Clayton took my hand. ‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ he said, and led me out into the foyer, past the band and towards a glass-covered balcony that seemed to hang over the river. It was cooler there and blissfully quiet. Just us and the lights on the water.
‘You were very generous with your donation in there,’ I said.
‘Yeah, well. Bad enough to grow up without a dad, even worse without a mum, even a mum like mine,’ he said. ‘And we all know I ain’t earning the minimum wage,’ he laughed.
‘What will you do,’ I blurted out, ‘when you don’t play football any more?’
‘Hey, that’s a big question, a very big question,’ he said, gazing out at the water. ‘Maybe do my coaching badges. Maybe television. Maybe just enjoy being rich. There’s this man does my money for me. Tells me what do with it. ‘Cept I keep buying wine with it. And pictures.’
‘Pictures?’
‘You know I didn’t think I knew anything about art, but there’s this Celia, she works with the man who looks after my money, she took me to a gallery and said I didn’t have to know anything about art, just see if I liked anything.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yeah,’ he said dreamily, ‘yeah I did. I bought an Iolo John painting. Huge it is, just blue and white and green, but it sort of looks a bit like the sea, a bit like the sky. I don’t know. Just a lot of clean space. Like being in the air.’
I nodded. ‘I saw some of his paintings at the Royal Academy last year. After all the installation-type pieces of blood and bottles and dead cows, you can actually get what he’s on about. They’re beautiful.’
‘The money-man reckons it’s a good investment. But I just like it on my wall.’
‘I’m sure it’s fantastic.’
‘You can see it when you come round.’
I stayed very calm. ‘Oh. I’m coming round, am I?’
‘I hope so, Miss Tilly. It would be nice if you did.’ And he leant forwards, took my face in his hands and kissed me. He smelt of wine and coffee and a wonderfully citrus cologne. I surfaced, blinking.
‘Gosh,’ I said. Clayton hooted with laughter.
‘You are so not like any other woman I know,’ he said. And kissed me again. Then took my hand and led me back into the banqueting suite where we were the last to return to our table. As we wriggled our way back into our seats, Becca grinned at me, and my grandmotherly neighbour smiled indulgently. The auction was about to start.
This was a serious event. The auctioneer—a sports presenter—could really do his stuff. He started with autographed football shirts which local businessmen paid up to £500 for, and was moving on through such delights as a hot-air balloon ride, a spa weekend, a week in a Tuscan farmhouse, the last going for £10,000.
‘Lot Fifteen, a silver and amber necklace, specially designed and donated by top jeweller Theodore Bukala. “Rectangular silver links interspersed with polished amber in an unusual modern setting,” it says here. “Striking and elegant with an intriguing contemporary simplicity.” Who’s going to start me off ? A thousand pounds anyone. Yes, to you sir…Fifteen hundred, anyone giving fifteen hundred?’
Becca and I looked on amazed as the bidding rose quickly to £10,000, then more slowly to £15,000. ‘Any more?’ asked the auctioneer. ‘It really is a lovely piece, absolutely unique—and all for such a good cause. Any more?’
With that, Clayton casually lifted his menu card and the bidding was on again. It was between him and a player from Man United and Becca and I could barely dare to look as the bidding rose over £15,000, then £20,000, and finally up to £25,000. Then the other player’s girlfriend must have decided that £25,000 was enough because I could see her put her hand on the man’s arm and he shook his head at the auctioneer.
‘Twenty-five thousand one hundred,’ said the auctioneer. ‘I think that’s our final bid. Any more? Any more?’ He looked round the room in the silence. ‘Going, going…’ And then brought the gavel down with a short sharp rap. ‘Twenty-five thousand one hundred to Mr Clayton Silver.’ And he moved on quickly to the hire of a small yacht currently moored in the Mediterranean.
Just as the bidding finished, a waiter appeared with a tray of brandies.
‘I think we need those,’ said Bert. ‘Here, lad,’ he said to Clayton, ‘you’d better have a couple of these, the amount you’ve spent tonight.’
