The Lost Guide to Life and Love (30 page)

‘Yet he bought you a very expensive necklace?’

How did they know about that?

‘And we understand that you were with him during that…incident…at King’s Cross. You were seen running away.’

‘I was seen running for a train,’ I replied as sharply as my wheezing allowed. ‘If you know all about that, then you know it was just a stupid mistake when Clayton’s keys got locked in the car.’

They said nothing and I was suddenly nervous, even though I had no reason to be. How much did they know? Had Jake been right about Clayton being involved in something dodgy? I was glad I had nothing to hide. But how lucky that I’d left Ravensike without him. Still,
Tell the truth and shame the Devil.

‘I think Clayton Silver liked the fact that Simeon Maynard poured money into Shadwell. He loved playing with the best people. But apart from that I don’t think he had much time for the man. I certainly don’t think he was involved in any way with him.’

And I didn’t. But then again, I hadn’t thought he was the sort of man to walk out on his son, did I? I’d done my bit. Now I wanted to forget all about him.

That, however, proved impossible. Simeon Maynard’s death was
big
news. As I slipped in and out of sleep in my hospital bed, Simeon Maynard seemed to fill my head whether I was awake or asleep. The drama of it, the implications of it, the footballing lifestyle, all were analysed until there could simply be no more to say. Then the story moved on. The pictures of Ravensike Lodge and the crash scene vanished as I began to think more about the implications for football in general and Shadwell in particular.

It was hard to avoid news of Clayton Silver and his team-mates. Shadwell had imploded. It was one of England’s top clubs, yet it seemed to have been built on
sand, or the fortunes of one man, and on his death had collapsed like a pack of cards. I watched it all, fascinated despite myself, unable to summon up the energy to switch the television off.

Jake had been right—of course. It seemed the club had virtually no money. Simeon Maynard’s finances were so perilous as to be nonexistent and it would in any case take months to untangle it all. Two of their star players had been charged with drug offences, another with rape. Sandro was in hospital. No one knew what the future held. Or even if the club had a future. In a midweek match they were beaten five nil by a team at the bottom of the table, and one of the players punched an opponent so hard he broke his jaw. The commentators relished their failure. ‘A team without hope’ was a typical comment. Clayton had apparently played appallingly. ‘Tarnished Silver’, one paper called him.

There was talk of the club going into receivership, reports and rumours of who—if anyone—would take it over. Already the sports pages were writing obituaries of one of England’s most famous and successful clubs.

The more the dreary tales of dodgy dealing and failure unfolded, the gladder I was that I had not got more involved with Clayton Silver, that I had realised his true character just in time.

Which still left the press to deal with. The hospital had been inundated with messages for me, requests for interviews. Some of them wanted the story of the crash and my struggle through the fog—they had already christened me
‘The Halloween Heroine’.
Others were more interested in my involvement with Clayton as part of the ongoing Simeon Maynard saga.

‘I’ll have to do something,’ I said to Bill. ‘It’s not fair to make the hospital cope with all this.’

‘The easiest way is to give an interview to one person and let them share it,’ said Bill.

‘I guess so. But which one?’ I said, looking at the long list of messages left for me.

‘Well, there’s an obvious one, really, isn’t there?’ said Bill.

‘You’re right.’ I reached for the phone.

Jake arrived at the same time as a porter carrying yet more flowers, two huge and identical bouquets, one for me and one for Becca. Becca’s message said, ‘I miss you so much and hope to see you soon,’ while mine said, ‘Thank you with all my heart for me and for Becca.’ Both were from Sandro.

Becca’s mum was nearly as excited as Becca and went bustling off to find more vases, clucking at the extravagance of it all, while Becca leaned against her pillows, reading and re-reading the card, looking suddenly well on the way to recovery as she was wheeled away to the fracture clinic.

In the middle of all this, Jake came in a little awkwardly, clutching a small bunch of flowers. He handed them over and I could only put them down on the locker. Then he saw the enormous bouquet sent by Sandro, as well as others from Mum and Kate and Matty.

