The Lost Guide to Life and Love (8 page)

I missed him. But was that because he was Jake, or just because he was someone, anyone, to be there? I was beginning to see that we’d just drifted into our relationship. Bits of
it had been good. And I realised—almost for the first time, that yes, he brought me toast and cheese and things—but only when he fancied them for himself. And while I worked, Jake would lie there with the TV blaring, constantly flicking between channels. But if
he
was working and I wanted to watch something, he’d get cross, because how could he concentrate with all that noise? So I would read a book or listen to my iPod so he could work in peace. I’d been pretty dumb, hadn’t I? Not quite a doormat, but heading that way. Silly Tilly indeed.

I thought about it as I flexed my stiff shoulders, made my way upstairs and ran a hot, deep bath. And as I lay there, listening to the sheep—not scared at all now—I realised that yes, I was a little bit miffed that he could talk to Felicity, work with her and not me. So maybe my pride was a little bit dented. But my heart? I probed the idea and my heart like worrying a bad tooth. A twinge, maybe. But agony? No. I didn’t think so. I twiddled the tap with my toes and added a great gush of hot water and settled back comfortably. I could live without Jake.

The track was steep, the rain like icicles. The photographer dismounted and walked alongside the pony as they plodded up the bleak fellside and thought about the photographs he had taken that morning, an old man and a boy cutting peat. He thought he’d possibly caught an expression. He hoped so. He longed to get back to his studio, the darkroom, to find out. It was a lucky chance to find someone like that. The overseer at the small mine there hadn’t been too sure about photographs, nothing that would stop the men working. He would call back. But first he had to get into the next dale, get pictures of mines, machinery and the men who worked them.

The path was slippery now, partly from the driving
rain and partly from the mud that flowed down from a ramshackle row of cottages that seemed to have grown up from the fellside and seemed ready to collapse back into it. One or two showed signs that the inhabitants had made an effort, with makeshift curtains made from sacking, but most were indistinguishable from the midden heaps behind them. Above him he could see another house. Even through the driving rain he could see it was in a better state than the others, with clean windows, a proper path and a tidy wall providing some slight shelter for a sparse vegetable plot. A bedraggled hen squawked as a tall woman emerged from the house carrying a bucket, which she filled from the water butt with one hand, the other holding a shawl over her head. She must have sensed the photographer looking at her, for she stopped and turned.

For a moment, despite the rain, she stood perfectly still, gazing down at him. She was straight-backed and strong-jawed, unflustered and unbothered. Her long skirt and shawl were the colours of the fellside behind her. She seemed made of the very soil and rock.

‘Good afternoon!’ said the photographer cheerily through the rain, touching his hand to his dripping hat.

‘Never so good for taking pictures,’ said the woman.

‘Ah, you already know my business in the dale.’

‘Word travels.’

She would, he knew, make an admirable subject for his camera. Just so, with the steep and narrow track beside her and the towering expanse of hill behind. He touched his hat again. ‘Would you be interested in a photographic portrait?’ he asked.

She looked down at him and for a brief second seemed almost amused at the thought. Then her mouth hardened again. ’ “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” says the preacher,’
she said. ‘But you are in need of shelter. If you wish, you can rest out of the rain a while.’

‘Gladly. Thank you.’

He tied the pony to the gate, checked that the tarpaulin was keeping his precious camera dry, and then followed the woman into the house.

The next morning was wonderful, one of those autumn days that are almost still summer. Even up there, at the top of the world, I could feel the warmth through the window. It was only my third morning here but already it felt right. I felt at home. I burbled happily to myself as I sat at the kitchen table, with my laptop and a mug of coffee, and kept glancing out at the glorious views while I tidied up my piece on the cheese-maker. Finally, satisfied with what I’d done, I saved it on to a memory stick, ready to go down to the pub and send it off. But I didn’t have to go yet, did I? The sun was shining. That track at the back of the house was too enticing. Work done, I had no one to answer to but myself. Not even Granny Allen could argue with that.

I tugged on my walking boots, bought last year for a holiday in Wales with Jake. The fleece too. At least I looked the part.

