The Lost Guide to Life and Love (11 page)

I pushed the parkin towards him and poured him a cup of tea. ‘Do you think something’s going on? Something dodgy?’

‘Well, there are rumours, but nothing I can get to grips with. Maynard’s spending a fortune trying to turn himself into a respectable English gentleman—the country house in Surrey, the shooting lodge up here. The trouble is that no one quite knows where his fortune came from.’

‘Something crooked?’

‘Possibly. Undoubtedly. But it’s impossible to prove. He calls himself a property developer and certainly he made a lot in the boom years, but no one can get to the bottom of it. There are too many companies, not enough information. I have spent days trawling through records, reading annual reports, company accounts, trying to make sense of it all. It’s bloody difficult. In any case, half the stuff’s offshore or is just untraceable. A football club is a wonderful cover-up.’

‘Doesn’t that make money?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But then think about the stupid money footballers get paid. It can’t all come from Sky TV or selling replica shirts to little boys. There’s a lot of dodgy dealing going on somewhere and it’s hard to pin down. Interesting that many of the usual hangers-on—minor royalty and all those impoverished aristos—don’t want much to do with him, not even his grouse moors. He’s left with jumped-up City boys, soap stars and footballers.’

I felt uneasy. ‘Would that have been Maynard’s helicopter I had a lift in?’

‘Oh yes. A couple of footballers have their own, but not Clayton Silver as far as I know. That would have been Maynard’s all right.’

‘Do you think the footballers are involved in this dodgy stuff ?’

‘Probably not in the really big league. But there again, there’s an awful lot of corruption that’s hard to prove. There were all those scandals in the Eighties and Nineties and they’ve just shown that Italian football is rotten to the core. So it’s hard to say. But if I were you, I would definitely steer clear of footballers, especially any that have any connection with Simeon Maynard.’

I was quiet for a bit, thinking about what he’d said and wondering if the helicopter jaunt hadn’t been so much fun after all, when Jake took an absent-minded bite of parkin. ‘Mmm, you’re right, this is good.’

‘Told you.’

We looked at each other and smiled.

‘It seems weird to be sitting in a café at the top of England with you,’ I said.

‘You could always move in to the B & B where I am.’

‘I don’t think that would work, would it?’ I had tasted a
few days of freedom and realised how much easier it was making life on my own.

‘But you can’t really like being by yourself in that isolated dump,’ said Jake. ‘It’s not safe for a woman on her own.’

‘Oh, don’t be daft. It’s quite safe. And it’s not a dump. And anyway, I like it there.’ I could feel my confidence rising with every sentence. I didn’t mind arguing with Jake because I didn’t really care what he thought any more. I could say what I liked. It was a glorious feeling. Even more exhilarating than taking off in a helicopter.

‘Anyway, won’t you be going back to…Flick soon? She must be longing to know how you’re getting on.’

‘We’ve been in touch.’

‘I bet you have.’

‘Look, it’s work. Anyway, she’s in London. You and I came up here together and I feel responsible for you.’

‘Please don’t. I can take full responsibility for myself, thank you.’

He shrugged. It was over. Really over.

I wondered if this is the way a love affair ends. Not with a huge row and high drama, but over a cup of tea and a slice of cake in the middle of a market-day teashop, while elderly women around us rested their feet and checked their shopping lists and dithered between a cream slice or a scone.

Very civilised. Very soulless. And very sad—not because it was ending, but because maybe it had never really begun. Already I was looking back and wondering what had kept us together so long.

‘Anyway,’ said Jake, ‘time to go. I’ve got an interview lined up in half an hour.’

We slithered our way out of the seats. A young woman pounced on our place with a triumphant shout of, ‘Over here, Mum!’

I paid the bill while Jake waited outside for me. ‘You know
where I am,’ he said, as I came out pushing my purse back in my bag. ‘Keep in touch. And just be careful, Tilly.’

‘You’re worrying about nothing,’ I said, gathering all my bags in one hand, the other already in my pocket clutching my phone. He kissed me quickly on the cheek. And then we walked off in opposite directions.

