Yikes! I sounded just like my mother. Now that was a scary thought.
While I waited to use the computer, I sat with a coffee—definitely a coffee this time—and flicked through the papers. Despite what I’d been saying to Becca, for the first time in my life, I started with the sports pages. But there were no pictures of Clayton Silver, nor Alessandro. It was full of pictures of other footballers from other teams who had been playing the night before. I turned back quickly to the main pages, as if I hadn’t actually meant to look at the sports pages, skipped over the serious stuff and studied the gossip columns. But there were more pictures of the girl from the nightclub.
‘That Foxy model seems to have well and truly vanished,’ I said vaguely to Becca as I turned the pages.
‘Don’t worry, she’ll turn up,’ said Dexter, grinning as he came up from the cellar with a box of mixers. ‘Just gone to ground temporarily, no doubt. Give the pack a bit of fun.’ He was laughing, as if it were some huge joke. Then he stopped, as though he’d just remembered something. ‘How did you get on with the cheese-maker?’
‘Excellent. Really good. I’ve got something for you. Some High Dales nettle cheese for you to try.’ I took the carefully wrapped package from the bag. Dexter brought some savoury biscuits and a knife from the kitchen and we sat either side of the bar eating slivers of the cheese, which, we decided, was excellent. I felt as if we were already old friends. I watched him as he ate the cheese. He was about ten years older than me, I guessed. Despite his easy smile, his face was lined and lived-in. His jumper might be shapeless but it had once been good, like the shirt he wore underneath it. At one time he’d clearly had an eye for good clothes. It was a big leap to go from being a successful photographer to a publican in the middle of nowhere. I wondered what had brought him back.
I asked him about his photographs, especially the one of the valley I’d seen the evening before.
‘I sometimes feel as if the place is full of ghosts,’ he said. ‘As if all the people who’ve ever lived up here are still here; as if they’ve never left the dale. I waited hours for the light to be right for that picture and when I printed it up I almost expected to see ghosts in the pictures—the old lead miners, farmers, the Vikings. Even the Romans. As if they couldn’t get away. Like me,’ he laughed.
‘Did you not get away?’
‘Oh, yes. Not much choice really. After college, I went to Leeds to work for an agency, then I had a few years in London, doing more and more work for myself, my own projects. Then I got married and moved up to Manchester…’
Married? Oh, maybe he wasn’t gay after all then.
‘…but then my marriage fell apart.’ Oh. Maybe he was…
‘…and then my dad died and I inherited this place. It had been let out for years. I didn’t really know what to do with it. But my wife—ex-wife—wanted her share of the Manchester house—like, immediately. She is one scary woman. So we sold that. And I was just wondering what to do, where to go, and then the tenants moved out of here so I thought I could spend the money doing this up. Have a sabbatical. Otherwise known as coming back to lick my wounds. Finding yourself orphaned and divorced in a matter of months concentrates the mind a bit. I needed time to think. And this seemed the best place to do it.’
He looked suddenly embarrassed, as if he’d said too much. I tried to think of something cheerful and positive to say.
‘You seem to have made a good job of it. The pub, that is.’
‘You think so? Thanks. I’m really pleased with the way it’s going. It’s just…well, it’s hard to get out taking pictures when you’re supervising builders, and talking to brewers and sourcing food and hiring staff. I want to make a go of this, but I want to get back to the day job too.’
‘But you’ve only been going a few months. In a few months more, you’ll really be established, then you can take up the day job again as well.’
‘Yeah, well, I hope so. Still, this always used to be a pub. Had a terrible reputation years ago, but then it closed and there’re no pubs in this end of the dale. One or two café, but not much for tourists and visitors. We want to bring money into the dale and this seemed one way to do it. Of course, it’s cost a lot more money, time and effort than I ever thought possible. But yes, I’m back.’
‘For ever?’
‘Who knows? For now at least.’
‘Back where you started.’
‘No, not really. Not even that.’ He looked sad for a moment. ‘Because while I’ve been messing up my life, other people have been moving on with theirs. Out of reach. And now it’s too late.’
