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In front of a low archway that seemed to lead directly into the side of a hill, workmen in waistcoats and stout trousers, caps and long moustaches carried hammers and picks and gazed solemnly at the camera. Next to it was the modern scene—the same archway, but this time surrounded by walkers in brightly coloured cagoules, peering and pointing. A picture of the chapel dated 1900 had a hundred or more serious-faced worshippers in their Sunday best—very uncomfortable those clothes looked—lined up on the steps. The modern version showed half a dozen lads in jeans and T-shirts laughing as they unloaded canoes off the roof of a minibus.
A long view across the moors was full of industrial buildings, tall chimneys, a huge water wheel and clusters of activity. The modern version was bleak, empty, just a few ruins and a lot of sheep. The photograph was stunning. The photographer had caught the shadow of a cloud scudding across the hill. Very atmospheric.
Who were all those old people? What had happened to them? How had a place so busy become so empty?
‘Lead mining,’ said the blonde girl behind the bar as she followed my gaze. ‘A century ago and more, there used to be hundreds of men working up here. They used to be packed into lodging houses during the week and then walk back to their families at the weekend. They say the lead for the roof of the Houses of Parliament came from up here. It must have been like the Klondike. Hard to believe now, when it’s just sheep.’
‘I’m amazed the pub survived.’
‘It didn’t. It was closed for fifty years and was just a house. Dexter—’ she nodded her head in the direction of the Internet snug, so I assumed she meant the guy with the wild hair and scruffy sweater—‘inherited it last year and decided to reopen as a pub this summer.’
‘Brave move.’
‘S’pose so. But it’s going OK. Really well in fact. He does some of the cooking too. He’s not a bad cook either. For a photographer. He took all the pictures—well, not the old ones obviously, but the others.’
‘These are really good. Does he work for anyone in particular?’
‘No, just for himself. He does a lot of books and colour supplement stuff. He hasn’t done much lately though because he’s been working all hours getting the pub right. But he’s hired a chef now, so I expect he’ll get back into it.’
Some more customers came in and she put her knitting down again to serve them. She seemed to be knitting a lacy sort of scarf.
I remembered that I hadn’t looked up the directions to the cheese-maker. I looked across. Dexter had finished on the computer. Presumably he was in the kitchen preparing food for the people who’d just come in, but some walkers were busy online now. Never mind. I was very comfortable in this cosy bar. I thought about a glass of wine but, being my mother’s daughter, and having the van outside, I opted for another coffee and flipped through one of the papers. That model was all over it again. ’Foxy’s gone to ground!’ said the headlines. After signing her huge contract, the model had gone missing. Probably drugged up somewhere, I thought. No, not drugged. When she leapt up and through that window she hadn’t seemed a bit like a hunted animal. She seemed the one in charge, well ahead of the pack, as if she were playing a game. I wondered, idly, what had become of her, where she was.
By the time the walkers had finished on the computers and I’d gone online and found the directions I needed, the bar was empty. I was just picking up my coat ready to leave when Dexter came through to the bar, looking serious and carrying two plates of sausages. ‘Right, Becca,’ he said to the barmaid, ‘earn your keep and tell me which of these you prefer. You too,’ he said to me, offering me a plate. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry…’ His sudden smile completely transformed his face. He was, I realised, quite good looking and probably not as old as I thought, maybe just ten years older than me. And I decided I wasn’t in a hurry at all as he went on, ‘I try and use everything as local as possible, but it’s got to be good, so all opinions welcome.’
I sat myself back at the bar and tried two bits of sausage. ‘Definitely the second one,’ I said.
‘Why?’ asked Dexter.
‘The first one was good, but highly spiced, so all you could really taste was the chilli. Good, but overwhelming. The second one was quite simple, but proper meat, proper flavour. Didn’t need the spices to tart it up.’
Dexter nodded approvingly and I felt as though I’d won a prize. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ he said. ‘That’s the one we’ll go for. Have another bite to be sure.’
So there I was, perched at the bar of a stone-flagged, wood-smoky pub on top of a moor in the middle of nowhere, eating sausages, with grease on my chin, when we heard outside the sort of roar made only by a very expensive, show-off car. It stopped right outside. A moment later the pub door opened and in strode two men. Young, fit and extremely good-looking men, radiating testosterone and confidence and that sort of glow that belongs to the very rich and very successful.