Clayton looked relaxed as he downed the brandy and a man appeared with a portable card payment machine. Clayton paid up and the man produced the box. The necklace was beautiful. As the man said, it was simple and elegant, the amber small, smooth and polished. It was absolutely beautiful.
‘So that’s twenty-five grand’s worth, is it?’ said Clayton. He lifted the necklace out of its presentation box.
He stood up, came behind me, and carefully fastened the necklace round my neck.
Joan clapped her hands in glee and excitement. ‘And you’ve only known him a week, pet! Not bad going for a week!’ she laughed.
I blushed bright red and looked round at Clayton. ‘Oh no. I’m only trying it on,’ I explained. ‘It’s not for me.’
‘Yes it is,’ said Clayton. ‘Who else am I going to buy it for? Begging your pardon…’ as he grinned at Joan.
‘But surely…there must be…’ I was stunned. I had never in my life even tried on anything costing £25,000, let alone been given something.
‘I bought it for you,’ said Clayton, quietly, looking at me. ‘I wasn’t thinking of anyone else. And very good it looks too.’ Then he laughed. ‘And worth it just to see you going pink again.’
I don’t really remember much after that. There were a few more speeches. A lot more drink. A lot of cheering. By now I was leaning right back against Clayton, comfortable, at ease. Becca and Alessandro had disappeared, I noticed.
‘Well, that’s me done, my dear,’ said Joan, getting up from her seat. ‘I’m off to my bed.’
‘Are you staying here?’
‘Yes, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not sure.’
In fact I had no idea what was happening later. The elderly lady patted my shoulder as Clayton talked to her husband.
‘Good luck, pet,’ she said. ‘But just remember, footballers aren’t like other people. They’re a funny breed. They don’t live in the same world as the rest of us. And I should know, I’ve been married to one for more than forty years. And they’re a lot stranger now than they were when our Bert started out.’
With that she took her husband’s arm and walked out of the room.
A red-faced man came bustling importantly up to Clayton. ‘We leave for the airport in five minutes. Where’s Sandro?’
‘Around somewhere,’ said Clayton vaguely. ‘Can’t be far.’
He pulled me gently to my feet. ‘Come on,’ he said. He got out his mobile, sent a text and then rang Alessandro.
‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘See you downstairs in five minutes.’
Then he put his arms round me, brushed a wisp of hair from my eyes and said, ‘Sorry we’ve got to go, sweetheart, I’ve got training tomorrow and the plane’s waiting. Tony’ll be downstairs to take you home when you’re ready. It’s been really good to see you. I’ll see you again soon?’
‘But…’ It didn’t seem right that the evening should end like this; that we were going home separately. Especially as I was wearing the amazing necklace.
The red-faced man came stomping back. ‘Clayton, it’s time to go!’
Clayton whispered to me. ‘He reports right back to our boss man. Any problems and—wow, do we hear about it. So I’ve got to go, gorgeous. See you soon, yeah?’ He kissed me again and went off with the red-faced man.
I was left on my own, wearing a necklace that had cost £25,000. I stroked it as I walked down that huge staircase.
Downstairs, Becca was already waiting. Outside, the black four-by-four swept up and Tony leapt out to open the door. Becca and I climbed in.
‘Did this really happen?’ she asked, still clu
tching the rose Alessandro had made for her as we slumped in the back of the car and it raced down the A1. ‘Did all that really happen?’
‘I think so,’ I replied, though actually I too found it tricky to believe. But as the car sped down the motorway, and Becca chatted breathlessly about Sandro, I could feel the weight of the necklace on my throat and I could remember the way Clayton had looked into my eyes.
The rain had stopped and a clear watery light filled the dale. Perfect for photographs. Matilda Allen had insisted first on being photographed seated with her Bible. That was the reminder she wanted to send to her children. But then Peart persuaded her to stand as he had first seen her, in her garden with her shawl round her head, a background of fellside and stone. A fine, strong woman.
‘Your husband…?’ he asked tentatively.
‘Killed in the mine eight year ago.’
‘I’m sorry…’ But he wondered how such a woman had never married again. Not for want of asking, he suspected.