‘Oh,’ he grinned, ‘I think I’ve been outclassed.’ Then he rummaged in his jacket pocket, ‘But I’ve brought you these as well,’ and he handed over a crumpled paper bag of liquorice sticks. ‘I know how much you like them.’

Now I understood why we’d stayed together for nearly two years. He was a nice guy really. Not for me, absolutely not for me, but nice. I leant back on the pillows, held a liquorice stick in my good hand and nibbled contentedly while, in between wheezes, I told him all about it—partly as an ex-boyfriend who still quite liked me and partly as a
journalist adding flesh to the story that was going to make his career.

‘And to think I thought you weren’t safe alone in the house,’ he said. ‘I never thought you’d be doing a one-woman mountain rescue in the fog.’ He looked at me admiringly. ‘Even people who know the hills can go round in circles for hours. How on earth did you manage to find the right way?’

‘It seemed fairly logical at the time,’ I said, remembering that little scrap of ribbon and path that was no more than an occasional smooth stone in the cropped grass. I lay back, quite liking this new sensation of respect and admiration from Jake. A bit late in the day, but still good.

Then we moved on to the party and what had gone on there.

Jake (and Flick I assumed) was preparing more background material for when the inquest verdict had been announced. He was talking about a book too. Ironic, really, that someone like Maynard could make Jake’s fortune. I told him about the party, playing down my involvement with Clayton.

‘They seemed in a bit of a panic,’ I said, describing the scene in Maynard’s study.

‘Hardly surprising,’ said Jake. ‘They must have known the police were onto them. That’s why they were in such a hurry to get out.’

‘Do you think…?’ I hesitated to ask. After all, Clayton was nothing to me now, nothing at all, but I still needed to know. ‘Do you think Clayton Silver was involved in any way?’

‘Silver? No. Not that I can see. The manager, Bob Brandon, now he was in it up to his neck and I think we don’t know the half of it yet. But I can’t find anything to
link Silver with it all, apart from the fact that Maynard liked to have him around, show him off. No doubt he got the odd backhander and perks, like using the helicopter. They all did. But Silver never went to any of Maynard’s villas. Brandon and the assistant coach and their families were
always
there. And a couple of players used it—one even had his stag weekend there, all expenses paid. But Silver seemed to keep pretty much out of it. Well, as far as I can see anyway.’

He looked sharply at me. ‘Why were you there with Silver anyway?’

‘Oh, just to keep Becca company. She was going with Alessandro. And I presume Sandro’s not involved?’

‘Oh, no. As innocent as a newborn babe, that one.’

‘Good. I’m pleased. For Becca.’

‘Of course, once all the fall-out’s finished and the dust settles, Alessandro might not have a job. Nor might Silver or any of the others. At this rate, I’d be surprised if there’s still a football club. But,’ he put his notebook back in his pocket, ‘it’s good to see that you’re all right, Tills. I never realised you were such a fighter. Thanks for all this.’

‘You’re OK. I owe you a favour anyway, or my family does.’

And I explained about Matty being my cousin and how the fantastic picture spreads had all been thanks to his tip-off.

‘You mean
you’re
related to Foxy?’ Jake looked stunned.

‘Yes. I only just found out. She’s nice, the whole family is. Very normal. Kate—Mrs Alderson who owns the cottage we—I—stayed in, is Foxy’s mum.’

Oh, it was wonderful to watch Jake’s face as I explained more. As soon as he let me go out of his life, not only do
I turn into a heroine, but I’m a witness to one of the most dramatic stories of the year
and
I’m cousin to a top supermodel. So much for Silly Tilly. Poor Jake. If he’d known that, he might have tried harder to keep me. I would have laughed if it hadn’t hurt so much.

‘If I think of anything else that will help you with the book, I’ll let you know.’ ‘Any little thing, all adds to the picture.’ He was still looking at me, wonderingly, seeing me in a whole new light.

‘Thanks for the flowers and the liquorice sticks, Jake. And’—I could afford to be generous now—‘give my love to Flick.’

