The Lost Guide to Life and Love

by Sharon Griffiths

  In the kitchen, talking to Polly’s brother about possible wedding dates, I suddenly heard Clayton’s name mentioned above my head. I looked up, baffled, and realised that someone had switched on the small flat-screen TV above the microwave.

  ‘Missed the footie results earlier,’ said a chap who had been a year or two ahead of me in school. ‘Just catching up with the sports news now.’

  I looked up at the screen. Three football pundits in sharp suits were sitting in squashy armchairs discussing one of the day’s matches.

  ‘Well, it might have been a two-two draw, but it was a real triumph for Shadwell. They can be proud of themselves. Their first point for seven weeks.’

  ‘Their first goal for seven weeks,’ chirped up another pundit. ‘And it was all down to Clayton Silver. He never stopped. He was all over the pitch. He wasn’t playing just his own game but everyone else’s too. Encouraging, cajoling, shouting—a real captain’s game. And boy did it work.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the third. ‘There was a young team out there tonight—let’s face it, all the experienced players are either injured or on remand. The manager and his assistant have gone. Half the backroom staff have left. Dreadful atmosphere at the club, but you’d never guess that from their performance tonight. Silver seemed to inspire those youngsters.’

  ‘Maybe we were all a bit premature in writing off Shadwell.’

  ‘Well, they’ve still got a mountain to climb, a terrific mountain to climb, but on the evidence of tonight’s performance, at least they’re in with a chance. Here’s what Clayton Silver had to say when our reporter spoke to him after the match…’

  As they cut to the interview, someone switched off the television, but I felt strangely proud that he’d done so well. I wished I could tell him in person. But he had made it quite clear he didn’t want to speak to me again.

  I hoped all that praise he was getting from the TV commentators would restore some of the Clayton Silver gloss. I went back to discussing wedding plans with Jamie, and it was as if seeing Clayton doing well had lifted one tiny worry from my shoulders.

  Next day I was glancing at the sports pages while I was waiting for the kettle to boil. They were all singing Clayton’s praises.

  I couldn’t go round to see him again. That was an absolute no-no. Maybe I could call? No, too embarrassing. I didn’t have his email address. Text? Yes, maybe. But then I remembered Bill when he set off on his grown-up gap year. He had sent my mother lots of postcards as well as emails. Pretty postcards with funny short messages and drawings on the back. Some of them had almost made her smile before she threw them away.

  I found a card—one of a London bus that I meant to send to an American friend—and wondered what to write on it. Finally I drew a little stick man holding up a scarf saying Shadwell and just wrote, ‘Well done.’

  It seemed a bit inadequate. I looked at it. Was it a really stupid thing to do? Would Clayton think I was just being annoying? I went out and posted it quickly, before I could have second thoughts.

  Their next match was another draw. I sent another postcard. A London policeman this time. I drew two little stickmen waving their scarves. ‘Keep on keeping on!’ I wrote.

  Clayton probably thought I was mad. But he could always throw the cards in the bin.

  For weeks she trod the path between her own house and her son’s with an extra briskness. As she tended to her increasingly ailing daughter-in-law, or worked with her son, sometimes she would see someone on horseback or in a pony and trap and her heart would lift. But it was always someone going to the mine about official business. One day the photographer would come back. She knew that. And this time, she knew what she would say to him.

  The weather changed in the sudden way it did in the dale. The fog came down. For days it had been so thick that it had seemed to be in the very house, pressing on everyone, making everything heavy with damp. The children were fretting and fractious. Their mother coughed endlessly and their father looked increasingly anxious. Everything was damp and dark, even at noon. The damp and cold seeped in through the very stones of the house. Carrying a bucket of milk, Matilda splashed across the slurry-covered yard between the cow byre and the kitchen door, her fingers frozen. Not even the very clever photographer could take his pictures when you could barely see across the yard.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was an excellent Christmas. Mum had actually accepted Bill’s invitation to spend it with him at his restaurant. I wasn’t as astonished as I might have been. Though at first I felt a bit doubtful as the taxi drove through the nearly empty streets. Probably because Mum had gone very quiet. She stood in front of the bistro door, taking the deep breaths she does when she needs to calm herself. But she was wearing the red cashmere cardigan I’d bought her. She’d declared herself delighted with it, had insisted on wearing it to Bill’s. She looked good in it and I was inordinately pleased, even though I could hardly get used to not seeing her in black. The world seemed to be shifting around me.

