‘No. They’d already started changing that day. Remember? You’d had a good match. You scored a point.’
‘But it was easier after you’d been round.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It made a difference. A big difference. And you told me off. Gave me a right bollocking, you did. That was great. No one else bothered to do that. Just you. Until Denny—he rang and gave me a right going-over. My so-called mates just wanted to get pissed, which made things worse. And the women, well, they didn’t want to know. They thought I was a loser and kept well clear. I thought you were the same.
‘I thought that maybe, after all, you were just a girl who wanted a footballer and would stay away when things got bad.’
‘It wasn’t like that at all!’
‘No. I know.’
‘Anyway, you’re not a loser. The team’s still there. They might be kids, but they’re doing all right, aren’t they? Everyone says you’re inspiring them. A brilliant, inspirational captain, they say.’
Clayton laughed. ‘Hey, girl, you been reading the back pages?’
‘Well, yes, when it’s about you…I needed to know you were OK. And you’re more than OK.’
‘Thank you.’
Somehow, by now, we were holding hands.
‘So where are you off to? Someone said you might be going to the States?’ and I had a sudden pang.
‘Well, Miss Tilly, that’s the interesting bit. I might not be going anywhere. I might stay just where I am.’
‘What, stay with Shadwell? Even though they’ve hardly got any money and might even go down?’
‘We’re not going down. I’m not going to let us.’ He gripped my hand tightly.
‘But you always said that you liked playing with the best! That losing wasn’t an option. That’s why you put up with Maynard.’
‘Yeah, well. Maybe I think differently now. Look, I could go to one of the clubs in the States. They’ve been making offers. My agent is getting excited. But you know what, in the States, football’s a game for girls, little girls. Everyone else watches baseball or American football—you know, those big guys so padded up they can’t hardly move. They don’t take football, proper football, seriously. It’s just like, I don’t know, like we think of ice-skating or something. Yeah, they’d give me a lot of money. But I’ve got a lot of money. More would be nice, but not to…’ He waved his arms round in the air, groping for the right words.
‘…not to be thought of as girly?’ I laughed.
‘No! Well, yeah, maybe. But you’ve got to be somewhere where they care about it—like, really care, haven’t you?’ He looked defensive for a moment and then suddenly passionate.
‘At the end of last year, everyone said we were rubbish. We were rubbish, total crap. Everyone playing was either a kid or an old man or stoned out of their skulls still. The manager and his mate went before the club could sack them—or the police got them—and we were left with the assistant’s assistant. But it came together, yeah? It began working. We started to play like we’d kicked a ball before, like we even knew what we were doing.’
‘That was because of you.’
‘Yeah, maybe. I got so angry with them I was yelling and shouting and then trying to explain things to the kids, trying to make them see what we had to do. And yeah, it might work. It might work.’
‘And you want to stay and see if you can make it happen?’
Clayton stopped and looked at me and said, ‘Yes. I guess I do.’
‘More than going to the States and getting the film-star treatment and lots more money?’
‘Yeah,’ he grinned. ‘But what’s the point of all that money if no one’s talking about you or reading about you and cheering? Or calling you rubbish when you do badly? Or sending you postcards with little drawings on?’
I hugged him fiercely. ‘I think it’s a terrific idea. Really terrific. Just that you’re even thinking about it is great. It’ll be bloody difficult, though.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s what makes it interesting, doesn’t it? I guess we’ll see what happens, when everyone’s finished doing deals.’
By now we’d walked down as far as the river and carried on wandering alongside it, the streetlights reflecting on the ripples. A police launch roared past and I shivered.
‘You warm enough? Here.’ And Clayton put his jacket over me, a beautifully soft leather jacket with the shadowy stripy lining.
‘It’s the same jacket!’ I said. ‘The one I wore on Halloween night in the fog.’
‘I hope it kept you warm.’
‘It was about all that did.’ I shivered at the memory. ‘I was frozen and soaked as it was. Without the jacket I would have had it.’
‘I’m glad it helped to look after you. Really. It’s one of my favourites and I didn’t know where it was. Until this parcel arrives on my doorstep. It was good to get it back, but you could have written a note…You were great that night. What you did was amazing.’
I breathed in the scent of the jacket. It smelt wonderfully of leather and equally wonderfully of Clayton. It didn’t smell of fog any more.
‘I didn’t feel amazing. I was terrified. I kept falling over. All I had was the light of that plastic pumpkin.’ I started to tell him all about it and suddenly it seemed funny. A story we could laugh about. Especially now that we knew Alessandro and Becca were fine, absolutely fine.
‘Well, you were so brave and determined. I’m glad I helped. Or rather my jacket did.’
‘You did.’
We ambled along, arms round each other. ‘Clayton…’
‘Mmm?’
‘You know when we went up near Newcastle in the helicopter to that posh hotel?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You know those men you met…’
‘Yeah.’
‘What was that all about?’
‘Why?’ He took his arm from my shoulder and danced round to face me, trying to look serious, but struggling to keep the laugh out of his voice. ‘Do you think it was something dodgy? Something criminal? Do you think they were going to pay me wodges of cash to throw a match? Do you think it was a Chinese betting scam? That I was going to take a backhander for something?’
