The Lost Guide to Life and Love

by Sharon Griffiths

  ‘So I thought, wouldn’t it be interesting to do photos of the modern people in the same places or the same poses as their ancestors? It would really show up the contrasts and the similarities. And it would sort of finish the story, too, wouldn’t it?—all those people who left the dale. We’d know what became of them. Well, some of them. What do you think?’ He looked anxiously at us both, but especially at Matty.

  ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea!’ said Matt, as she looked at the pictures and then beamed at Dexter. ‘It’s pictures, people, history, a sense of place; it’s stories, it’s everything!’ She was laughing with enthusiasm and approval. ‘Can I be in it? With Mum and Granny Allen?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Dexter, smiling happily now that we—or rather Matt—had given such approval. ‘I hoped you would be.’ Soon the two of them were busy sorting through the photographs, talking excitedly. ‘That’s Pete Metcalfe’s granddad—I’ve seen the picture in their house…What a wonderful head. Oh, she’s lovely, who’s she? Now that must be an Allen…’

  It wasn’t that they were ignoring me; it was just that they had completely forgotten I was there. I left them to it and disappeared into the snug with my phone to send a text to Clayton. ‘Thank you for a fantastic evening…’ No, ‘fantastic’ sounded a bit extravagant. ‘Thank you for an excellent evening.’ Still a bit grovelling. ‘Thank you for a good evening.’ That was the right tone—polite but not carried away, ‘and for organizing a lift home.’

  So what do I say about the necklace? ‘Thanks but no thanks’? Er, no. I stared at the screen so long it went black, so I clicked it back on and texted quickly. ‘Necklace amazing but need to talk to you about it.’ And sent the message straightaway, before I had time to think about it further.

  Immediately, the phone rang and my insides lurched nervously. Could Clayton reply so immediately?

  ‘Hi, Jake,’ I said, carefully keeping my voice neutral.

  ‘Sorry, battery’s going so I’ll be quick,’ he said. ‘I’m going back down to London tomorrow. I thought I’d ask if you want to come with me?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I’m not ready to go back yet. I’m staying on for a week or so. I have a few more interviews lined up.’

  ‘Fine.’ His tone was chilly but I was just happy that it wasn’t my problem now.

  ‘So, thank you for the offer, Jake, I appreciate it, but I shall make my own way back to London, thank you.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Right, I’ll see you back down there then.’

  ‘Possibly. Goodbye, Jake.

  ‘Oh and Tilly,’ he said, just as my finger was about to press End call. Reluctantly I lifted the phone back to my ear.

  ‘Remember that model you somehow “forgot” to tell me about? The one who jumped through the loo window at the club?’

  ‘What about her?’ I asked, already beginning to panic at what he was going to say.

  ‘Well, a couple of the red-tops have tracked her down. Her real name’s apparently Matilda and she’s from this part of the world. Some farm near here somewhere. So thank you very much, Tilly. If you’d told me sooner, I might have found her first, which could have been very useful to my career. But too late now. Anyway, goodbye, Tilly.’

  The phone went dead and I sat staring at it, horrified. The paparazzi knew Matty’s name and roughly where she lived. Hartstone Edge was her bolthole, her escape from the world. How could it ever be that again if the press knew where she was? I looked across the bar, where she and Dexter were still enthusing over the pictures. I had to tell her…

  ‘Matty…’ She looked up, her eyes still sparkling over something Dexter had said. Then she noticed my expression. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The press know where you are. They know your name and that you live somewhere near Hartstone. Jake, my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—just told me.’

  ‘You mean you told him!‘ snapped Dexter, his expression suddenly terrifying. ‘All the time you’ve been on the computer here or on your mobile, that’s what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘No, no. Absolutely not,’ I said, frightened of this furious Dexter.

  Matty looked at me, her expression frozen. ‘How else did they find out?’

  ‘I don’t know. Jake just said that they knew. He was angry that he hadn’t found out first. I didn’t tell him. Honestly. I wouldn’t. Ever.’

