The Lost Guide To Life And Love Part 19

Kate was brilliant. She had come down to the hospital with me in the ambulance and had the presence of mind to bring some clothes and toiletries with her. She had stayed with me until all the tests had been done, and then gone back up the dale, no doubt done a day's work, cooked a meal for the family, so I could hardly expect her to drive the forty miles back down to the hospital again in the evening.

Becca's mum and dad were here now. They thanked me profusely, tearfully, for my efforts in saving Becca. They had brought me some flowers, some apple juice, some chocolates. I lay back on the bed and thanked them in return. And then they, understandably, concentrated on Becca, hugging her, helping her, making a fuss of her.

It was quite irrational, I know, but I felt out of it. Alone. And I couldn't even leave the room and leave them to it as I just didn't have the energy and my feet were like puffb.a.l.l.s.

So I thought I was dreaming when I heard my mum's voice. But suddenly there she was, leaning on a walking stick and Bill, abandoning them both to swoop down and hug me hard.

'My darling girl!' she said. 'My lovely bold brave girl!'

Kate had called them and they had come straight up. Their only delay had been in hiring a car roomy enough for Mum and her plastered leg.

'We just wanted to get to you as soon as possible, to make sure you were all right,' said my mother in between hugs.

We? We? My mother never thought in we terms. A little bit of my mind noticed this with some satisfaction as I proceeded-with what breath I had-to tell them all that had happened. As my mother leant forward, anxiously, holding my hand-the one that wasn't sprained-and peering at me intently, Bill looked down at her, indulgently. Something had changed; something had shifted between them.

Mum was talking to me fiercely. 'That was an amazing thing you did,' she was saying, 'brave and determined. I am so proud of you. So very proud of you. And I'm just so glad you're safe.' She was crying and smiling at the same time. I'd never seen her so emotional. Everything was all so unreal.

They were introduced to Becca and her parents. There was much discussion of their daughters and the bad luck of the accident and the good luck of the rescue and my presence of mind etc, etc, etc. And then, just as it seemed as if everyone was going to start crying all over again, Becca's mum said to my mum, 'You're wearing one of our Becca's scarves!'

'Oh yes!' said Mum to Becca, 'are you the girl who made it? I love it, love it. In fact, I wear it nearly all the time. I've never had a scarf like it.'

Becca's parents beamed proudly and my mum smiled happily in return. Then a nurse came in and said, tactfully but firmly, that it was long past visiting time.

'Kate invited us to stay with her, but it's such a long drive, we're booked into a hotel around here,' Mum was saying. 'But we hope to see her before we go back.'

That we again. And when the time came for them to go, Mum actually allowed Bill to help her as she manoeuvred up out of the chair.

'We'll be back in the morning,' said Mum, leaning forward on Bill's arm to kiss me goodbye. Bill winked. And I drifted off to sleep, feeling that the world was becoming very strange.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

The police came to see us the next day. Two lots. The first, in uniform, wanted to know about the car crash. We explained about the fog and about how Sandro hadn't known the road. The younger policeman nodded. He knew that road well. Easy to get it wrong, especially in the fog, especially when you didn't know the road.

'But Sandro hadn't been drinking!' said Becca anxiously.

'No, miss, we know. The blood tests showed that. Don't worry. It was clearly an accident.' He looked at me.

'You did well, miss. Lucky too. Not a very sensible thing to do when you don't know the area. Even the best of us could get lost in the fog up there.'

'I had to do something.'

'Well, you must have had someone looking after you, that's all I can say. You must have had someone looking after you.'

The second lot of police officers were much harder. A man and a woman in plain clothes. They asked so many questions: Why were we at the party? Who had we gone with? How long had we known them? Did we recognise people there? Did we see Simeon Maynard? Was there anything strange going on?

'There was a row involving Clayton Silver, wasn't there? The man you'd gone with.'

'Yes, but that was nothing much. Just a woman who was very drunk. Clayton didn't react to it at all and then someone took the woman away. There was nothing to it.' (Only, I thought, my utter disillusionment and the total collapse of the idea of Clayton Silver that I had foolishly built up in my head.) 'I'd gone with Clayton, but after the first hour or so, I hadn't spent much time with him. It just seemed easier to leave when I had the chance of a lift.'

'Did you see anything of Simeon Maynard at all?'

