The Lost Guide To Life And Love Part 14

The car was straddled across double yellow lines right next to the station entrance. Clayton grabbed my bags out of the boot. As he did so, his phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and flung it onto the dashboard. He still had his keys in the same hand, so when the phone flew, they did too. The b.u.t.ton on the fob must have hit the dashboard.

There was one of those soft clicks. You know, the soft click made by a large expensive car that has just automatically locked all its doors-with the driver on the outside and the keys on the inside...

's.h.i.t!' said Clayton, staring at the car helplessly.

'Oh G.o.d, what will you do? Have you a spare set? Can you phone home? Oh no, your phone's in there.' I felt hopelessly responsible for what had happened.

'Don't worry. I'll sort it,' said Clayton. 'Now which platform?' And he was racing off with me panting behind him. We'd found the platform and were running down it, past the engine just as the guard was shutting the door. Clayton s.n.a.t.c.hed it open again, bundled me in, pushed my bags in after me. The guard glared at us, shut the door again and the train started to pull slowly out. I looked out of the window and could see Clayton standing on the platform, waving, triumphantly.

Under the disapproving glares of the other pa.s.sengers, I collapsed, panting, onto the nearest seat as the train headed north.

Chapter Seventeen.

I fell hopelessly in love with the monks. Brother Ambrose and Brother Patrick were like Little and Large-one huge, one tiny, but both smiling, jolly, welcoming and, at the same time, so wonderfully calm.

It had been a fraught journey. No shower, no wash; I hadn't even cleaned my teeth. I was glad I wasn't sitting next to me. Once on the train I'd tried to get myself washed and changed. I don't know if you've ever tried that in the loo of an Intercity express racing north at 123 m.p.h., but I wouldn't recommend it. But I'd managed as best I could and, after a coffee and a BLT, felt a bit more human.

As for the necklace, I had carefully put that back in its box and wrapped it in one of the thick jumpers I was taking back north. It looked as though that necklace was now mine whether I liked it or not. There was no way that Clayton was going to accept it back.

While I was dancing on one foot trying to put clean knickers on, wearing my trousers round my neck because there was nowhere else to put them, I kept thinking of Clayton and last night. Honestly, the fittest footballer in England and I went to sleep! To sleep? Why had I accepted the grappa? Why hadn't I gone straight home? Had I hoped to end up in the big bed with the black and white duvet? No. Well, probably no. No, definitely no. Maybe...

But I'd enjoyed the evening. Of that I was sure. And Clayton seemed to enjoy it too. Time had flown. But to go to sleep...

My head was still churning with all that had happened when I got off the train and found PIP. Amazingly, she started first time. But then I had to drive over the moors to find the monastery, with a few wrong turns here and there, constantly looking at my watch. For once, the G.o.ds were on my side and I managed to arrive at the monastery almost on time but, as I pulled up in the courtyard, I was hot and bothered, with my mind still all over the place.

But Brother Ambrose and Brother Patrick were delightful. They took me and the photographer-a guy called Clive whom I'd never worked with before-to the apple orchards, which spread down the side of a valley with a view for miles. And as I breathed in the crisp autumn air and gazed over the lines of trees and the distant hills beyond them, I gradually realised that all I could hear was the swish of their robes and the distant baa-ing of sheep. Just the huge stone walls of the abbey and silence. I took a huge breath and sighed as I followed them along the gra.s.sy path.

Brother Patrick led us round the edge of the orchard, unlatched a little wooden gate and took us into an old barn, stacked high with wooden trays and baskets, arranged in higgledy-piggledy heaps on the earth floor. It all smelled wonderfully of sweet apple juice, with undertones of wood and soil and a slight, tantalizing whiff of alcohol. Somewhere a wasp buzzed dozily. Most of the apples had been juiced, but there were still a few trays of the late fruit-apples of all shapes and sizes, often with stalk and leaf attached-waiting to go into the simple old-fashioned wooden machine. It all looked like one of those arty ill.u.s.trations for chichi rustic cookery books that don't tell you how to cook anything sensible. But this was real, a working operation. Clive's eyes lit up as he started arranging pictures. This was such a gift for him. Brother Ambrose and Brother Patrick took turns to explain all about the apples-many of them from ancient stock-and about the juicing and the cider press. They made sloe gin too and were waiting for the first frosts before they picked the sloes.

'And that will be soon, I think,' said Brother Ambrose. 'The weather is about to turn. You can smell the cold in the air.'

As they stood there talking to me, explaining so kindly and carefully what they did, their hands tucked into the wide sleeves of their habits, they radiated an air of such calmness and certainty that I just wished they could bottle that along with the cider. I tried to say something along those lines, but Brother Ambrose just laughed.