  ‘You didn’t? Not even a hint? You’re sure?’ Matty was glaring at me.

  ‘Absolutely. Not even the faintest whisper. Anyway, I’ve hardly even spoken to him since I found out.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter how they found out, what’s important is that they have.’ She slumped down on one of the benches, her hands stuck into her jacket pockets and her long legs tucked under her, looking utterly miserable. ‘It was only a matter of time, I suppose. I was lucky to have got away with it for so long. I don’t mind it in London, but not here…Oh God, they’ll be all over the place, getting in the way of Mum and Dad. Trying to get secrets out of folk. It’ll be good for business, Dexter, but hopeless for everyone else. Awful. And I’m off to Egypt tomorrow. So they won’t even get any pictures of me anyway.’

  With that my phone rang again. I turned my attention to it, glad to get away from Matty’s misery. Not Jake this time. Not Clayton Silver. Instead it was Penny, my mother’s PA.

  ‘Hi, Tilly. Penny here. Nothing to worry about, but I know your ma won’t tell you, and she’s had a bit of an accident. Courier came off his bike and crashed right into her. She fell awkwardly and has a broken ankle and a twisted knee, and is a bit bashed and bruised.’

  ‘Oh God, Penny. Is she all right?’

  ‘Nothing too serious, but she’ll be out of action for a time. She’s been to Casualty and I’ve taken her back to the flat. Inez, her cleaning lady, is with her and has volunteered to stay with her for the rest of the day. I’ll sort her out with shopping and things and see that she’s OK. She told me not to tell you, but sometimes not even your mother can be right all the time and I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for what you’ve done for her,’ I said, trying to think straight, concern for my mother completely driving out what Dexter was saying to Matty.

  ‘She was a bit shaken up by it all, as you can understand,’ continued Penny. ‘But now she’s back into overdrive mode, insisting that she can carry on working and we’re not to fuss. You know what she’s like.’ I did. Only too well.

  ‘Penny, I’ll be back in London as soon as I can, late tonight probably. If needs be, I can cancel interviews for next week.’

  ‘She’ll probably be fine by tomorrow—apart from the broken bones, of course—but I think it would be good if you could pop round.’

  ‘I will.’

  I rang Mum immediately.

  ‘So are you finished up north? Aren’t you due home this weekend?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘There’s lots to tell you and I’m actually staying on for a few more weeks.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a pause and then, ‘Well, that’s very good. I’m glad it’s going so well.’

  ‘But I have to come back for a few days, to sort things out, so I’ll be round late tonight, depending on when I can get a train. I’ll ring you en route,’ I said. And my mother—fierce, independent Frankie Flint—actually sounded relieved.

  ‘That’s wonderful, darling,’ she said, and really seemed to mean it. For once my mother seemed to need me. It was an odd feeling.

  I ended the call and told Matty and Dexter what had happened. They went through the motions of being concerned. They said all the right things. And I think they believed I had nothing to do with Matty being tracked down. But they were preoccupied. As I went on the computer to check train times, I could hear them still talking about it.

  And then, just as I went out to get PIP to get back to the cottage and pack, I heard Dexter ask Matty, ‘What time do
you leave for Egypt tomorrow?’

  ‘Early afternoon. Why?’

  ‘Just enough time. I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘You’re back, then,’ said Matilda Allen. The sun was shining and for once there was no wind blowing through the dale. The photographer fanned his face with his hat. Mrs Allen was in her garden hoeing cabbages. He was amazed that anything grew in such thin soil, and understood the complicated arrangements of bushes and boarding that protected the vegetable beds from the usual blasts.

  Mrs Allen’s weathered face looked rosy in the sun. It had also turned some strands of her hair to silver and gold, so she seemed surrounded by a halo of light. She didn’t pause in her work as she talked, making her way efficiently along the rows of young plants. William Peart thought briefly of his late wife. In truth, he could scarcely remember her. She had been as pretty and delicate as a doll when he first knew her. Then the prettiness faded. Disappointments had left her frail and fractious. If he stayed at home she complained that there was not enough money in the studio work for them to live as she would like. When he had taken the decision to go out and about and find suitable studies for his camera that he could subsequently sell, naturally she complained of his absence. He had been on a final trip, hoping to get some extra money for their new responsibility, when she had gone into labour long before her time. A daughter, they told him, when he came back from his travels to learn he was a widower with two funerals to arrange.