‘My wife too,’ he said, ‘ten years now. And our baby daughter with her.’
She flashed him a look.
‘Then we’ve both known loss, Mr Peart. And learnt to endure it.’
Chapter Thirteen
As soon as I woke up, I put the necklace on again, scarcely able to believe that Clayton Silver had given it to me and fastened it round my neck. It looked particularly fetching with my pyjamas as I made my first pot of coffee of the day, my hair like a scarecrow’s and my mascara giving me panda eyes.
But, even through the slightly fuzzy thinking after too much wine the night before, one thing was clear. I couldn’t keep it. I just couldn’t. Twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of necklace? What would Granny Allen say? What would my mother say, come to that? It was beautiful, but definitely not for me. Suddenly it seemed to be burning my skin. What could I have been thinking of ? What did he expect in return? How much had I had to drink? Quickly, I took it off and tucked it carefully into its velvet-lined box.
I would ring him, thank him and sort it all out. But first I had to get to a phone. Living up here didn’t exactly make for spontaneous action. Tony had brought me back right to the cottage, splashing disdainfully through the ford. So the van was still at the pub. I tucked the box into my bag in the wardrobe. And, after a quick shower, and dressed in jeans and boots, I set off down the track.
Matty was in the farmyard talking to the driver of a milk tanker. When they saw me, the driver waved genially as he pulled out of the yard and Matty walked over to me. With her hair in a single long plait over her shoulder and no make-up it just emphasised the natural flawlessness of her skin.
‘No van?’ she asked. ‘Has it packed up already?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but last night…’ and I told her the whole story, about Clayton and the dinner and the auction and the necklace.
‘Twenty-five thousand pounds! Just like that. And then he gave it to me—just as if it was the paper flowers from the napkin.’
‘Flash bastard,’ said Matt, seriously unimpressed. Her reaction was just what I needed to bring me down to earth. ‘Let’s face it, twenty-five thousand isn’t much more than a day’s wages for someone like Clayton Silver. Still, very clever. Makes him look good. I bet his generosity “accidentally” gets leaked to the press. But at least it made some money for a good cause.’
I nodded miserably.
She looked at me sharply. ‘You’re not keeping the necklace, are you?’
‘No!’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m going to the pub now. I want to ring him, tell him so.’
‘Good,’said Matt. ‘Bad enough that he can act big without you going all girly and grateful on him. Just remember, those footballers like to show off, throw their money around. They lose that much on a game of cards on an average evening. More money than brains, that’s for sure. Anyway, do you want a lift to the pub? I’ve got to go down to the village.’
‘Great, thanks. I don’t mind walking but I have a lot to do and the sooner I talk to Clayton the better.’
As we rattled down the road to the pub, Matt said, ‘I’m flying out to Egypt tomorrow.’ She looked almost hungrily out as shadows of clouds scudded over the short grey grass. ‘I guess the weather will be a bit different from here.’
‘Very glamorous,’ I said.
Matt snorted. ‘You’re joking! The hotel will be fine—when we’re there, which won’t be much. But out on the shoot it will be hot, dusty, everything covered in flies. Like the time we were shooting in Marrakech and I was trying to look cool and mysterious while mosquitoes were biting my ankles.’
‘Is it really that awful?’
‘No, of course not. And I get paid silly money. It’s a whole lot easier than Mum and Dad’s life, where they have to get up at dawn, day in, day out. When you have animals to look after you can’t get sick or take a day off or just snuggle back under the duvet when you want to. I can just wear a few clothes and a daft expression. If I ever feel hard done by I remember the winter we all had flu and it snowed. Getting out of bed in the dark and the icy cold when your legs are like cotton wool and you can hardly lift your head and you have to go outside and see to the animals and there’s a gale-force wind and the sleet is driving into your face—now that‘s what I call hard work.’
I tried to imagine it. I couldn’t.
‘But what would you really like to do?’
‘I don’t know. I love the buzz of London and there’s so many opportunities…but the more I’m away from this place, the more I miss it, the more I feel I belong here.’