'We are monks, but we have to live in the world too,' he said. 'We have to pay our bills, repair our roof. Our cider is an advert for us. Your article, which I'm sure will be wonderful, and the pictures so artistic'-he looked up at Clive, who by now was perched on top of the cider press, trying to get pictures at clever angles-'will remind people we are here. That monks don't just exist in history books or cartoons. That while the world goes on in its mad way, we are here in the hills, picking our apples, making our cider and praying for them.'

The two of them beamed at me. 'And we shall pray for you too,' said Brother Patrick.

Apart from weddings, I've hardly been inside a church for years, but when Brother Patrick said he would pray for me, he made it sound like a gift. Mind you, by then I was feeling very light-headed. But we drank some apple juice together and they gave me and Clive a bottle of cider each to take home. As I revved up PIP and drove out of the monastery grounds and down the winding track back to the main road, I did feel-not exactly blessed-but calmer. Less fraught.

Until I switched on the car radio.

'...Premiership footballer...crackle, crackle...Silver ...hiss... questioned by police...whoosh whoosh... Prevention of Terrorism Act...police spokesman...'

What? I pulled over and tried to tune the radio, but it just crackled even more. The wonderful moors played h.e.l.l with radio reception, especially when the radio was as ancient as PIP's. Had the newsreader said Silver? It sounded like it, but I couldn't be sure. And a terrorist? Never. The wonderful feeling of calm immediately vanished as I stabbed the b.u.t.tons and tried all channels. But by the time I finally got clear reception, the news bulletins were over, and all I could get was a phone-in on incontinence. I tried my mobile. No reception. Of course. How did people live up here? It was like going back to the Dark Ages. Oh dear. So much for the calming influence of the monks. I sounded like Jake. I glared at the phone, at the radio, at the moors, and headed the rattling van back to Hartstone Edge and The Miners' Arms.

'Hi, Tilly, welcome back,' said Becca, while pulling a pint for a thirsty walker. 'How's your mum?'

'Mum? Oh, fine. Well, OK. Thanks,' I gabbled as I rushed through to the snug, where a bewildered-looking visitor glared at me as I hastily moved his papers off the seat by the second computer and clicked on the news sites.

There were blurry pictures of Clayton, still wearing what I last saw him in-shorts, flip-flops and a fleece. What was going on? He was being led away by two policemen. Why?

Then there were pictures of his car, surrounded by policemen. Someone putting cordons in place.

Then I read the story...

Premiership footballer Clayton Silver was detained by Metropolitan police this morning and questioned for two hours under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. Silver-one of the highest-earning English footballers-was taken in after a black Hummer, believed to be registered to him, was found abandoned, blocking the entrance to King's Cross station at the start of the morning rush hour. A man, thought to be Silver, accompanied by a woman, had been reported fleeing the scene.

Police cordoned off the station entrance and specially trained sniffer dogs were brought in to search for explosives. The station was closed and all trains cancelled while police pursued their inquiries. The station is now open again and trains are running normally.

A police spokesman later said that Silver had been released without charge but that in such sensitive times anything suspicious had to be fully investigated. 'We would like to remind the public of its duty to behave responsibly, as careless actions can involve huge amounts of police time and resources which could be better spent elsewhere.'

Silver's agent apologised on behalf of the footballer and said it had all been a simple misunderstanding. Silver deeply regretted any inconvenience both to the police and to the travelling public. A spokesman for his club said there were no plans to take the matter further and that Silver would be resuming training as normal tomorrow.

Silver has played for Shadwell for six years and has been part of the Premiership winning team that has been built up since the club was bought by businessman Simeon Maynard.

Another grainy CCTV picture showed Clayton racing across the concourse at King's Cross. He did, I admit, look decidedly dodgy. I was so far behind him, I wasn't in the picture.

King's Cross closed? Clayton questioned by police? London brought to a standstill?-well, a bit of it-all because of me? Oh G.o.d. I found myself going bright red, then pale as I put my head down on the keyboard and almost wept. The person using the other computer shifted his chair slightly, further away.

Becca came into the snug, fizzing with excitement. 'Guess what, Sandro rang and...Oh, are you all right?'

By this time I had my head in my hands and was peeping through my fingers at the computer screen, trying to make the story go away. Becca leaned over my shoulder and looked at the screen. 'What's that all about?' she asked, baffled, 'Clayton a terrorist?'

I groaned. 'We brought London to a halt,' I said. 'And I really need a shower.'

'I think,' said Becca, perching on the edge of the computer table, 'you'd better tell me the whole story.'

I did. She looked concerned. Then she started smiling. Until, in the end-when I got to the bit about Clayton flinging the car keys against the dashboard-she was whooping with laughter. She peered at the pictures on the screen. 'What does he look like? Have you spoken to him?'

