Kate hesitated. But she wasn’t one for shilly-shallying. ‘Smashing,’ she said, handing over the keys. ‘Dexter should have them all ready. And you can just sneak in the back later, if you like.’
With that the band struck up a rousing tune. The schoolroom emptied and I scampered out through the rain to Kate’s car.
Dexter had all the cups, saucers and plates waiting on a table by the door. ‘I was just about to bring them down myself,’ he said. ‘I was wondering what was happening.’
He helped me load them up and I drove carefully back down to the chapel. Once I’d staggered into the schoolroom with the box, I thought I might as well unpack them and set them out. Cup and saucer, cup and saucer, on the trestle tables covered with white sheets. The huge urn was hissing gently away. A line of teapots stood waiting, ready to be filled. A ramshackle collection of varied milk jugs and a big tin of Nescafé, a paper cup full of spoons. There was something so homely and timeless about it. It would make a lovely picture for the magazine.
From the chapel next door I could hear the brass band doing their stuff and the voices singing alongside. It was cheering. I wandered round the schoolroom, looking at the fly-specked samplers and faded photos—a Sunday school anniversary picnic from years ago, solemn little girls in pinafores, a presentation to somebody for something—lots of men in black suits and whiskers; an anniversary service from the 1950s—people overflowing down the steps and onto the road outside. The chapel was full today, but still nowhere near that full.
I was thinking of all the people who had lived in this dale and of how it was now emptying, with deserted houses, abandoned barns, when even above the triumphant playing in the chapel next door I could hear a strange noise. There it was again.
Oh God, it was my mobile. I was so rarely anywhere where there was reception these days that I just wasn’t used to hearing its sound. How bizarre. I fumbled it out of my pocket.
‘So is that the lady who got me into so much trouble?’ His voice was deep and throaty with the hint of a laugh.
‘Clayton! Oh God, I am just so sorry. Was it dreadful? Have you had a lot of stick about it? I felt so awful, if I hadn’t fallen asleep—’
‘You try and give me back my present. You fall asleep on me. You get me arrested.’
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’ The band and congregation next door were now belting out ‘Rejoice, in the name of the Lord!’ at full volume. It was a bizarre accompaniment.
‘So what happened? I mean, you were only a minute, weren’t you?’
‘Nah. I got a cab right back to the house, yeah? But when we got to the gates, I didn’t have the remote control—that’s in the cars.’
‘But there’s a keypad at the side, isn’t there?’
‘Yeah. But I couldn’t remember the number. It’s in my phone. And my phone was in the car, and the car was at King’s Cross, wasn’t it? And the taxi driver guy was getting really antsy by now.’
Luckily Maria, dear little Maria, had come out to feed the birds and seen him and let him in so he could get his wallet.
‘So I just let the cab take me straight back, but we must have been gone—oh, I don’t know, maybe an hour by then. And when I went to my car, there were all these bollards and barriers round it and a load of police. That’s when they took me in.’
‘But surely if you really were a terrorist, you wouldn’t come back to get your car?’
‘Right. I told them that, but would they listen? Would they shite. So we had to go through the whole thing: what was I doing, why had I left my car, why had I gone off and abandoned it. Why why why.’
‘Oh gosh. Were they horrible?’ For a moment I imagined police brutality and torture tactics.
‘Nah,’ Clayton laughed. ‘Not really. One was a bit of a little Hitler but the other two were OK. They knew it was just a cock-up. At the end I had to fill in a form to say if I thought I’d been unfairly questioned or discriminated against.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘I said yes—because the guys were all Spurs supporters. They thought that was pretty cool really and asked for my autograph…and not just on the form. The worst part was all the guys at training taking the piss out of me. And some of the supporters at the game on Friday.’
‘But you played brilliantly. I read the match reports.’
‘Did you? Yeah, well, I thought I’d show them what they could do with their jokes: stuff ‘em right where the sun don’t shine.’
‘You seem so relaxed about it! I was getting worried when you weren’t answering your phone. I thought you must be really angry about what had happened.’