  That done, he had carried on taking photographs, travelling ever further afield, making longer, more difficult journeys, because he didn’t know what else to do. And a man had to live. Gradually he found he enjoyed the travelling, the challenge of setting up his camera in ever more remote places, where many people did not even know what a camera was.

  He had not been tempted to marry again. There had been a number of elderly spinsters or widows. Women who fussed and prattled and cooed like so many pigeons. He had felt no need of a wife who would demand his time, his protection and chatter constantly at him and keep him from his renewed interest in his work.

  But sometimes, just sometimes, as he grew into middle age and his hair began to fleck with grey, he thought with a pang, of comfort, companionship and then dismissed it as an impossible idea.

  ‘I’ve brought you the photographs I promised,’ he said, looping the pony’s reins round the gatepost.

  ‘You’d better sit down in the shade. I’ll bring you some nettle beer.’

  She looked at the pictures carefully and accepted the copies he gave her of her sitting at the door, with her Bible. ‘Thank you. I will send these to my sons as a reminder of their home and upbringing.’

  That time he took pictures of her in the garden, and standing at the cottage door, with the jug of nettle beer. They were still talking—of America, of the dangers of the crossing, of the wool trade, the new chapel; of the dangers of importing raw materials and exporting the country’s young men and skills—as the day cooled. He was surprised at her interest and knowledge of such subjects.

  ‘We live isolated in this dale, but I like to know about the world, just as those people who look at your photographs want to know about us. The Miners’ Institute has a library and periodicals and when my brother borrows them, I read them too.’ She looked down the valley and he could see her son, his leg now well mended, trudging wearily up the path from work. She took down a muslin parcel of fatty bacon hanging in the smoke-blackened rafters, deftly cut a few slices and put it on a plate with chunks of bread and some cheese. She went to stand on the stool to put the ham back but, before she did so, cut a few more slices, wrapped them in another chunk of bread and handed it to the photographer.

  ‘For your journey,’ she said. ‘It’s a long way if you’re heading back down the dale tonight.’

  He took the offered food gratefully. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I shall think of you as I eat this.’

  She almost smiled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Mum! You look dreadful!’

  ‘Well, thank you, dear,’ said my mother. ‘You really know how to make a girl feel good.’ She tried to smile but it was clearly painful. I was shocked to see how badly she was hurt. One side of her face was bruised and swollen and she had a terrific black eye where apparently she had landed on the bike handlebars. One wrist was strapped up; one ankle was in a cast. She moved carefully, obviously in pain, as I bent down to kiss her, carefully finding a place on the not-quite-so-bashed side of her face.

  It’s frightening to see your mother like that, suddenly vulnerable. Especially my mother, who had always been so strong and determined, never needing anyone. I tried to remember if she’d ever been ill when I was a child. Vague memories of a bout of flu, the occasional bug, but all of them treated as irritating inconveniences, nothing that had actually stopped her and made her, literally, put her feet up.

  However, being Mum, of course, she now had her laptop and phone on the table beside her and had clearly been trying to work.

  ‘I told your mum she must rest. But she pays me no attention. Not at all!’ Inez was fluttering round. ‘Work will wait. Cafés can still work without Frankie Flint, but she will not believe.’

  ‘Inez and Penny have been marvellous,’ said Mum, indicating the sofa on which she lay, with her feet up, cushions and rugs stacked within reach. ‘Penny’s dealing with all the office stuff and Inez has looked after me here. She even stayed the night.’

  ‘Oh, Inez! Thank you.’ I remembered that she helped look after her grandchildren. ‘If you want to go…’

  ‘I must go and help my daughter. But I will call you.’ She went to get her jacket and bag and, as I walked out into the hall with her, she told me, ‘You look after your mum. She will try and do everything and she mustn’t. It is hard for her to walk, to get about. She needs someone to carry her, a nice strong man! All women need a nice strong man!’