I told them of that quick glance I'd had of him scrabbling desperately through papers on his desk.

Then we moved on to the matter of the drugs and I could truthfully say I'd seen no footballers doing anything with drugs. As for the rape...I explained I'd seen a girl I didn't know going up the stairs with two men. Was she unwilling? No. But she was drunk.

And so it went on. Had I known Clayton Silver long? Had I seen him with Maynard? Did I know any of the other people at Shadwell? Did I know Bob Brandon, the manager, Terry Hopkins, the a.s.sistant? No, no, no again.

I lay back on the pillows, exhausted. I really had tried to help.

'Look, I met Clayton Silver and Alessandro when they walked into The Miners' Arms a few weeks ago. I went to lunch with him, went to a dinner with him in Newcastle and then to the party. It was no big thing. It was just because I happened to be around, that's all. He's not my normal sort of boyfriend and I'm quite sure I'm not the type of woman he normally goes out with. It was just a matter of accident and geography.' Was I trying to convince them or myself ?

'Yet he bought you a very expensive necklace?'

How did they know about that?

'And we understand that you were with him during that...incident...at King's Cross. You were seen running away.'

'I was seen running for a train,' I replied as sharply as my wheezing allowed. 'If you know all about that, then you know it was just a stupid mistake when Clayton's keys got locked in the car.'

They said nothing and I was suddenly nervous, even though I had no reason to be. How much did they know? Had Jake been right about Clayton being involved in something dodgy? I was glad I had nothing to hide. But how lucky that I'd left Ravensike without him. Still, Tell the truth and shame the Devil.

'I think Clayton Silver liked the fact that Simeon Maynard poured money into Shadwell. He loved playing with the best people. But apart from that I don't think he had much time for the man. I certainly don't think he was involved in any way with him.'

And I didn't. But then again, I hadn't thought he was the sort of man to walk out on his son, did I? I'd done my bit. Now I wanted to forget all about him.

That, however, proved impossible. Simeon Maynard's death was big news. As I slipped in and out of sleep in my hospital bed, Simeon Maynard seemed to fill my head whether I was awake or asleep. The drama of it, the implications of it, the footballing lifestyle, all were a.n.a.lysed until there could simply be no more to say. Then the story moved on. The pictures of Ravensike Lodge and the crash scene vanished as I began to think more about the implications for football in general and Shadwell in particular.

It was hard to avoid news of Clayton Silver and his team-mates. Shadwell had imploded. It was one of England's top clubs, yet it seemed to have been built on sand, or the fortunes of one man, and on his death had collapsed like a pack of cards. I watched it all, fascinated despite myself, unable to summon up the energy to switch the television off.

Jake had been right-of course. It seemed the club had virtually no money. Simeon Maynard's finances were so perilous as to be nonexistent and it would in any case take months to untangle it all. Two of their star players had been charged with drug offences, another with rape. Sandro was in hospital. No one knew what the future held. Or even if the club had a future. In a midweek match they were beaten five nil by a team at the bottom of the table, and one of the players punched an opponent so hard he broke his jaw. The commentators relished their failure. 'A team without hope' was a typical comment. Clayton had apparently played appallingly. 'Tarnished Silver', one paper called him.

There was talk of the club going into receivership, reports and rumours of who-if anyone-would take it over. Already the sports pages were writing obituaries of one of England's most famous and successful clubs.

The more the dreary tales of dodgy dealing and failure unfolded, the gladder I was that I had not got more involved with Clayton Silver, that I had realised his true character just in time.

Which still left the press to deal with. The hospital had been inundated with messages for me, requests for interviews. Some of them wanted the story of the crash and my struggle through the fog-they had already christened me 'The Halloween Heroine'. Others were more interested in my involvement with Clayton as part of the ongoing Simeon Maynard saga.

'I'll have to do something,' I said to Bill. 'It's not fair to make the hospital cope with all this.'

'The easiest way is to give an interview to one person and let them share it,' said Bill.

'I guess so. But which one?' I said, looking at the long list of messages left for me.

'Well, there's an obvious one, really, isn't there?' said Bill.

'You're right.' I reached for the phone.

Jake arrived at the same time as a porter carrying yet more flowers, two huge and identical bouquets, one for me and one for Becca. Becca's message said, 'I miss you so much and hope to see you soon,' while mine said, 'Thank you with all my heart for me and for Becca.' Both were from Sandro.