‘Well, yeah, it wasn’t good. And those pictures in the papers! How can I be the king of cool looking like that?’ he laughed. ‘It’ll be a nice story for the autobiography, though, won’t it?’
I could feel a great weight lifting from my shoulders. If Clayton could laugh about it, I needn’t feel guilty. It had taken him a few days to sort it out in his head, but now he was laughing at himself. I was, I realised, grinning myself.
‘So where are you now, Miss Tilly the Terrorist?’
‘I’m up north. Actually in chapel at the moment. There’s a service going on the other side of the wall.’
‘You’re in chapel?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Are you a church lady too?’
‘Not at all. Just helping out.’
‘But you’re up north, yeah? With all the sheep?’
‘Yes that’s right.’
‘How long for?’
‘End of the week. I’ve got an interview with a pudding-maker arranged on Friday, so I’ll probably come back Saturday or Sunday.’
‘Make it Sunday.’
‘Why?’
‘Because then you can do something to make up for getting me arrested.’
‘Anything.’
‘Anything?‘
‘Well, almost anything.’
He chuckled. ‘We’re playing up north on Saturday. And Sim Maynard has got a big Halloween party at his lodge. He wants us all to go. Should be a good party and we have to keep him happy. Will you come with me?’
Right at the back of my mind there was the tiniest niggling doubt about Maynard and Ravensike Lodge. I buried it quickly. ‘You want me to come to a party with you? On Saturday? A Halloween party?
‘Yeah. Not fancy dress, but you’d better dress fancy. OK?’
‘OK. Yes. Why not? Well, what I mean is, yes, I’d like to.’
‘Great. I’ll ring you later, sort out details.’ And the phone went dead.
I clutched the phone and looked round the musty schoolroom with its pictures and samplers, the egg sandwiches and chicken legs, the hissing urn and the brass band and singing coming from next door. Suddenly this felt like the best place on earth.
He’d asked me to a party! Despite the trail of chaos I seemed to have left in his life, despite the fact that he had the pick of all the eligible ladies in the country, he had asked me. I was so happy I couldn’t stand still. I used my phone—which I was still clutching—to take pictures of the room and the table, to remind me of my ‘Celebration’ idea. I danced up and down the trestle tables, setting out the last of the cups and saucers. I sang as I set up the stacks of paper plates. I even sang along to the hymns. Clayton Silver was a decent guy and I was going to a party with him. Well, wouldn’t you sing?
When the ladies of the chapel committee—all best coats and sensible shoes—came out before the last hymn to make sure the tea was under control, they beamed at me approvingly.
‘Why, lass, you’ve done a grand job,’ smiled one elderly lady as she removed her coat and tied an apron over her smart tweed skirt and matching cardigan. I beamed back at her, full of love for the world, for life, for her and especially—suddenly and blissfully—for Clayton Silver.
He could see her in the distance as she walked over the packhorse bridge and up the path to the cottage. She walked easily, carrying something carefully, the steepness of the track not troubling
her. As she neared the cottage, she must have heard him or sensed his presence because she turned and looked. She did not wave or acknowledge him.
But when he too reached the top of the path, the cottage door was open. On the table he could see the pitcher she had been carrying up from the farm.
‘Well, Mr Peart,’ she said, her mouth set in a firm line, yet her eyes seemed to be smiling, amused, ‘you seem to be quite a regular visitor. I hadn’t realised the dale held so many suitable subjects for your photography. The people down in London will be very knowledgeable about us.’
‘There are always a variety of subjects,’ he said, uncertain for a moment. ‘And I find this dale interesting.’ He thought of the premises he had seen to let in the village on the main road down the dale. The spacious house had a big garden and an orchard and, more importantly, a workshop that could very conveniently be adapted to a studio and darkroom, should a man wish to uproot from a town and move to the quieter confines of the countryside, especially a man with the right sort of wife.
True, there was the boy to consider. But he seemed bright enough, and he would need a new apprentice.
‘Will you take some buttermilk?’ Mrs Allen asked. ‘It is straight from my son’s cows. I have charge of them as my daughter-in-law is not well and is in any case no dairywoman.’
‘Thank you, yes.’