  Suddenly the door flew open and there was Bill, beaming, a paper hat on his head and a sprig of holly tucked into the front of his chef ‘s apron. We could see relief on his face and smell delicious turkey smells from the kitchen and hear jolly choruses of ‘God rest ye merry, gentlemen’.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ said Bill, greeting us both with a kiss. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve come at last. Frankie, you look wonderful. Oh and you too, Tilly,’ he added hastily.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ I said, handing him over the foodie gifts I’d brought—some of the sloe gin and chocolate-covered sloes I’d found up north—and thinking it odd that Mum hadn’t brought him anything.

  ‘Ooh thank you,’ he said, weighing up the bottle in his hand. ‘This seems interesting. I shall keep it to open later, if I may. In the meantime, let me introduce you.’

  There was Ram, a tall Nigerian law student who was washer-up and kitchen porter and whose wife and children were still in Nigeria, Elsie who was tiny and ancient and who’d done Bill’s admin since he’d very first set up on his own. Then there was Liz, a waitress who was about forty but looked older and had the sort of face that hinted at a life too dreadful to ask about.

  I wondered if it would have been better if Mum and I had stayed at home and had our normal polite and peaceful time without these strangers.

  Finally there was Declan: gay, Irish and, once again, between partners, but refusing to show he cared and putting on a sparkling performance.

  ‘Tilly!’ he whooped in greeting. ‘And this must be the fabulous Frankie! Champagne?’

  For the next hour or so he acted as host, master of ceremonies and lord of misrule, while a beaming Bill—refusing all offers of help—came in and out of the kitchen with plates of starters: little smoked salmon nibbles, skewered langoustines, scallops on the tiniest slivers of black pudding. And then the turkey and all the trimmings. And the pudding blazing away like something out of Dickens.

  ‘Ooh, Bill, you’re better than Mrs Cratchit!’ said Declan, filling our glasses yet again. ‘As Tiny Tim said, “God bless us every one!”‘

  We pulled crackers, told jokes, paid forfeits, drank lots more wine. Ram told us about his young son and the daughter he had not yet seen. Elsie told outrageous stories of her escapades during the war, and flirted with Ram, Declan and Bill equally enthusiastically. Liz said little but smiled quite a lot, which was nice to see. Declan became more outrageous and in the end even my mother began to laugh.

  Using the tiny games that had come from the crackers, we played dominoes and snakes and ladders—my mother and Ram being the fiercest competitors of all; sang along to the carols; had chunks of cheese and some tiny mince pies that were delicious. And then coffee and brandy, until we were all too full to move and slumped, smiling, round the table.

  We all offered to help Bill clear up, but he refused all offers, until finally he said, ‘Well, all right then, Frankie, if you insist,’ and the two of them disappeared into the kitchen with much chattering a
nd more laughter. The world felt right. And I wished I hadn’t drunk so much because I wanted to know if it really was like that and it wasn’t just the wine.

  Suddenly it was dark and Bill was making up food parcels for Ram and Elsie, Liz and Declan.

  ‘Look, we’re closed till New Year’s Eve. You might as well take all this stuff,’ he said. And I realised that Bill knew they relied on the free meals they had at the bistro and a week without them would be tricky. He’d also ordered taxis to take them home.

  Then there was just Bill and Mum and me. It seemed very quiet after all the laughter earlier. Bill was ripping open the paper from the sloe gin and chocolates.

  ‘Wonderful!’ he said, kissing my cheek. ‘Just the thing to warm a cold winter’s night. Now, I’ll just get your presents.’

  Then Mum said, quite tentatively for her, ‘I have a present for you, but it’s back at the flat. I thought you might come back with us.’