‘Like Dexter, I suppose,’ I said. ‘I mean, he could have sold the house, and not bothered to turn it back into a pub. But something brought him back.’
‘Yes, it did, didn’t it?’ said Matt thoughtfully. She was silent for a moment then continued, ‘I’d really like to share my time between both places I guess—not farming, I’ll leave that to the rest of them. But I’d like to find a way of living and working up here. Of keeping the farm going so it will be here for always—well, for as long as any of the family want to farm it. Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘I might not be flavour of the month for much longer, so I’ll make the most of it till then. What about you?’
‘Oh well, once I’ve finished all the interviews I’ve got lined up I’ll have to go back to London too. Sort out my life.’ I wasn’t sure myself if I was pleased or not to be going back. This was turning out to be a nice little holiday, a small escape from reality. ‘It seems a shame to leave all this. I know I’m a townie really, but I’ll definitely be back.’
Now I’d found this place I wanted to keep a bit of it for me. It was, after all, the place that had given me that wonderful sense of freedom.
As Matty pulled the Land Rover into the pub car park we could see Dexter in the yard at the back splitting logs. He swung the huge axe effortlessly and added to the pile of neatly quartered logs piled up in the basket beside him. He looked up.
‘Well hello! I wasn’t expecting you back today. Thought you’d still be gallivanting with the rich and famous. And talking of the rich and famous, hello, Matt.’ He smiled at her. She leaned out of the Land Rover window and smiled back, surprisingly shyly. The two of them stared at each other so awkwardly that I couldn’t work out what was wrong.
‘Coming in?’ asked Dexter.
‘Why not?’ said Matty, and jumped neatly down from the vehicle.
Jan was on today. ‘So Becca not back from your Newcastle adventures yet?’ asked Matty.
‘Yes, she’s just on a day off. We came back last night.’
‘You mean your famous footballers didn’t expect you to stay the night with them? I’d have thought Silver would have expected something for his twenty-five thousand,’ Matt was saying wryly as Jan bustled off to clean some tables.
‘No. No, he didn’t. It was a bit odd really. They weren’t staying; they all had to fly back to London.’
‘You got away lightly, then.’
There was a rumble as Dexter u
nloaded the logs into the basket by the fire. ‘So you two are long-lost cousins, are you?’ he asked, gazing at Matt.
‘Yes, thanks to Granny Allen, of course,’ said Matt, glancing up at him and then looking quickly away.
‘Ah, talking of which,’ said Dexter, suddenly sounding nervous. ‘I have an idea for a new project. Come and look at these for a moment. See what you think.’ He hurried us over to the high-backed wooden settle at the far side of the bar. The seat was covered with photographs, many very old. Stern portraits, serious wedding groups, many looking very Granny Allen-ish, as well as some of miners, farmers, a wonderful postman with extravagant whiskers. ‘These are all people from the dale, mainly in Victorian times.’
‘Where did you get all these from?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘Oh, there were a few photographers working in the dales in the nineteenth century. The Victorians were very big on finding out how strange savages lived—and they thought the frozen north was pretty much the edge of the known world. So there’s quite a lot of old pictures about. Some of these are mine already. Others are from neighbours. But some—and this is what gave me the idea—some I’ve copied from the people who come here doing their family history. These are their great-great-great-grandparents. They’ve brought the photos with them when they come to see where Granddad lived.
‘When you look at the old pictures and then at the modern people, it’s very interesting.’ Dexter was getting really enthusiastic. ‘It’s amazing how often there’s still a family resemblance. Sometimes the interest is in the sheer contrast—one of these weather-lined faces compared with her pretty, pampered descendant. But see that one…’ He picked up a faded photo of an old farmer in heavy tweed suit and waistcoat with a proud expression standing by a pair of plough horses. ‘Well, his grandson came back here. He came with his grandson who’d driven him. The lad was only about twenty but he stood outside by his car, one of those posh Minis, and the expression on his face was exactly the same as this chap in the photo with his horses.
The Lost Guide to Life and Love Page 13