‘No! Well, at the time, perhaps I might have thought something like that, to be absolutely honest,’ I said slowly. ‘But not now, I don’t. No. Now I know you wouldn’t do anything like that. I’m sure you wouldn’t.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Positive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just as well,’ he said, and hooted with laughter, ‘because they were sponsors, wanted to use me to sell their toothpaste.’ He bared his teeth in a horrid grin. ‘And now,’ he laughed, ‘they’ve run away and don’t want anything to do with me because Shadwell is in the mire. But next season it will be different. Next season we will be TRIUMPHANT and they will come crawling back to me and I will tell them where to stick their toothpaste—minty freshness and all!’ And he laughed and danced me round. ‘Next year Shadwell will be back. Clayton Silver will be back. And,’ he paused, ‘I hope you will be with me. Will you?’
‘I will.’ I said. I didn’t even have to think about it. ‘Yes. I will.’
‘You’re not going to run out on me again? Hide away?’
‘No.’
‘Because I have great plans, Tilly Flint. And they’ll all go much better if you’re there with me.’
He swirled me round and took me in his arms and kissed me.
‘I love you, Miss Tilly,’ he said.
‘And I love you, Clayton Silver,’ I said, and realised I did, that I’d loved him for a long time, only I had been determined not to accept it. Since the night I’d gone round to his flat and seen him so down and depressed, a little bit of my heart had been with him ever since. Suddenly it all seemed so simple.
We stood smiling, laughing. Some lads came along the pavement on bikes whooping and calling at us. We laughed right back at them. Everything seemed eas
y, obvious. And right. Clayton held my face in his hands and looked at me almost in wonder. Then kissed me, long and slow. The streetlight formed a sort of halo round us. I pressed myself closer to him, breathing in the smell, the taste of him.
‘Try again?’ he said. ‘It’s not too late?’
‘Never too late.’
‘And you’ve got no trains to catch early in the morning?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I said.
‘And you’re not going to go to sleep on my sofa?’
‘That’s up to you…’
‘Then it’s time to go home,’ he said, reaching round me, kissing me and scrabbling in his jacket pocket for his phone to call a car. As he pulled the phone out, so a tiny piece of material came out with it. The tiny scrap of velvet I had managed to tug off the tree all those months ago, the velvet that had helped me find my way through the fog. It must have stayed trapped in the bottom of the pocket where I had pushed it on that awful night.
Now it fluttered high in the air and seemed to glow in the light of the streetlamp. I reached out and caught it and tucked it safely into the pocket of my jeans as Clayton bent down and took me in his arms again.
‘This is the beginning, Miss Tilly,’ he said. ‘Just the beginning.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
The chapel looked wonderful. It had been cleaned, repaired, restored and once again stood grey and imposing and solid against the harsh background of the dale.
Inside it soared upwards to a blue and gold ceiling. Deep arched windows let in shafts of summer sun, bouncing off the newly painted white walls and filling the vast space with light.
‘And look at this,’ said Matty triumphantly as she picked out one of the photos in the centre of a display.
‘It’s you!’ I said.
‘No, Miss Tilly, it’s you!’ said Clayton.
‘Good grief,’ said my mother, ‘it’s Kate.’
We all looked again. The photograph showed a tall, strong-faced woman standing in a fellside garden on a hot summer’s day. She stood upright, gazing calmly, steadily at the camera. Even in the faded black and white you could see the sunburn on her face and arms. And a long lock of hair had come loose and curled down around her throat. She seemed unable to do anything about it, as she was standing in the doorway carrying a heavy enamel jug in both hands.
‘Is she actually smiling at the camera?’ I asked.
‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’ said Matty, her eyes swarming over the pictures, taking in every detail. ‘But it isn’t Mum. It’s Granny Allen. As we’ve never seen her before. Amazing. Really amazing.’
‘Where did the picture come from?’ I wanted to know.
‘Some old chap brought it in. It was in a bundle in an old house that had been a photographer’s studio. There are more, too, but we need to do some work on them before we can show them. But they’re all her and they’re all completely different from any others of her. All by the same photographer. Goodness knows why they were kept. Or why they were so different. I’ve no idea.’
I looked at the expression in the last picture. Of Matilda Allen’s half-smile, the amused glance. That smile wasn’t for the camera, that smile was for the photographer.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said, suddenly seeing Granny Allen in a totally new light. ‘I think we can make a good guess.’
The band played, the sun shone, the ladies of the chapel and the WI staggered back and forth with plates piled high with home-baked cakes and quiches, pies and pastries, tarts and trifles, sausages and sandwiches, cheeses and chicken legs, buns and biscuits.
Becca was dashing between The Miners’ Arms and the chapel, helping where she could. As she nipped over to the chapel with a tray full of extra cutlery, I could hear her babbling to herself in Italian. She was off with Sandro a few days later to stay with his mother and sister for a few weeks.
‘Oh, help. I’ll never make a good impression. My Italian’s still pathetic,’ she fretted.
‘Even with all that one-to-one tuition?’ I grinned.