It didn’t take me too long to get up to the ridge again. Pausing at the top to get my breath, I looked down the dale. I thought about what Dexter had said. It was like looking at ghosts—those abandoned buildings, the ruined houses. A whole industry had thrived here and then vanished. The path plunged down past abandoned heaps of stones that must once have been buildings for the mines. Tall chimneys towered over empty spaces where hundreds
of men once worked but now were left to sheep, which sheltered among the soaring pillars and cropped the grass, as if nothing had ever disturbed the peace.

I felt a little uneasy, like an intruder. Was it sensible to be up here on my own? Jake had thought it wasn’t sensible for me to stay the night in the cottage on my own, but I’d done that, hadn’t I?

Some new railings and a warning sign surrounded an arched entrance opening straight into the hillside. ‘Danger. Old mine workings. Keep out,’ it said. I peered into the entrance, could see the skilfully arranged pattern of bricks in its ceiling, still supporting the moor above it. At my feet were rusty railway lines. Even though they were much grown over with grass and turf, I could follow them into another vast arched building, open now to the elements, with birds fluttering among the high bricks. I sneezed and the sound echoed and bounced round the huge empty and deserted space. It was an eerie place. What must it have been like here, I wondered, with all those men and machinery, the noise, the activity? The buildings could have been inhabited by a race of giants. Now they had all gone. Now it was just me, the sheep and the birds and silence. Weird. Seriously weird.

Walking alone in this strange landscape felt like the start of an adventure but just a little creepy. It was reassuring to see a Public Footpath sign. Very twenty-first century. It was a good firm track, too, easy walking on the springy turf. I had no map, no idea of where I was or where I was heading, but I couldn’t get lost. I would just walk on for another twenty minutes or so, then turn round and come back. The track curved round a low hill. I would just see what was on the other side…

I strode out briskly. The air smelt clean and fresh and was nicely cold on my face. It really woke me up. Bouncing
along a turf path is a lot more fun than pounding away on a treadmill in the gym, and certainly better without the posers and preeners and designer Lycra. Above me I could hear the cries of birds. Didn’t know what they were. Maybe I’d get a bird book and find out, I thought. This country air was definitely getting to me.

I suddenly realised that nobody knew I was here. No one. I was completely free. I didn’t have to get back at a particular time or for a particular person. Or fit in with anyone else’s plans. My heart thudded a little at the thought. It was frightening, but it was also wonderful and exciting. Total freedom, to please myself. I did a little skip to celebrate and then strode out along the path.

I could hear another noise now, a strange sound that I sort of recognised but couldn’t quite place. Some farm machinery, I supposed, though I didn’t think there was much actual farming going on up here, not the sort that used combine harvesters or things like that. Apart from hearing
The Archers,
when Mum was listening to it, I was a bit hazy on all things agricultural. But I was pretty sure that this wasn’t the sort of land where you grew things, apart from grass and sheep. Whatever was making the noise, though, it had to be big. I’d soon find out, as I rounded the bend at the foot of the hill. And then I saw it.

A helicopter. Right in front of me. So close it seemed enormous. Like a huge buzzing dragonfly perched on a flat, white-painted piece of moorland. I could feel the force from the blades, and see it sending ripples across the grass. What a strange place to find a helipad. But then I looked further and understood. Just a few hundred yards away was a vast house, all Victorian turrets and chimneys, surrounded by a high stone wall and large gates. ‘Ravensike Lodge’, said a sign. ‘Private’.

Of course. Ravensike was originally a Victorian shooting
lodge, that’s why it was plonked down in the middle of nowhere surrounded by moors and grouse and partridges and all those things that people liked to shoot at. And now it was owned by a billionaire who owned a glitzy football club and a helipad. I wondered what the grouse made of that. Don’t suppose it made much difference to them who took a pot shot at them.

Intrigued, despite the noise and the blast from the blades, I walked slowly towards it. A man was sprinting down the drive. Presumably he was the passenger the pilot was waiting for. He ran effortlessly, fluidly. He was clearly pretty fit. He wore black jeans and a black leather jacket. His hair was closely cropped, almost shaved. He had a beautifully shaped head.