Becca's mum was nearly as excited as Becca and went bustling off to find more vases, clucking at the extravagance of it all, while Becca leaned against her pillows, reading and re-reading the card, looking suddenly well on the way to recovery as she was wheeled away to the fracture clinic.

In the middle of all this, Jake came in a little awkwardly, clutching a small bunch of flowers. He handed them over and I could only put them down on the locker. Then he saw the enormous bouquet sent by Sandro, as well as others from Mum and Kate and Matty.

'Oh,' he grinned, 'I think I've been outcla.s.sed.' Then he rummaged in his jacket pocket, 'But I've brought you these as well,' and he handed over a crumpled paper bag of liquorice sticks. 'I know how much you like them.'

Now I understood why we'd stayed together for nearly two years. He was a nice guy really. Not for me, absolutely not for me, but nice. I leant back on the pillows, held a liquorice stick in my good hand and nibbled contentedly while, in between wheezes, I told him all about it-partly as an ex-boyfriend who still quite liked me and partly as a journalist adding flesh to the story that was going to make his career.

'And to think I thought you weren't safe alone in the house,' he said. 'I never thought you'd be doing a one-woman mountain rescue in the fog.' He looked at me admiringly. 'Even people who know the hills can go round in circles for hours. How on earth did you manage to find the right way?'

'It seemed fairly logical at the time,' I said, remembering that little sc.r.a.p of ribbon and path that was no more than an occasional smooth stone in the cropped gra.s.s. I lay back, quite liking this new sensation of respect and admiration from Jake. A bit late in the day, but still good.

Then we moved on to the party and what had gone on there.

Jake (and Flick I a.s.sumed) was preparing more background material for when the inquest verdict had been announced. He was talking about a book too. Ironic, really, that someone like Maynard could make Jake's fortune. I told him about the party, playing down my involvement with Clayton.

'They seemed in a bit of a panic,' I said, describing the scene in Maynard's study.

'Hardly surprising,' said Jake. 'They must have known the police were onto them. That's why they were in such a hurry to get out.'

'Do you think...?' I hesitated to ask. After all, Clayton was nothing to me now, nothing at all, but I still needed to know. 'Do you think Clayton Silver was involved in any way?'

'Silver? No. Not that I can see. The manager, Bob Brandon, now he was in it up to his neck and I think we don't know the half of it yet. But I can't find anything to link Silver with it all, apart from the fact that Maynard liked to have him around, show him off. No doubt he got the odd backhander and perks, like using the helicopter. They all did. But Silver never went to any of Maynard's villas. Brandon and the a.s.sistant coach and their families were always there. And a couple of players used it-one even had his stag weekend there, all expenses paid. But Silver seemed to keep pretty much out of it. Well, as far as I can see anyway.'

He looked sharply at me. 'Why were you there with Silver anyway?'

'Oh, just to keep Becca company. She was going with Alessandro. And I presume Sandro's not involved?'

'Oh, no. As innocent as a newborn babe, that one.'

'Good. I'm pleased. For Becca.'

'Of course, once all the fall-out's finished and the dust settles, Alessandro might not have a job. Nor might Silver or any of the others. At this rate, I'd be surprised if there's still a football club. But,' he put his notebook back in his pocket, 'it's good to see that you're all right, Tills. I never realised you were such a fighter. Thanks for all this.'

'You're OK. I owe you a favour anyway, or my family does.'

And I explained about Matty being my cousin and how the fantastic picture spreads had all been thanks to his tip-off.

'You mean you're related to Foxy?' Jake looked stunned.

'Yes. I only just found out. She's nice, the whole family is. Very normal. Kate-Mrs Alderson who owns the cottage we-I-stayed in, is Foxy's mum.'

Oh, it was wonderful to watch Jake's face as I explained more. As soon as he let me go out of his life, not only do I turn into a heroine, but I'm a witness to one of the most dramatic stories of the year and I'm cousin to a top supermodel. So much for Silly Tilly. Poor Jake. If he'd known that, he might have tried harder to keep me. I would have laughed if it hadn't hurt so much.

'If I think of anything else that will help you with the book, I'll let you know.' 'Any little thing, all adds to the picture.' He was still looking at me, wonderingly, seeing me in a whole new light.

'Thanks for the flowers and the liquorice sticks, Jake. And'-I could afford to be generous now-'give my love to Flick.'