'Oh G.o.d no. I mean, what do I say? "I'm sorry I've subjected you to public humiliation and ridicule and made you a laughing stock?" Come on-his team-mates will be giving him h.e.l.l. I bet those pictures will be all over YouTube by now and-' I suddenly panicked-'I bet there are idiots out there who really think that he's some sort of terrorist.'

'On the other hand-it wasn't you who threw the keys and locked the car, was it? That was all his own work. That wasn't your fault.'

'Yes, but he was only driving me because I'd overslept. He was doing me a favour. I knew I should have come back last night. I knew it.'

'So what are you going to do now?'

'I'm going to have to ring him. Though goodness knows what I'm going to say.'

I quickly pulled out my phone before I could change my mind. It went straight to voicemail, which was a relief. 'h.e.l.lo, Clayton, it's me, Tilly. I've just been reading about what happened. Look, I'm really, really sorry. I hope it hasn't been too awful for you and that it's all over now. Sorry. Hope everything's OK.' I paused. I felt I should say something else but didn't know what. 'Sorry,' I added again and ended the call. I looked up at Becca, who was losing the battle to be sympathetic because obviously there was something exciting she wanted to tell me.

'Sandro has called twice. He's so sweet. He really wants to see me again soon. He wants me to go down to London!'

'That's brilliant, Becca!' I said. And it was, because she looked so happy. 'Great news. I'm really pleased.'

'But he's up here again soon. Oh Tilly! He is just so lovely, isn't he? He's not just a typical footballer, is he? Just gorgeous, and kind, and gentle, and-'

'You're right,' I said, 'he's just a lovely Italian boy who happens to be brilliant at football.'

Despite his bravura, huge price tag and mammoth wage, Alessandro seemed a little lost in his new world, and wary of the many predatory girls who fluttered round him so eagerly. Maybe down-to-earth Becca was just what he needed.

I left the computer and walked back into the bar where Dexter was serving. I waited till he'd finished and then spoke, uncertain of what his response would be. Did he still think I'd tipped off Jake? My conscience was clear, but while I'd been in London I had kept thinking about it, and hoping there would be no misunderstanding between us. 'Brilliant move with the pics, Dexter,' I said, sounding more confident than I felt. 'Took the wind from their sails a bit.'

There was a long pause while he sorted out the change in the till drawer and I waited nervously for his reaction. Then he looked up at me and grinned. 'Yeah, good, wasn't it? h.e.l.luva rush, though. And not exactly ideal conditions, but Matty is a real professional. As is Kate.'

'Kate?'

'Oh G.o.d, yes. She was wardrobe mistress and make-up consultant as well as a.s.sistant director. She had a great time. The whole family was involved. Tom and Guy were the techies and lighting men and the twins were running round as gofers. It was fun really. And the picture desks really came through for us.'

'They must rate you highly.'

'Yeah, well. Still got a few contacts. And when you're offering pics of Foxy, well...So well done, Tilly. If it hadn't been for your boyfriend telling us what was going on, we'd never have beaten them to it.'

'Sorry?' I didn't understand at first. I'd still been thinking they were blaming me for blowing Matty's cover, but in fact I was now a heroine for saving the day. What a turnaround. And definitely a load off my mind.

Now all I had to worry about was Clayton. And getting some sleep. Dexter was offering me a drink, but I shook my head.

'Right now,' I yawned, 'I really must get a shower and get to bed.'

I wanted to wait at the pub as long as possible in case Clayton rang, but I couldn't. I tottered out to PIP and back through the ford and up the track to my second home.

Chapter Eighteen.

He hadn't rung. I had gone back to the cottage, fallen straight into bed and slept till nearly midnight. When I'd woken to go to the loo, I'd slipped my jeans and fleece on and driven PIP up to the road to check my phone. Nothing. I was surprised at how disappointed I was as I b.u.mped back down the track, slipped off my clothes and back into the still-warm bed.

At first light, I was back up at the chapel again to try my mobile, but there was no message. Definitely a signal. But definitely no message. I sat there in the van for a while, gazing at the boarded-up chapel and the fading sign saying 'Local Education Authority Outdoor Centre', but however much I stared at that and the stunning view and then back at the phone, there was still no word from Clayton.

I realised I cared. I had spent about ten hours in the company of Clayton Silver but I was beginning to admit to myself that I wanted to spend more. True, he was a bit full of himself. But I guess if you were one of the country's top footballers, you were ent.i.tled. True, he cared about winning more than anything else. But I guess that was part of the game too.