Oh my God, it was Clayton Silver. Was there no getting away from the man?

I wanted to turn and run back to the cottage, but instead I just stood there staring at him; he must have felt my look because he stopped on the edge of the helipad and glanced over in my direction. He looked away and then back again.

‘Miss Tilly!’ he shouted above the roar. ‘Is that you?’ He ducked under the rotor blades of the helicopter and then strolled towards me.

‘You skipping work?’ he shouted, the draught from the helicopter blades whipping his words away. ‘Shouldn’t you be writing about sausages?’

‘Cheese-makers!’ I yelled. ‘And I’ve done it. I’m just getting some fresh air before I go back and do some more. I didn’t know where this path led. I’m just—’

‘Come for lunch.’

‘Sorry?’ I couldn’t have heard properly.

‘I said come for lunch. I’ve got to see someone in Newcastle. Come along.’

‘But I can’t. I mean…’ Did I even want to go to lunch
with him? Why did this man keep popping up in my life? First the club, then the pub and now, just when I thought I’d found one of the most isolated parts of England, he turns up there too. I shrugged my arms to show I was in jeans and a fleece and boots and, in any case, wasn’t too impressed by celebrity footballers.

‘That don’t matter.’ He laughed. ‘The pilot’s getting a bit antsy. You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind, Miss Tilly. Lunch or no lunch. Deal or no deal. Ten…nine…eight…’ He was grinning as he turned to go back to the helicopter.

The nerve of the guy! He was so in love with himself that he expected everyone else to be as well. Just turning away like that, as if I would meekly follow him. Who did he think he was?

‘…four…three…two…’ He turned back, grinning and stretching out his hand towards me.

Despite myself, I was smiling now too. Why not? What was the point of this sudden feeling of freedom if I didn’t do things I’d never done before?

I’d done most of my work for the day. A helicopter ride was always going to be fun, whoever it was with. My mum always told me never to get into strange cars. She never said anything about strange helicopters.
Seize the day
…I grinned.

Clayton grabbed my hand and we ran under the blades and jumped up into the helicopter. As we soared upwards, the ground dropped away, glorious views stretched out for miles. Clayton was still holding my hand. I eased out of his grip and, rather primly, sat on my hands as I looked out of the windows.

Inside the helicopter it was still noisy, not ideal for intimate conversation, even if I’d had a clue what to say, so I contented myself with working out where we were. We flew
over miles of moorland then above the motorway. ‘Durham Cathedral!’ I said, pointing into the distance. Then, a few minutes later a huge metal giant loomed up on a small hill at the side of a motorway, families looking like dolls playing at its feet. ‘It’s the Angel of the North!’ I exclaimed and then, ‘All those bridges! It must be Newcastle.’

We followed the Tyne for a while—I hadn’t realised it was a country river too—until we hovered over a golf course and then landed gently in the grounds of a huge country house hotel, where the helipad sat in the middle of perfectly tended lawns. Clayton helped me out of the helicopter and then yelled to the pilot, ‘I’ll give you a call, mate.’ As if it was just a normal minicab. We walked across a path and into the hotel. It was one of those seriously stylish places, where they were so cool they didn’t bat an eyelid at my walking boots. I wanted to giggle. This was turning into a ridiculous adventure.

‘Good morning, Mr Silver,’ said the receptionist. ‘Your guests are waiting for you in the Brown Room. Would you like coffee or drinks brought through?’

‘No thanks. But I’d like a table for lunch, in about half an hour. For two.’

‘Certainly.’

‘This won’t take long, Tilly,’ said Clayton. ‘Get yourself a drink or whatever you want and I’ll be back soon.’ And he vanished, leaving me in my jeans, boots and fleece in one of England’s poshest hotels. I had no bag, no money, not even a lippy or a hairbrush. The receptionist was hovering.

‘Can I get you anything, madam?’ he asked.

‘Some coffee, please,’ I said. ‘And I don’t suppose you could conjure up a hairbrush? A comb? Anything?’

‘Of course, madam,’ he replied, as if it was the most normal request in the world.