For the next three days I threw myself into work. Granny Allen would have been proud. I’d visited a wonderful smokery by the sea—the most delicious smoked salmon and trout, and strings of kippers hung over piles of oak shavings that would make amazing pictures for
The Foodie
. Bill had told me about a family who made all sorts of things out of sloes—chocolates and cakes as well as sloe and damson gin. The daughter of the family took me out and showed me the hedgerows all around the farm, which were full of sloes they hadn’t picked yet, waiting for a good frost. I peered into the black twigs, not really sure what I was looking for, until I gradually spotted the lovely, purplish fruit, like tiny plums. I would never even have known there were sloes in there, but once you knew where to look there were masses. They were too bitter to eat alone but they tasted great in gin. I had just one mouthful and I could feel the warmth hit my system like the magic cordials from fairy stories. The family insisted I tasted everything—especially the chocolates—and then loaded me up with samples.

But it was a long drive to their farm in PIP and my head was rattling and my back aching when I got back. I went straight to the pub but the place was heaving. Even Becca was too busy to knit a stitch of her scarf, and Dexter was busy dashing between the kitchen and the bar. I couldn’t
check my email as both computers were hogged by people working on their family history. Judging by the number of books, papers and printouts they had scattered around them, they were going to be a long time. Wearily, I got back into the van and headed for the cottage. I’d have to come back later. In the meantime, what I needed was some fresh air, so as soon as I’d dumped my bag, I changed into jeans and boots and set out.

To prove I wasn’t subconsciously looking for helicopters and Clayton Silver, I took a slightly different path, one that followed the line of the valley. Down in the distance, near the farm, I could see one of the Aldersons backing a trailer up through a gate. By the look of it—though it was difficult to tell from this distance and in all the layers of clothes they were wearing—it was Mrs Alderson on the tractor and a man who was at the gate, yelling instructions. Ahead of me, up the hillside of grass so pale it was almost grey, I could see the quad bike and Matt Alderson carrying a huge bale of hay as if it were as light as a feather, and throwing it down for the sheep, while a sheepdog ran round in little bursts, supervising everything, stopping every now and then to look at Matt as if to say, ‘Is this all you want? I can do lots more complicated things than this, you know.’ Then when Matt got back on the bike and bounced off down the fellside to get another bale, the dog leapt on the back and sat there, ears pinned back by the breeze, looking like a superior footman on an old-fashioned coach.

It took me a while to realise that the heaps of grey stones scattered on the hillside weren’t just natural outcrops of rock but had once been houses and barns, built with stone hacked out of the hill and now doing their very best to return to it. This little valley was less industrial than that on the other side of the hill. The ruins looked more domestic. This might always have been farmland, right back
to when the Vikings worked their way up here. Though what sort of farms could they have been? They could barely have made a living, that’s for sure. Grass grew through the stones and sheep nibbled in what had once been someone’s kitchen or bedroom. Occasionally, the remains of low walls marked out what had once been a garden. Long ago, someone had tried to grow things here—with how much success, I wondered? Certainly now the only difference between the garden and the fellside was that the former gardens had a few more nettles.

The houses could never have been much more than two rooms and a single storey. The cottage where I was staying had clearly been extended and was a comparative palace. They seemed to have put more effort into their barns rather than their homes; the barns were higher, firmer, more solid and seemed to have lasted better. There was another building that even had a proper door, albeit one that appeared propped up rather than secured. It had a window, too, though no glass in it of course, and a small surrounding wall. I wondered what it could have been.

Growing up through what was left of a wall was a small twisted tree, branches covered with fruit. Apples, I saw, when I got closer, very small apples. I picked one and tentatively bit into it. Arrgghh! Nearly as bad as the sloes. So sour that I could feel my mouth drying up. I flung the apple along the fellside and startled sheep lumbered in all directions, protesting loudly. ‘Sorry, sheep!’ I shouted.