  ‘Why, yes. Of course. Marvellous,’ said Bill, looking stunned. ‘What a good idea. Yes. I’d love to. I’ll just get a few things…call a taxi…’

  He rushed around in chaotic fashion, talking to himself, looking for things, picking them up, putting them down. He went into the kitchen and produced another massive food parcel, while my mother watched on, amused. Finally, the three of us were in a taxi going back to Mum’s flat.

  As soon as we were in and settled, he handed me my presents—some perfume, a selection of offbeat travel books and a pair of silly slippers like spotty ladybirds. I sprayed some of the perfume, which was wonderful, enthused over the books and popped my feet in the ladybirds and admired them prodigiously.

  ‘You can’t be too grown up, you know,’ said Bill. ‘It’s not good for you,’ as I gave him a thank you kiss.

  Then Mum went to the Christmas tree and produced a long box, which I had presumed was an emergency box of chocolates in case anyone unexpected turned up. But now I could see it was heavier. She handed it to Bill, who unwrapped it eagerly.

  ‘A chess set!’

  ‘You used to play. I remember you used to play in the old days.’ Mum looked uncertain.

  But Bill had opened the box and was looking at the pieces. They were made of heavy solid glass, beautifully smooth shapes, wonderful to look at, even if you didn’t play chess. They caught the reflection of the Christmas tree lights and bounced them back so that the room was filled with warm, dancing colours.

  ‘There’s a wonderful little shop just near the physio’s. When I saw that I just thought of you. And it’s a thank you, too, for all that you’ve done while I’ve been crippled. I don’t know that I could have coped without you. I didn’t realise…’

  Her voice tailed off. She looked at Bill hopelessly and I’d never seen her look so vulnerable. This was Frankie Flint somehow lost for words.

  ‘Thank you,’said Bill, kissing my mother gently, ‘it’s beautiful.’ In exchange he handed over an envelope. My heart sank. Oh no, I thought. Just when my mother has let her emotions show, revealed a bit of herself and actually admitted she has feelings, then Bill was going to reciprocate with a Marks and Sparks voucher. Please no. Let it at least be Waterstone’s…

  Mum was opening the envelope, her face clearly prepared to say a kind, polite ‘How nice.’ But instead she gasped, looked up at Bill and then back at the paper in her hands.

  ‘I hear,’ said Bill, gruffly, ‘that the Zanzibar sunshine is just the thing for newly mended ankles.’

  ‘Zanzibar!’ I squawked. ‘Are you going to Zanzibar?’

  ‘If your mother would like to,’ said Bill diffidently. ‘I can always cancel.’

  ‘No! I mean yes!’ said Mum quickly. ‘Bill, I would love to go to Zanzibar. With you.’

  At which point I began to believe in Christmas angels and It’s A Wonderful Life‘s Clarence getting his wings. And almost expected Tinkerbell to waft in on a cloud of fairy dust. My mother loving to go on holiday? She hates holidays. From the time I was old enough to go with school or with friends, we have never had more than a weekend break in Paris or Rome together—which I always felt she was doing strictly for my educational benefit.

  But here she was, next to the Christmas tree, gazing at Bill and agreeing to go to Zanzibar with him. Maybe we’d all had much too much champagne. Maybe my mother had been snatched by aliens.

  ‘It’s for the middle of January,’ Bill was saying anxiously. ‘I thought it would do you good before you got back to work properly.’ He looked straight at my mother and grinned. ‘Are you really coming? Do you want to? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, yes and yes,’ replied my mother.

  I must have been standing there with my jaw dropping open, because Mum looked at me and said, ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking while I’ve been hopping around. Life’s too short to waste. You can’t dwell on the past; you have to make the most of now. Seize the day. Carpe diem. I’m just so lucky to have had a second chance, and even luckier that Bill never gave up on me. God knows he was entitled to.’ She turned to Bill. ‘Thank you for looking after me these past months, but more than that, thank you for looking after me all these years—even, especially when I didn’t want you to. Thank you for never giving up.

