The Lost Guide to Life and Love (22 page)

The first junction we came to was blocked by solid traffic. Clayton flung the Hummer into reverse, backed up the road at sixty m.p.h., swung into another road and barrelled it between two rows of parked cars.

And that was just the start…

Never have I experienced a drive like that. Clayton steered in and out of the traffic, bore down on drivers in front, raced through side streets, nipped in and out of bus lanes.

‘You’re all right, Tilly. This car’s too big to argue with.’

‘That’s meant to reassure me?’ I yelped, clutching at the door handle.

At one point—when we were moving back out of a bus lane and Clayton was forcing our way back into a line of traffic so he could overtake the bus, I had my hands over my eyes, scared to look. From one chink between my fingers I could see the side of the bus about a finger’s width away from my window. Instinctively I swerved away from it and fell right against Clayton as he was pushing his way in front of a little Fiesta. He avoided the Fiesta, but then I could see a row of bollards looming up on the driver’s side. I shut my eyes again.

Clayton was laughing.

‘How can you
laugh?
‘ I squeaked. ‘Look, please stop. It doesn’t matter if I miss the train. I’ll ring them, I’ll cancel. I’ll arrange another day. I’ll…Help!’

He’d slammed the brakes on because of a speed camera. Then immediately revved up again. Now he was hammering along with two wheels on the road and the other two on the central reservation.

‘Clayton! Will you stop! I’m sure there was another camera. There was a flash!’ I looked round to see if I could spot a camera, but we were already gone.

‘You wanted to catch a train. You’re going to catch a train.’

‘You’re
enjoying
this!’

‘Miss Tilly, I
love
it! Haven’t driven like this since I was sixteen.’

I wondered if it was too late to start praying…

Suddenly, amazingly, he was slamming the brakes on and jumping out. ‘King’s Cross, madam, you’ve got one minute to catch your train.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ I slumped back into the seat, as shattered as if I’d run the distance. ‘We’ve made it!’

‘Only if you’re quick. Come on!’

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 button 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…

‘Shit!’ said Clayton, staring at the car helplessly.

‘Oh God, 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 snatched 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 passengers, I collapsed, panting, onto the nearest seat as the train headed north.

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 gods 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 grassy 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 illustrations
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 hell 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 buttons 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 God. 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 God 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 hell. 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. ‘Hello, 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.