle of chilled white wine opened between us while we wait for our pizzas and salad to arrive.
Abbie takes a sip of her pinot grigio, licks her lips, before leaning back and regarding me across the table. “So, Ashley, what is it you’d like to know?”
Christ, I don’t know where to start. What questions to ask. I have given this some thought, obviously, planned my script carefully. Rehearsed it in my head on the train across to York this morning. Not that it’s been any use. Now my mind’s a blank. Should have written it down.
Taking pity on me, Abbie smiles. “Okay, let me ask you something. Why are you here?”
“Because I want to know about, need to ask you…”
“About…?”
“About BDSM. About your lifestyle.” There, it’s out. I’ve said it. And the sky’s showing no immediate sign of falling in. “I want you to tell me about BDSM. About what happens, how it feels. And about why. Why do submissives agree to do it? What do they get out of it?”