  ‘I’m just glad you kept coming back. Zanzibar sounds wonderful.’

  ‘Champagne!’ said Bill, as he hugged my mother and then me, kissing us both. ‘We must have champagne!’

  ‘Well actually,’ said my mother, ‘what I’d really love is a cup of tea.’

  Next day the fog had lifted as if by magic. The sky was a sharp cold blue and a film of ice covered the water butts. Matilda stretched up to grab the washing line as the wind snapped it up out of her reach. After days of the damp and dark, this dry wind was just what they needed, cold as it was. The children played out in the yard, wrapped up, rosy-cheeked, happily chipping the ice off puddles.

  Someone was walking down the track. Matilda looked intently, hopefully, but could soon see it was one of the Calverts who lived in the chaos of the midden-like houses of Bottom Row. This time Calvert didn’t look as though he were begging favours, wheedling food for his children. Instead he looked jaunty, as though he’d had too long in The Miners’ Arms.

  ‘Morning, missus,’ he said, touching his cap with mock politeness.

  She nodded at him, curtly.

  ‘So you won’t be having your photographs taken no more then,’ he said.

  ‘Will I not?’

  Her hand shook as she pegged a thin blanket on the line, refusing to look at Danny Calvert, though she knew he was standing there, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, full of himself. She was glad of the battle with the wind, the line, the blanket, the clothes pegs.

  ‘You see, yesterday,’ he said, with an air of great importance, ‘yesterday I was working for the coroner.’

  The coroner…The end of the blanket whipped out of her hand. She groped after it, resisting the urge to turn round and demand the information from Calvert. The coroner. Please, God. No…

  ‘In the fog, must have been the night before last. Photographic man and his pony and trap went straight over Skutterskelf Edge. Reckoned they’d been there all night. Old Richards had to shoot the pony. Photographer was already dead though. Jim Dinsdale and me got him back up, took him to the Black Bull. He’s laid out there now, in the outhouse. Got the cart and pony up too. Cart’s not much good for else but firewood. But the coroner gave us some money for our trouble, from the public purse, he said.’

  Dan Calvert told his story with a particular relish. ‘The photographer took a picture once of our Billy and granddad cutting peat. But he took lots of you, didn’t he, missus? Well, he won’t be coming back no more, that’s for sure.’

  Matilda fastened the flapping blanket onto the line. Her heart felt as cold as her frozen hands. But she would not let anyone see. Ever.

  ‘He was a good man, Danny Calvert,’ she said turning round. ‘And if you’ve not drunk all the coroner’s money away, be sure you give some t
o your Mary so your bairns don’t go hungry again.’

  One of the grandchildren had fallen and was screaming. She turned back to the yard to pick him up, her long hair falling in its plait over her shoulder. She tried not to think of the photographer lying cold at the bottom of Skutterskelf Edge with the ruins of his cart and cameras scattered around him. All night, in the fog.

  She tried not to think of his kindness or the solidness of his presence in her small house. Of the sense of possibilities…

  Now he would never know that she had changed her mind; that she wanted to be his wife. They had never got their second chance. Too late.

  Work. There was always work. Plenty of that to distract her. She set her shoulders as she carried her grandson back into the house and took up her many tasks. When she saw the pack of ribbons sitting on the shelf, for one moment she was tempted to hurl them in the fire, let the flames destroy them as her hopes had been destroyed. But even as she went to throw them, she stopped, wrapped them carefully back up in the tissue paper and pushed them to the back of a drawer. Waste not, want not. Some day someone might need those ribbons.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Carefully, I filled in all the space on one side of the card with little stick men waving flags and sort of jumping up and down. Lots of little speech bubbles too, saying ‘Hooray!’ or ‘2-1’.

  Yes, Shadwell had won a match, their first since Halloween, and it was now late January. I’d been trying to do some work on the computer, but I kept clicking on to the sports sites to keep track of the match. I was excited enough when I thought it was going to be a draw, but when Clayton scored the winning goal, I cheered out loud. And now I was sending him another postcard. The last.