‘It’s never too late,’ I said encouragingly, if rather fatuously, nodding at the sampler on the wall.
‘Sometimes it might be,’ he said, and shrugged and went into the back, returning with an armful of logs.
Oh dear. There was obviously a lost love in his past, but I didn’t know him well enough to enquire further. Sitting there at the bar, trying bits of food, just as I had yesterday, I noticed that Becca looked up hopefully every time the door opened, but it was just the usual groups of walkers, cyclists and people out for afternoon drives. I sent some texts, checked my emails, treated myself to a bowl of soup and a baguette. It was comfortable and cosy in the pub, but I had to go. I had the cheese-maker interview to write up. And it was getting dark.
‘If you get lonely up there, you can always come down in the evening, for a bit of company,’ said Dexter as he threw another log on the fire. The wood crackled and the sparks shot up. ‘Not so many visitors in the evening. More locals.’
‘Nice thought, but I’ve got work to do. Anyway, I’m not sure I would like to go through the ford or up that track in the dark.’
‘There’s always someone who’d give you a lift back up—if you don’t mind the back of a pick-up or a quad bike.’ He cleared my plates away and, with a wave to Becca, I went out into the gloom.
This time, drunk on neither wine nor exotic footballers, I managed the ford without any problem and PIP roared up the track. Already the house felt like home. I switched on all the lights, made myself a strong coffee and settled down to work. First of all I looked through my notes, marking good quotes, underlining parts, linking passages. Usually I worked in the office or at home with Jake to distract me. It’s amazing how much more work you can get done when there are no distractions.
Soon I opened up my laptop and started writing. The words flowed and the piece almost wrote itself. I finished the rough draft. That would do for tonight. I’d read it again and polish it in the morning. Like soup, a piece was always better when you’d left it to cook for a bit. I switched off the laptop, yawned and stretched. It was ten o’clock and I was suddenly hit with a wave of loneliness as well as fatigue.
If I’d been at home now, working at the table by the window in my little sitting room, Jake would probably have been there, working on his own laptop or sprawled on the sofa, flicking through the news or sports channels. He’d have brought me a glass of wine, maybe a little plate of cheese and biscuits or some hot buttered toast. And when I’d finished working, I would have cuddled up against him on the sofa.
I missed him. But was that because he was Jake, or just because he was someone, anyone, to be there? I was beginning to see that we’d just drifted into our relationship. Bits of it had been good. And I realised—almost for the first time, that yes, he brought me toast and cheese and things—but only when he fancied them for himself. And while I worked, Jake would lie there with the TV blaring, constantly flicking between channels. But if he was working and I wanted to watch something, he’d get cross, because how could he concentrate with all that noise? So I would read a book or listen to my iPod so he could work in peace. I’d been pretty dumb, hadn’t I? Not quite a doormat, but heading that way. Silly Tilly indeed.
I thought about it as I flexed my stiff shoulders, made my way upstairs and ran a hot, deep bath. And as I lay there, listening to the sheep—not scared at all now—I realised that yes, I was
a little bit miffed that he could talk to Felicity, work with her and not me. So maybe my pride was a little bit dented. But my heart? I probed the idea and my heart like worrying a bad tooth. A twinge, maybe. But agony? No. I didn’t think so. I twiddled the tap with my toes and added a great gush of hot water and settled back comfortably. I could live without Jake.
The track was steep, the rain like icicles. The photographer dismounted and walked alongside the pony as they plodded up the bleak fellside and thought about the photographs he had taken that morning, an old man and a boy cutting peat. He thought he’d possibly caught an expression. He hoped so. He longed to get back to his studio, the darkroom, to find out. It was a lucky chance to find someone like that. The overseer at the small mine there hadn’t been too sure about photographs, nothing that would stop the men working. He would call back. But first he had to get into the next dale, get pictures of mines, machinery and the men who worked them.