‘Oh, don’t! I’m sure he’s taught me things that are quite unsuitable to say to his mother,’ Becca wailed, bustling off with the cutlery.
Elsewhere, Alessandro and Clayton were signing autographs and chatting to groups of football fans. Matty was being filmed for a TV special. Dexter was talking enthusiastically to a girl from a colour supplement, and hordes of people were oohing and aaahing over their family pictures. Goodness knows when there had last been so many people at Hartstone.
An American was gazing intently at the photographs. ‘We’ve got a picture of Granny Allen back home,’ he said. ‘She was my great-great-great grandmother, but she looks real fierce in her photo, with her Bible. Not like this. Hey,’ he said suddenly, looking at us. ‘You guys must be my relations. Some sort of cousins.’
Before long he was organizing us for a photograph. There was Matty and Dexter, Mum and Bill, me and Clayton, Becca and Sandro, laughing in the old chapel against a background of photographs. The sun streamed in and people milled about, eating, drinking and enjoying themselves.
‘I wonder,’ said Matty, wrapping her arms round Dexter and kissing him happily. ‘I wonder what Granny Allen would say.’
My mum smiled and looked around. ‘I think she’d say she’d done a pretty good job, wouldn’t you?’
Epilogue
TEAGUE-FLINT: On 1 November at Chelsea Register Office, William Teague to Francesca Flint, nee Thwaite.
* * *
IN A MOVE that’s come as little surprise, Clayton Silver has been appointed player-manager of Shadwell, the club that was left in disarray with the sudden death of their former chairman last year and the consequent financial chaos. After the bumper sale of players in January, Silver (31) is credited with making a team of the few players who remained and keeping them in the Premiership. His career with Shadwell started…
* * *
British Television Association Awards. Factual programmes. Jake Shaw and Felicity Staveley for Knowing the Score, an investigation into the murky world of former football club owner and businessman Simeon Maynard.
As the nights draw in, cheer up the dark days of autumn with the latest in Becca Guy’s fun and stunning collection of scarves, as seen tucked under some of the most famous chins in town. (Did you spot fabulous Foxy in one last week?) When not knitting up north, Becca is otherwise known as the fiancée of Chelsea striker Alessandro Santini. This is a WAG who’s very much her own boss, but we hear there are plans for two weddings—one in England and one in Italy—next summer.
* * *
TOP MODEL FOXY is swapping one side of the camera for another as she plans to go back to school. Foxy, or, to give her her Sunday name, Matilda Alderson, is going back to college this autumn to study photography. ‘It’s what I’d always planned to do, it’s just that I’ve got a bit sidetracked in the last few years,’ said the stunning redhead. ‘I shall probably still do the occasional assignment, but now I really want to learn to take pictures of my own, and modelling will very much take second place to that.’
If she needs any help or advice, Foxy can always turn to any number of the fashion industry’s top snappers, many of whom rate her as their favourite model. But she might prefer to ask partner Dexter Metcalfe, himself a respected photographer, with whom she recently opened the intriguing Hartstone Chapel Gallery in the high Pennines.
* * *
Footballers were out in force on Saturday when Shadwell’s player-manager, Clayton Silver, married Tilly Flint in a very traditional wedding. Best man was Denny Sharpe, manager of Silver’s first club. The bride was given away by her stepfather, restaurateur Bill Teague. Tilly, a former food journalist, has recently joined her mother ‘Fairtrade’ Frankie Flint to bring new ideas and a new approach to England’s favourite coffee bars. The bride wore a simple but stunning silk dress, and carried a bouquet tied with cherry-red velvet ribbons.
Tilly’s Recipes
Tilly’s cooking is not a matter of ex
act science and like all good recipes these need personal adjustments until they become your own.
Sloe Gin
Sloes picked in October, ideally after a first frost
Cheap strong gin (The monks used supermarket own brand 40%)
Empty gin bottle or something similar
Approximately 4oz of sugar
You don’t need to wash the sloes, but if you really feel you must, then make sure they are absolutely dry before you use them. Using a big darning needle or fork, prick the sloes all over, so the gin can get in and the juice can get out, and put them in the empty gin bottle until it’s half full. Add the sugar. Add the gin right up to the top of the bottle. Shake it gently to dissolve the sugar.
Put it in a dark cupboard and for the first week or two, give it a few rotations every day or so. At Christmas, strain it and decant into another bottle. Perfect in a hip flask on bracing winter walks.
Lemon Scallops and Angel Hair Spaghetti
Scallops—around 3 per person for a starter
Angel hair spaghetti or any fine pasta
Olive oil
Butter
Lemon
Crème fraiche
Small glass of white wine
Salt and pepper
Fresh parsley/chives
Melt a blob of butter in a pan and grate the lemon rind into it. Add the wine and let it simmer until it’s reduced. Stir in the crème fraiche and a good squeeze of lemon juice. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Put the pasta in boiling, salted water. While it’s cooking, heat the olive oil in a pan. Dry the scallops and cook them for around a minute each side.
Drain the pasta and arrange on plates. Pour on the sauce—not too much, you don’t want it too gloopy—place the scallops on top and decorate with the green herbs and lemon rind.
The Lost Guide to Life and Love Page 30