The Lost Guide to Life and Love (38 page)

‘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 easy, 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.’

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?’

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.

A
s 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 cooking is not a matter of exact 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.

Braised Herby Lamb with Root Vegetables

Vegetable oil
Lamb shanks
Pearl barley
Rosemary
Thyme
Mint jelly
Any root vegetables—potatoes, swede, parsnips, onions, leeks—chopped in to big chunks. Whole shallots are good too
Water
Seasoning

Cover the bottom of a big ovenproof dish with a good layer of vegetables and the pearl barley. Add a dollop of mint jelly and stir round.

Fry the lamb shanks in the oil for five minutes or so until they’re golden on all sides. Put them on the layer of vegetables. Add the water, seasoning and herbs. Cover with a right fitting lid or tin foil. Put in a low to moderate oven for around two hours.

Tilly’s Poached Pears in Cider

4 pears such as Comice
1/2-3/4pint of good strong cider or perry
2 big tablespoonfuls of soft brown sugar—depending on how dry the cider is add a dash of orange juice
A cinnamon stick, cloves, and a scraping of nutmeg

Stir the sugar, orange juice and cider together in a big pan and simmer gently for a few minutes.

Peel the pears. You can leave them whole with their stalks on, which looks pretty, but they are less messy to eat if you slice them in half and take the pips out. Put in an oven proof dish.

Put the cinnamon stick and cloves in a bit of muslin in the dish, add the scrape of nutmeg. Pour the cider mixture over the top and put in a moderate oven for 45 minutes or so, until the pears have absorbed a lot of the mixture.

Serve hot or cold. For extra indulgence, whip up a dash of Calvados into some thick cream to top.

There is, sadly, no such place as High Hartsone Edge, which exists only in my imagination. But if you go to the top of England where the high Pennine Dales of Durham, Northumberland and North Yorkshire soar up and meet the fells of Cumbria, you will find places very much like it. To find out more try the centres at Killhope (www. killhope.org.uk), Reeth (www.swaledalemuseum.org) and Nenthead (www.npht.com/nentheadmines), all of which helped me in the background.