The path was slippery now, partly from the driving rain and partly from the mud that flowed down from a ramshackle row of cottages that seemed to have grown up from the fellside and seemed ready to collapse back into it. One or two showed signs that the inhabitants had made an effort, with makeshift curtains made from sacking, but most were indistinguishable from the midden heaps behind them. Above him he could see another house. Even through the driving rain he could see it was in a better state than the others, with clean windows, a proper path and a tidy wall providing some slight shelter for a sparse vegetable plot. A bedraggled hen squawked as a tall woman emerged from the house carrying a bucket, which she filled from the water butt with one hand, the other holding a shawl over her head. She must have sensed the photographer looking at her, for she stopped and turned.
For a moment, despite the rain, she stood perfectly still, gazing down at him. She was straight-backed and strong-jawed, unflustered and unbothered. Her long skirt and shawl were the colours of the fellside behind her. She seemed made of the very soil and rock.
‘Good afternoon!’ said the photographer cheerily through the rain, touching his hand to his dripping hat.
‘Never so good for taking pictures,’ said the woman.
‘Ah, you already know my business in the dale.’
‘Word travels.’
She would, he knew, make an admirable subject for his camera. Just so, with the steep and narrow track beside her and the towering expanse of hill behind. He touched his hat again. ‘Would you be interested in a photographic portrait?’ he asked.
She looked down at him and for a brief second seemed almost amused at the thought. Then her mouth hardened again. ’ “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” says the preacher,’ she said. ‘But you are in need of shelter. If you wish, you can rest out of the rain a while.’
‘Gladly. Thank you.’
He tied the pony to the gate, checked that the tarpaulin was keeping his precious camera dry, and then followed the woman into the house.
Chapter Eight
The next morning was wonderful, one of those autumn days that are almost still summer. Even up there, at the top of the world, I could feel the warmth through the window. It was only my third morning here but already it felt right. I felt at home. I burbled happily to myself as I sat at the kitchen table, with my laptop and a mug of coffee, and kept glancing out at the glorious views while I tidied up my piece on the cheese-maker. Finally, satisfied with what I’d done, I saved it on to a memory stick, ready to go down to the pub and send it off. But I didn’t have to go yet, did I? The sun was shining. That track at the back of the house was too enticing. Work done, I had no one to answer to but myself. Not even Granny Allen could argue with that.
I tugged on my walking boots, bought last year for a holiday in Wales with Jake. The fleece too. At least I looked the part.
It didn’t take me too long to get up to the ridge again. Pausing at the top to get my breath, I looked down the dale. I thought about what Dexter had said. It was like looking at ghosts—those abandoned buildings, the ruined houses. A whole industry had thrived here and then vanished. The path plunged down past abandoned heaps of stones that must once have been buildings for the mines. Tall chimneys towered over empty spaces where hundreds of men once worked but now were left to sheep, which sheltered among the soaring pillars and cropped the grass, as if nothing had ever disturbed the peace.
I felt a little uneasy, like an intruder. Was it sensible to be up here on my own? Jake had thought it wasn’t sensible for me to stay the night in the cottage on my own, but I’d done that, hadn’t I?
Some new railings and a warning sign surrounded an arched entrance opening straight into the hillside. ‘Danger. Old mine workings. Keep out,’ it said. I peered into the entrance, could see the skilfully arranged pattern of bricks in its ceiling, still supporting the moor above it. At my feet were rusty railway lines. Even though they were much grown over with grass and turf, I could follow them into another vast arched building, open now to the elements, with birds fluttering among the high bricks. I sneezed and the sound echoed and bounced round the huge empty and deserted space. It was an eerie place. What must it have been like here, I wondered, with all those men and machinery, the noise, the activity? The buildings could have been inhabited by a race of giants. Now they had all gone. Now it was just me, the sheep and the birds and silence. Weird. Seriously weird.