It was years since he had drunk buttermilk, rich and creamy. Having poured him some, she took the pitcher and put it in the cold stone storeroom at the back of the house.
He unwrapped the frames he had brought with him. At first she refused to accept them. But when he placed a picture of one of her sons in one and propped it on the mantelpiece, she agreed it was pleasant to look up and see him there, still part of the house where he grew up. She allowed him to put the other photograph in its frame and the two young men gazed proudly down at their mother. This time Matilda Allen allowed herself to smile as she gazed at them.
‘There is another small thing,’ he said, pulling the haberdasher’s packet from his pocket.
Chapter Twenty
Clayton and Alessandro strode into The Miners’ Arms. But it was very different from that first time, weeks ago. True, they still had that gloss and glow of money and success and yes, they were still swaggering—I think it was the only way they knew to walk—but this time they were smiling and Sandro’s face lit up when he saw Becca. He went towards her and took her in his arms, to a chorus of cheers from the locals in the bar.
I stood still, waiting to see what Clayton would do. He grinned at me, looked me up and down in approval and then kissed me on the cheek. ‘Wow, you look good, Miss Tilly,’ he said, stepping back to get a better view, then kissing me again. ‘Really good,’ he murmured, as I breathed in the scent of him.
‘Well, you’re not so bad yourself,’ I said, nervous of this new relationship, not quite knowing how to behave.
‘You’re wearing the necklace,’ he said, approvingly, running his fingers gently along it, making the skin of my throat tingle.
‘I couldn’t not, could I?’ I said.
He gave me one of his huge, slow smiles. ‘Good.’ Then one of the oiks at the bar shouted, ‘Blown up any railway stations lately?’ and guffawed loudly at his own wit. One of his mates kicked him and he muttered a sort of apology and Clayton just raised his eyebrows in tolerant exasperation, which gave me a short stab of pride. Another chap said, ‘Good win today. Great goal. Bloody brilliant goal in fact.’
Clayton grinned, ‘Yeah it was, wasn’t it? Thanks,’ he said, as a chorus of football pundits chimed in over their pints. As they started discussing the match, I took the opportunity to nip to the loo. I might like him, but I’d never be content discussing the offside rule. As I checked my reflection and happily admired myself in the silver and amber necklace and Matty’s dress, I spotted that sampler again. Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.
I paused for a split second and then shook my head and grinned. Tonight was going to be a great night. I went back to the bar and Clayton.
‘Have a good evening!’ yelled Dexter as we went out to the car.
‘Watch out for witches!’ shouted Jan, who was standing in for Becca behind the bar.
Clayton and Sandro were in great humour. They’d picked up a car to fetch us and done some shopping on the way too.
‘Oh what’s that!’ yelped Becca as she slithered into the back with Sandro.
‘Pumpkins!’ laughed Clayton. ‘We got some Halloween stuff when we called in for petrol.’
They must have bought everything in the shop. Witches’ hats, pumpkin lanterns, devil horns that flashed red, even glow-in-the-dark teeth and a broomstick. Sandro popped a witch’s hat on Becca’s head. ‘But you are too lovely to be a witch,’ I heard him murmur.
Clayton drove confidently down the narrow roads but not, thank goodness, as fast as he had that morning in London. Wisps of mist would suddenly surround us, the car lights just emphasising the denseness of it. Even in the warmth of the car, I shivered.
‘Perfect for Halloween,’ said Clayton cheerfully. ‘Ghoulies and ghosties everywhere,’ and he walked his fingers along my leg.
‘Stop it!’ I said, slapping his hand. ‘No talk of ghosts please.’
‘Why, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?’ he asked, surprised.
‘No, of course not. On the other hand, if there were ever a time and a place for them it would be here.’
We could soon spot Ravensike Lodge, even from a few miles away. The lights spread out in the mist and there were more lights of cars arriving, a procession up the long drive, so constant a stream that the magic gates barely had time to shut. As we crunched from the car park through the chilly damp air to the house, I pulled my little black silk jacket closer to me. Actually, it was Matt’s black silk jacket. When I’d told Kate where I was going, she’d suggested I borrowed something of her daughter’s.