There was something else on the crab-apple tree, some unexpected splashes of colour fluttering from some of the furthest branches. Intrigued, I balanced on one of the stones that had rolled out from the wall and, with one hand hanging on to a spindly little branch, I leaned into the tree. With one final stretch, as small sharp branches dug into my shoulder, I managed to grab one. It was a ribbon, a velvet
ribbon, deep and luxurious. Just like the scrap I’d found before and taken back to the cottage. I let the spindly branch whip back, jumped down off the stone and examined the ribbon carefully. Apart from the deep crease at one end where it must once have been tied and folded, it was as bright cherry red as when it was made. Was it new? Old? Hard to tell. But it certainly wasn’t nylon velvet. I rubbed it gently with my thumb; it was much too luxurious for that. Where had it come from? I couldn’t see many walkers going in for gaudy cherry velvet. I thought of tying it back on the tree again, like a Christmas decoration or a flag. But instead I put it carefully in my pocket. It was somehow too pretty and unexpected just to scatter to the wind again. But the other one stayed there, caught on twigs, reminding me of Tibetan prayer flags, snapping in the breeze.

The breeze was getting up. Colder, stronger, more of a wind than a breeze now. I pulled the collar up on my fleece. Looking up along the valley I could see thick dark clouds ahead. They were black and low and seemed to race up the narrow dale like a menacing incoming tide. Time to turn back. Would I get back before the storm broke?

No chance. I had barely turned round when the sting of hailstones bit into me, pounding my face, my head, my back. The icy pellets were like gunshot, freezing cold and incredibly painful. I yelled and put my hands up to protect my face from their sting. Whichever way I turned, there was no escape. I could hardly lift my head up. Could hardly open my eyes to see where I was going. I was barely twenty minutes from the cottage but there was no way I could go back in this. With that the black sky was lit up with a sheet of lightning. The thunder crash followed seconds after. I was frightened. No houses, shops or precincts to pop into for shelter. On that empty fellside, I felt horribly exposed and vulnerable.

I thought of that odd little building with the drunken, propped-up door. Maybe I could get into there and shelter for a while. Anything was better than this. Head down and into the wind, I made my way towards it, my feet slithering on the damp grass, which was already heaped up with hailstones. As I took my hands from my face and glanced up quickly, I could see that Matt Alderson had had the same idea and was heading down the hillside on the bike towards shelter. The sheepdog now wasn’t sitting up so jauntily, but lying as flat as it could make itself on the back of the bike.

Matt got to the building a moment before I did, jumped off the bike, balanced on top of the stone wall, grabbed the edge of the window above and with one swift supple movement, was through it.

There was something familiar about that movement. I had seen something like it very recently. I kept my hands away from my face and risked the pounding of hailstones to keep looking. The jump through the window had knocked off the cap Matt was wearing. Before I covered my face with my hands again against the driving hail, I just caught a glimpse through the empty window of copper-coloured hair, gleaming and dazzling through the darkness of the storm.

Baffled, but with no time to think, as the hail sent icy rivulets down my neck and my hair was plastered to my forehead, I made for the drunken door while another roll of thunder crashed above me. As I came near, it juddered open awkwardly as if on only one hinge. Behind it, beckoning me in to shelter, was Matt Alderson. But this was no young man. Matt Alderson was a girl and—despite the bundled layers of clothes—one I recognised immediately. Last time I’d seen her was in a glamorous nightclub in London, but this time her copper hair tumbled round the drenched shoulders
of an ancient bulky waterproof, her feet were encased in solid green wellies, and a collie dog was twisting round her feet.

‘Foxy?’ I said, stunned. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Actually,’ said the tall girl politely, if rather frostily, ‘I hate that name. I prefer to be known as Matty, short for Matilda, after my great-great-grandmother.’

‘And I,’ I said, equally politely and also just a bit frostily, ‘am known as Tilly, short for Matilda, after
my
great-great-grandmother.’

This formality would have been more impressive if both of us hadn’t been dripping wet and squelching through the puddle in the muddy doorway.

Matty frowned. ‘Your great-great-granny wasn’t Granny Allen too, was she?’

‘She was, yes.’

‘Granny Allen who lived in this valley? In our farm and the cottage above it?’

‘The very same.’

We looked at each other for a while in the gloom of the building while the hail rattled the roof. Then Matty laughed and said, ‘Then we must be sort of cousins, mustn’t we?’