‘Oh. Right, yes I will. Thank you. She’ll appreciate that.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

I heard his footsteps down the corridor. Then the porter appeared again, almost staggering under a huge arrangement of flowers. They were an extravagant mix of bright bold autumnal colours that seemed to glow and fill up the room.

‘You don’t want a vase for these, you need a bloomin’ greenhouse,’ muttered the porter as he looked helplessly for somewhere to put them. While he stood nursing them, like a giant and awkward baby, I fumbled with my good hand and found the card.

‘Get well soon. You were brave and determined. And wrong. C.S.’

Good grief. Even when he’s sending flowers to my hospital bedside he has to try and score points. And what was with the ‘C.S.‘? Couldn’t he even bring himself to put his name? Was just simply saying ‘Clayton’ to the girl in the flower shop too much for him? Did he even go to the flower shop? Of course not. Probably got one of his many
assistants to do it. I looked at the huge bouquet, nearly dwarfing the porter. Ridiculous. Over the top. Show off. Just like him.

‘There’s no room in here for those,’ I said tersely to the porter. ‘Thank you for bringing them but could you take them away please? Perhaps they’d look nice in reception.’

I scrunched up the card and dropped it in the bin.

Slowly, she unwrapped the little parcel he had given her. The packet fell from her hands. Instinctively, she stooped to catch it and as she did so the tissue paper ripped open and a cascade of colour spilled out into the air as velvet ribbons uncurled, unfurled and flared out like the sudden burst of flames, a shock of colour that brightened and lightened the small, sparse room.

Her first thought was that the ribbons—such brilliant cherry-red velvet—would be the perfect trim for her only good dress, that it would lift the fading colour as well as hide the fraying edge.

Her second thought was that such fripperies had no place in the thoughts or the dress of a respectable widow and that they were certainly not the sort of gifts that a travelling photographer should present on such short acquaintance. It was an overfamiliarity. The frames for her sons’ photographs were one thing—and even of those she had been unsure—but ribbons! Completely different.

She let them run through her fingers, feeling the sensuous luxury of the velvet, admiring the glow of their colour despite herself.

There was a third thought too. Of herself as a child, standing at her mother’s knee by the door of the farm-house down below. A packman had come across the narrow bridge and her mother had bought needles and thread and buttons from him, and then when the
transaction had been completed he had handed her mother some narrow lengths of ribbon, ‘Red, the same colour as the bairn’s hair,’ he’d said. And her mother had smiled and tied up Matilda’s hair and her own and they had laughed at how beautiful they were. They had danced a jig up and down the length of the dairy, pretending they were grand ladies at a ball.

Her mother died in childbirth not long after, and her father followed just a few years later, so Matilda had brought up her brothers and sisters. In that time, and since her husband’s death, in which she had cared for her family, dug her garden, tended her chickens, helped with the beasts, clipped the sheep, worked for her brother, made butter and cheese, knitted, sewn and kept her children fed and clothed and, above all, God-fearing and respectable. In all that time, unlike many of her neighbours, she had never once had to apply to the parish for relief, although sometimes it was only pride that fed them. She had seen her daughters leave home when they were no more than children, and then seen two of her sons go to the other ends of the earth. And in all those years, no one had ever given her anything as frivolous as ribbons. As she made her way to chapel and avoided the drunken invitations of the miners in the lodging houses, no one had seen how much she would enjoy the chance of pretty things. Were they really so wicked?

Now this photographer, who had walked into her life off a rainy fellside, had gone straight to the heart of something she had almost forgotten about herself in all these years. Yet somehow he had seen it.

She let the velvet of the ribbons run softly through her hands once more, then briskly wound them back, wrapped them in the tissue paper and handed them to the photographer.

‘I am very sorry, Mr Peart,’ she said. ‘I thank you for the frames for the photographs but I am afraid I cannot accept these. They are, I think you would agree, not suitable.’

‘Not suitable?’

‘As a gift between acquaintances. They are for young lads to give lasses at the fair, not for us, Mr Peart.’ She still held the packet out towards him.