‘There are acres of clothes up there. Take what you like. She won’t mind, I assure you.’
I’d had a wonderful time looking through the heaps of clothes, many of them just stuffed at the back of the wardrobe that had been built across the corners of the long, sloping bedroom with magnificent views across the moors. Such an incongruous place to find so many designer labels, many of them one-offs. The dresses were all hopeless on me—much too tight. I definitely didn’t have my cousin’s supermodel figure. The only possibility was a glorified vest of a dress—strappy and cleverly cut in a beautifully soft material. On Matt it would look stunning. On me it would look just like an overgrown T-shirt. But then Kate pulled out the jacket—beautiful black silk in tiny Fortuny-style pleats, shot through with silver.
‘Try those together,’ she said.
‘Gosh!’ I said as I looked in the mirror. The dress was a little snug but OK, and with the jacket it somehow made me look a foot taller and inches thinner.
‘There!’ said Kate approvingly. ‘You could almost be Matty’s twin.’
Which was definitely an exaggeration, but a very confidence-boosting one.
So I stepped into the entrance hall of Ravensike Lodge feeling on top of the world. I looked as good as I ever had and I was on the arm of one of the most eligible men in England. More importantly, one I was getting to know and like. It was all a bit ridiculous and I wanted to laugh out loud as we made our entrance. Especially as Clayton had pulled out a witch’s hat as we got out of the car and popped it on my head. ‘The nicest witch I’ll know tonight,’ he said. ‘Just wait until midnight.’
Ravensike Lodge was perfect for Halloween. It was a huge Victorian building, all carved oak and antlers. Very gothic. The Halloween decorations were terrific. The party planners had definitely earned their fee. The entrance hall was hung with proper pumpkins carved into lanterns. Just as well we’d left our plastic versions in the car, I thought. They’d look pretty feeble compared to this lot. Bats hung from chandeliers, silver cobwebs from every picture. Witches whizzed on broomsticks up to the ceiling. Ther
e were flickering flame effects. Huge cauldrons of drink that bubbled wonderfully.
Waiting to greet us was a tall woman with piled-up black hair and the tightest scarlet dress I’d ever seen. Lynette was Simeon Maynard’s third or maybe fourth wife and at least twenty-five years younger than him. ‘Clayton! Alessandro! Wonderful!’ she said, shimmering up to us.
‘Lynette!’ said Clayton, and brushed cheeks with her.
‘Do have a drink,’ said Lynette, barely glancing at Becca and me. ‘Simeon will be out in a minute. He’s just dealing with a few things. You know what he’s like…’ She laughed. I think she meant it to be a light tinkling laugh but it sounded more like a cackle. Appropriate. Luckily, some more people were arriving behind us, so she moved on to swoop on them instead.
A skeleton pranced up to me, bearing a tray of bright red and green drinks. ‘A potion?’ he cackled. ‘Devil’s Delight or Witch’s Brew?’ then whispered in a very camp way, ‘It’s all right, sweetie, they taste nicer than they look. But there’s plenty of champagne around too.’ More skeletons whirled past with trays of drink and exotic canapés.
Clayton looked around. ‘No Maynard,’ he said, ‘what a shame,’ in a tone that showed he didn’t mean that at all. ‘He normally likes to do the gracious host bit.’
I remembered what he’d said about Maynard thinking of Shadwell as his very own Subbuteo set, and was in no great hurry to meet him.
Dry-ice clouds billowed into the hall, almost meeting the real-life mist from outside. Up on a small stage, a DJ wearing a mask like a Venetian plague doctor was pumping out some great music. A few people danced in an absent-minded fashion. The light and the dry ice made for a weird effect. Not helped when devils with tridents poked and prodded the guests into different rooms. One was like a cave, hung around with spiders and giant cut-out toads with glittering eyes. In another, set out as a casino, people were already putting money on the roulette wheel, the glamorous croupiers managing that perfect blend of professionalism and bored indifference.
Clayton nodded at a group of men in the far corner. ‘Poker school’s started early,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose they’ll move from there all night now.’
The Lost Guide to Life and Love Page 20