  ‘Right, Inez, I’ll see what I can do.’

  Inez had stocked up the fridge with basics, so I was able to make Mum and me some buttery scrambled eggs and added generous slices of the smoked salmon I’d brought back with me from the smokery by the sea. As we ate it off trays, I told her all about my adventures, and especially about meeting cousin Kate and her family.

  ‘You know I saw a picture of that girl—they call her Foxy, don’t they?—in the paper and I thought she just had a look of the family. In fact, she reminded me a bit of you,’ said my mother.

  ‘Of me? I wish!’ I said. ‘Matt is well over six inches taller, two dress sizes smaller, with stunning hair and cheeks you could cut paper with.’

  And, I added to myself, is probably right now trying to outwit Wapping’s finest. If only she could leap away from them as easily as she’d leapt out of that window. But surely they couldn’t find her on her home turf ? There of all places she’d know how to avoid them. But it wasn’t that simple, I thought glumly. Not to mention the fact that she still probably thought it was all my fault.

  ‘But tell me more about Kate,’ Mum was saying. ‘No, tell me first about Jake. How are things between you? Did the working holiday work out?’

  ‘Not quite,’ I said and started the story. By the time I’d finished it was getting dark and Mum was nodding off. She must really have been bashed up a bit. She normally coped on about five hours a night. I drew the curtains, put some lamps on. And while Mum dozed, I nipped into the next room and, as I always did in emergencies, I rang Bill.

  He arrived within the hour, just as I was trying to help Mum to the loo. Tricky—with a bad wrist she really couldn’t manage the crutches she needed because of her ankle—so we were progressing slowly as she sort of hopped while hanging onto my shoulder and I had an arm around her waist. When the doorbell rang I had to leave her propped up against the table in the hall while I went to answer it.

  ‘Bill!’ She glared at me. ‘You rang him!’ she accused.

  ‘Yes, and what a good thing she did,’ said Bill, not even blinking at Mum’s battered face. �
��Are you trying to get to the bathroom or back from it?’

  ‘To.’

  ‘In that case…’ He put down the bunch of flowers and basket of food he was carrying and simply picked up Mum, carried her to the bathroom, came out, closed the door saying, ‘Yell when you want a lift back,’ and came back into the kitchen where I was hunting for a vase for the flowers.

  ‘She looks terrible. How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Stubborn,’ I said.

  ‘Well, we know that. But we’ll look after her,’ he said, like a man with a mission.

  And he did. He helped her back into the sitting room, then sat talking to her, telling her stories about the restaurant and the staff there, the suppliers he had found and some of the customers. He built a colourful picture of a little world.

  ‘You’ll have to come round and see it for yourself.’

  ‘Hardly at the moment,’ said Mum, wincing as she tried to move.

  ‘No. But soon. I’d like you to see it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Mum, noncommittally.

  At least she seemed almost pleased to see him.

  Meanwhile, I was back in my teenage bedroom. I had long since taken down the pictures of the Gallaghers and Hugh Grant. (I know, I know, but I had been very young then.) But it still took me back to a time when life seemed to be just beginning and I had no idea how it would all turn out. I couldn’t help thinking that maybe I hadn’t got very far, really, as I absentmindedly reached out to touch Jake that first night back and found myself instead almost falling out of the single bed.

  Not that I got much sleep. I was on night duty—in bed, but ever wakeful for Mum if she needed anything—painkillers, a drink, help to the loo. ‘Good practice for when you have babies,’ said Mum as I brought her extra cushions to make her foot comfortable. I smiled grimly. The way it was going, I was clearly doomed to be one of those perpetual bridesmaids and godmothers to my friends’ children. But Bill would normally turn up mid-morning and immediately the atmosphere lightened. Mum even stopped protesting when he carried her round the flat, though she occasionally scolded him about the restaurant. ‘How can you leave it to come and look after me?’ she asked.