But the photographer didn’t reach out his hand to take them back.

‘When young men buy ribbons for maids it’s because they are tokens of affection,’ he said. ‘We may not be young any more, but we can still feel respect, affection, and even perhaps something greater than that. If you understand me, Mrs Allen.’

They gazed at each other, silently, above the little packet of ribbons. He went on. ‘At first my visits here were entirely for the sake of business. But there are other dales and other farms and mines. I confess the frequency of my visits to this particular corner of England has much to do with the conversation and company of its inhabitants, one in particular.’

He looked momentarily uncertain, as Matilda Allen’s expression betrayed no reaction to his words, but he gathered his confidence and continued. ‘In fact, Mrs Allen, I am taking steps to move my business to this very dale. I have been looking at premises just five miles from here. Stanhope House, perhaps you know it?’

She nodded the tiniest acknowledgement.

‘It would provide comfortable accommodation for a man and his occupation. And his family.’

The last three words hung on the air.

‘Do I understand you are considering marrying again,
Mr Peart?’ asked Matilda Allen quietly, still gazing directly at him. He took a deep breath.

‘If you will have me, Mrs Allen. If you will do me the honour of accepting my offer of marriage.’

She looked at him. But for a moment she didn’t see him, this middle-aged man with his greying hair and his good tweed suit. Instead she remembered her husband. A tall, solemn young man of high principles, willing to take on her brothers and sisters. He had been a worker, drove a hard bargain but a fair one, had not wasted his money on drink or pleasure but made sure his family were well cared for. It had been a good enough marriage.

But he had never given her ribbons…

She realised William Peart was waiting for her to speak. She glanced down at the ribbons in her hand. She knew what she had to say.

‘Thank you for your offer, Mr Peart, but I am sorry I cannot accept it.’

‘But—’ He rushed to say something but she shook her head.

‘I have enjoyed your visits. I have learnt a great deal, not just about photography but also of the world. I thank you again for the photograph of me to send to my sons and for the frames to hold their pictures. That was a great kindness. But I fear you still know little of it, really, or how we live.’ She gestured to her clothes, her faded heavy skirt, the darned blouse, the patched jacket. ‘I am a working woman, Mr Peart. I cannot be of help to you in your business.’

‘You could be a companion,’ he said eagerly. ‘I have had better conversations with you than with many of the men I meet in my travels. It would be a comfort to a man to come home to a wife like you to ease the
loneliness. You wouldn’t need to work. But you could have the care of some hens, if you wish. No sheep, but we could have a house cow. There is space enough…

‘And your son. He could leave the mine and work for me. I would train him up in the business. He wouldn’t have to travel to the ends of the earth to make his way.’

He could see the hesitation in her eyes. But then her mouth firmed.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Peart. Your offer is good and kindly meant and I thank you for it. But you and I live in different worlds. I can no more live in yours than you could survive a winter in mine.’

‘But Stanhope House…it could be the best of both worlds for us both,’ he said eagerly.

‘Or make us equally unhappy as we both miss what we know.’

He was about to say something else, then stopped, thought for a moment and then said, ‘Mrs Allen, I am sorry. Perhaps my offer was so unexpected that it has taken you by surprise. May I ask you, please, to consider it for a little while? I shall return in a few weeks and ask again. If your answer is still no, then so be it. I shall not trouble you again, but please give my offer the benefit of some consideration.’

‘I will do that, Mr Peart, because you ask me. I fear the answer will be the same in a week or a month or a year, but I cannot stop you coming back to hear me say so. I do not think I could become a photographer’s wife in Stanhope House. Not even—’ and the corners of her mouth lifted slightly—‘not even with a house cow.’

He gathered his hat, his big cape and went out to the patient pony and the little cart. Matilda Allen watched him for a moment. Then, as he turned to look back, she moved away from the window.

In her hand she still held the packet of ribbons. He hadn’t taken them back from her. She put them down on the scrubbed table. A hint of cherry-red velvet glinted through the tissue paper, tempting, tantalizing.