Walking alone in this strange landscape felt like the start of an adventure but just a little creepy. It was reassuring to see a Public Footpath sign. Very twenty-first century. It was a good firm track, too, easy walking on the springy turf. I had no map, no idea of where I was or where I was heading, but I couldn’t get lost. I would just walk on for another twenty minutes or so, then turn round and come back. The track curved round a low hill. I would just see what was on the other side…
I strode out briskly. The air smelt clean and fresh and was nicely cold on my face. It really woke me up. Bouncing along a turf path is a lot more fun than pounding away on a treadmill in the gym, and certainly better without the posers and preeners and designer Lycra. Above me I could hear the cries of birds. Didn’t know what they were. Maybe I’d get a bird book and find out, I thought. This country air was definitely getting to me.
I suddenly realised that nobody knew I was here. No one. I was completely free. I didn’t have to get back at a particular time or for a particular person. Or fit in with anyone else’s plans. My heart thudded a little at the thought. It was frightening, but it was also wonderful and exciting. Total freedom, to please myself. I did a little skip to celebrate and then strode out along the path.
I could hear another noise now, a strange sound that I sort of recognised but couldn’t quite place. Some farm machinery, I supposed, though I didn’t think there was much actual farming going on up here, not the sort that used combine harvesters or things like that. Apart from hearing The Archers, when Mum was listening to it, I was a bit hazy on all things agricultural. But I was pretty sure that this wasn’t the sort of land where you grew things, apart from grass and sheep. Whatever was making the noise, though, it had to be big. I’d soon find out, as I rounded the bend at the foot of the hill. And then I saw it.
A helicopter. Right in front of me. So close it seemed enormous. Like a huge buzzing dragonfly perched on a flat, white-painted piece of moorland. I could feel the force from the blades, and see it sending ripples across the grass. What a strange place to find a helipad. But then I looked further and understood. Just a few hundred yards away was a vast house, all Victorian turrets and chimneys, surrounded by a high stone wall and large gates. ‘Ravensike Lodge’, said a sign. ‘Private’.
Of course. Ravensike was originally a Victorian shooting lodge, that’s why it was plonked down in the middle of nowhere surrounded by moors and grouse and partridges and all those things that people liked to shoot at. And now it was owned by a billionaire who owned a glitzy football club and a helipad. I wondered what the grouse made of that. Don’t suppose it made much difference to the
m who took a pot shot at them.
Intrigued, despite the noise and the blast from the blades, I walked slowly towards it. A man was sprinting down the drive. Presumably he was the passenger the pilot was waiting for. He ran effortlessly, fluidly. He was clearly pretty fit. He wore black jeans and a black leather jacket. His hair was closely cropped, almost shaved. He had a beautifully shaped head.
Oh my God, it was Clayton Silver. Was there no getting away from the man?
I wanted to turn and run back to the cottage, but instead I just stood there staring at him; he must have felt my look because he stopped on the edge of the helipad and glanced over in my direction. He looked away and then back again.
‘Miss Tilly!’ he shouted above the roar. ‘Is that you?’ He ducked under the rotor blades of the helicopter and then strolled towards me.
‘You skipping work?’ he shouted, the draught from the helicopter blades whipping his words away. ‘Shouldn’t you be writing about sausages?’
‘Cheese-makers!’ I yelled. ‘And I’ve done it. I’m just getting some fresh air before I go back and do some more. I didn’t know where this path led. I’m just—’
‘Come for lunch.’
‘Sorry?’ I couldn’t have heard properly.
‘I said come for lunch. I’ve got to see someone in Newcastle. Come along.’
‘But I can’t. I mean…’ Did I even want to go to lunch with him? Why did this man keep popping up in my life? First the club, then the pub and now, just when I thought I’d found one of the most isolated parts of England, he turns up there too. I shrugged my arms to show I was in jeans and a fleece and boots and, in any case, wasn’t too impressed by celebrity footballers.
‘That don’t matter.’ He laughed. ‘The pilot’s getting a bit antsy. You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind, Miss Tilly. Lunch or no lunch. Deal or no deal. Ten…nine…eight…’ He was grinning as he turned to go back to the helicopter.
The Lost Guide to Life and Love Page 6