'Oh. Right, yes I will. Thank you. She'll appreciate that.'

'Bye.'

'Bye.'

I heard his footsteps down the corridor. Then the porter appeared again, almost staggering under a huge arrangement of flowers. They were an extravagant mix of bright bold autumnal colours that seemed to glow and fill up the room.

'You don't want a vase for these, you need a bloomin' greenhouse,' muttered the porter as he looked helplessly for somewhere to put them. While he stood nursing them, like a giant and awkward baby, I fumbled with my good hand and found the card.

'Get well soon. You were brave and determined. And wrong. C.S.'

Good grief. Even when he's sending flowers to my hospital bedside he has to try and score points. And what was with the 'C.S.'? Couldn't he even bring himself to put his name? Was just simply saying 'Clayton' to the girl in the flower shop too much for him? Did he even go to the flower shop? Of course not. Probably got one of his many a.s.sistants to do it. I looked at the huge bouquet, nearly dwarfing the porter. Ridiculous. Over the top. Show off. Just like him.

'There's no room in here for those,' I said tersely to the porter. 'Thank you for bringing them but could you take them away please? Perhaps they'd look nice in reception.'

I scrunched up the card and dropped it in the bin.

Slowly, she unwrapped the little parcel he had given her. The packet fell from her hands. Instinctively, she stooped to catch it and as she did so the tissue paper ripped open and a cascade of colour spilled out into the air as velvet ribbons uncurled, unfurled and flared out like the sudden burst of flames, a shock of colour that brightened and lightened the small, spa.r.s.e room.

Her first thought was that the ribbons-such brilliant cherry-red velvet-would be the perfect trim for her only good dress, that it would lift the fading colour as well as hide the fraying edge.

Her second thought was that such fripperies had no place in the thoughts or the dress of a respectable widow and that they were certainly not the sort of gifts that a travelling photographer should present on such short acquaintance. It was an overfamiliarity. The frames for her sons' photographs were one thing-and even of those she had been unsure-but ribbons! Completely different.

She let them run through her fingers, feeling the sensuous luxury of the velvet, admiring the glow of their colour despite herself.

There was a third thought too. Of herself as a child, standing at her mother's knee by the door of the farm-house down below. A packman had come across the narrow bridge and her mother had bought needles and thread and b.u.t.tons from him, and then when the transaction had been completed he had handed her mother some narrow lengths of ribbon, 'Red, the same colour as the bairn's hair,' he'd said. And her mother had smiled and tied up Matilda's hair and her own and they had laughed at how beautiful they were. They had danced a jig up and down the length of the dairy, pretending they were grand ladies at a ball.

Her mother died in childbirth not long after, and her father followed just a few years later, so Matilda had brought up her brothers and sisters. In that time, and since her husband's death, in which she had cared for her family, dug her garden, tended her chickens, helped with the beasts, clipped the sheep, worked for her brother, made b.u.t.ter and cheese, knitted, sewn and kept her children fed and clothed and, above all, G.o.d-fearing and respectable. In all that time, unlike many of her neighbours, she had never once had to apply to the parish for relief, although sometimes it was only pride that fed them. She had seen her daughters leave home when they were no more than children, and then seen two of her sons go to the other ends of the earth. And in all those years, no one had ever given her anything as frivolous as ribbons. As she made her way to chapel and avoided the drunken invitations of the miners in the lodging houses, no one had seen how much she would enjoy the chance of pretty things. Were they really so wicked?

Now this photographer, who had walked into her life off a rainy fellside, had gone straight to the heart of something she had almost forgotten about herself in all these years. Yet somehow he had seen it.

She let the velvet of the ribbons run softly through her hands once more, then briskly wound them back, wrapped them in the tissue paper and handed them to the photographer.

'I am very sorry, Mr Peart,' she said. 'I thank you for the frames for the photographs but I am afraid I cannot accept these. They are, I think you would agree, not suitable.'

'Not suitable?'

'As a gift between acquaintances. They are for young lads to give la.s.ses at the fair, not for us, Mr Peart.' She still held the packet out towards him.

But the photographer didn't reach out his hand to take them back.

'When young men buy ribbons for maids it's because they are tokens of affection,' he said. 'We may not be young any more, but we can still feel respect, affection, and even perhaps something greater than that. If you understand me, Mrs Allen.'