On the other hand, there was the man who had started out with precious little and achieved an awful lot, who could laugh at himself when he got stranded in a stream, who liked books and pictures and fine wine, who was generous to his friends and to waiters, who could be gentle and funny and kind and who cared about his mum and who one day wanted to be a good dad.

Should I text him again? I sat shivering in PIP-the monks were right, the weather had changed, it was distinctly sharp-and weighed up the pros and cons. Oh, what had I got to lose? Slowly-because my fingers were freezing-I tapped out, 'Hope embarra.s.sment has faded and all is OK.' Then I reversed PIP on the frosty gra.s.s and went back along the track.

I could see a tall figure working in the corner of the farmyard. Even in the dim light, and even though she was bundled up in layers of clothes, I recognised Kate. I gave a little toot and she straightened up and waved me over. I edged into the yard and called out, 'Good morning! I bet you've been up for hours.'

'Of course,' said Kate, her long hair bundled up under the sort of flap-eared cap worn by American hunters in cartoons, 'I don't think I could lie in bed even if I wanted to.'

I couldn't make out what she was carrying, dangling from her hands.

'Moles,' she said. 'Just been seeing to the traps.'

'Oh.'

'Just let me get rid of these and I'll be ready for a coffee. Want some?'

'Er, yes please,' I said, trying not to look at the limp velvet bodies.

I went into the kitchen, and while Kate removed her top layers of clothing and scrubbed her hands at the stone sink in the scullery, I filled the kettle and put it on the Aga so it was boiling by the time she came in. As she made the coffee and we waited for it to brew I had to ask her. 'Why do you kill moles? They're so pretty.'

'Ha!' she snorted, 'pretty damaging too. They burrow into the soil and then into the barn and that lets moisture into the hay, which then rots. So yes, they might be pretty, but they're also lethal. Looking pretty doesn't get you very far up here.'

'Did all right for you and Matty,' I smiled. 'I gather you have a new career as a.s.sistant director for Dexter Metcalfe.'

Kate laughed. 'What a day that was! And I gather we have you to thank for the tip-off. You gave us just enough time. When Matty came back and said what had happened and what Dexter had suggested, I didn't think it would stand a chance. But it had to be worth a go. Dexter was brilliant. Made me quite nostalgic for my modelling days. The twins thought it was great. Ruth was in her element.'

'What about Tom and Guy?'

'Oh, they muttered a bit about seeing to the stock but they worked wonders rigging up lights in the yard.'

She looked thoughtful for a moment. 'It's still a great shame now that they know who she is and where she's from. But I'm pretty sure it will be a nine-day wonder. Thanks to Dexter. And you. We can all get back to normal now.'

'How's she getting on in Egypt?'

'Oh, fine. Though she says it's far too hot.' She glanced out through the windows at the chilly grey morning. 'Not like here.'

I sat at the table, my back to the Aga, my hands round the big mug of coffee. But Kate was busy going to cupboards, setting out scales and a mixing bowl and lining up ingredients, pausing only in pa.s.sing to take a glug of coffee. Her hair was piled up into a loose knot on the top of her head. She wore twinkling silver studs in her ears and as she moved elegantly round the big kitchen she could have been posing for one of our swish photo shoots of celebrity kitchens. She certainly didn't look as though she'd just been killing moles a few minutes before.

She must have noticed me staring at her earrings.

'One of my vanities,' she said. 'The others are using bucket-loads of moisturiser and always wearing gloves, a thin pair for protection and a thick pair for warmth. As does Matt. When you've been dealing with the sheep you're liable to end up with indelible blue dye all over your hands. And I'm still vain enough for that not to be a good look.' She smiled. 'We're not all Hannah Hauxwell, you know.'

I dimly remember that television series about an old lady in a man's raggedy coat and boots, struggling to keep her tiny farm, high in the Pennines, going. Absolutely nothing like Kate, who was now briskly measuring out ingredients into a bowl.

'Chapel anniversary tea,' she explained. 'Next village down the dale. Special service, bra.s.s band, tea afterwards. Social event of the year.'

'Chapel?' I said wonderingly, chapels not exactly figuring prominently in my world.

'I know. We don't go very often, but it's a link with the past, and people come back for it-so it's a sort of reunion of those who've left the dale long since. So many chapels have closed, including ours, so we try and support those few that are left. Anyway, how's your mum? Have you persuaded her to come up and see us?'

'I hope so. But not until she's a bit more mobile.' I told her about Bill trying to help and how she refused all offers.

'That's an Allen family trait, I'm afraid, ' she laughed. 'That line where independence becomes b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness. The Allen women are known for that. I sometimes think it's not always a good thing. We must miss out on things because we're too stiff-necked to compromise. Or even to listen. Granny Allen has a lot to answer for.'