Becca gave a small, breathless yelp. I gawped. It was the last thing I’d expected in the middle of nowhere. I blinked and stared to make sure. There was no mistake. Footballers. Clayton Silver and one of his team-mates, the young Italian Alessandro Santini.
The last time I’d seen Clayton Silver was in Club Balaika back in London. What on earth was he doing here?
Suddenly the bar, which had seemed so warm and cosy earlier, now looked faded and dusty, dimmed by the dazzle of these celebrities. I’d felt so comfortable perched at the bar, and now that cosiness was spoilt. Only Dexter remained completely unfazed.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And what can I get you?’
‘A decent sat-nav would be a start,’ said Clayton Silver, removing his dark glasses. (Dark glasses. In England. In October. What a poser.) ‘The money I paid for that motor and it dumped us in the middle of a stream. A fucking stream, man! Don’t you have roads up here?’
‘Depends where you’re trying to get to,’ replied Dexter.
‘Some big house, Sim Maynard’s place.’
‘Ravensike Lodge. Well, you’re very close,’ said Dexter, ‘but there hasn’t been a road across there for fifty years or more. It’s just a track now. You’ll have to go back down the dale for about ten miles and then turn off and come back up the other side of the moor. Shouldn’t take you long in that car. Just watch out for sheep.’
‘Sheep! All we’ve seen is sheep!’ said Silver. ‘There’s sheep all over the roads. Why don’t they stay on the grass? Why do they want to eat roads? Why did we decide to drive? We should’ve flown up. We’d be there now. Relaxing, not getting stuck in streams on mountains. God, I need a drink.’
‘Stuck in streams?’ asked Dexter, clearly trying not to smile.
‘Yeah. The road just stopped. Bang. Middle of nowhere. In a farmyard or somewhere. There was a bridge, but that didn’t go anywhere. Just the stream. The sat-nav lady kept telling us to go straight on, but there was no straight on to go to. Nothing. It’s the end of the world up here.’
He looked baffled and angry. But suddenly, instantly, his mood changed and he smiled—a beautiful wide, handsome smile, as if he realised it was all a bit silly really. He shook his head, ‘All that money on that car, and we were just sitting in a stream. Could have opened the window and done some fishing.’ He laughed. ‘It took us ages to get out of there. Thought we’d have to get out and push. I think we need a drink before I trust that thing again.’
Alessandro ordered a Peroni but Clayton Silver was looking at the wine selection chalked on the board above the bar. He smiled and picked out the most expensive one there. ‘Let’s try some of that.’
Dexter opened the bottle. ‘It’s a shame it won’t have time to breathe.’
In one smooth, silky movement, Silver sat on one of the bar stools, waved his hand—beautiful long fingers, immaculate nails—to dismiss such quibbles. Then he looked at Becca and me. He smiled that amazing 100-megawatt smile straight at us. ‘You ladies care to join me?’ he asked.
I wanted to say no, if only because I didn’t like the way he just assumed I would say yes. He was clearly used to women swooning at his feet. Not me. I began to slither off the high stool, ready to make my escape.
On the other hand…Maybe in my world of new-found freedom, I should just go with the flow. Carpe diem, the sampler had said. Seize the day. Why not?
Becca had no doubts at all and gathered her wits before I did. ‘Thank you,’ she said with great aplomb, putting down her knitting. ‘That would be very nice.’
‘OK, thank you,’ I said, trying to find a balance between being polite and unimpressed, and slithering, not very elegantly, back onto the stool.
And that was how I got to know Clayton Silver…
Chapter Five (#ulink_b25331bb-8cfb-5aa3-91e5-92702ec63165)
I couldn’t deny it. Clayton Silver had the most gorgeous eyes that lit up when he smiled. The trouble was that he knew it all too well. I remembered him arriving at Club Balaika, with the cameras flashing and the security men clearing the way for him. Well, there were no VIP booths in The Miners’ Arms. We were all equals here. He passed me the glass with the wine glowing in the bottom, reflecting the firelight.
‘Breathe it in first,’ he said, ‘the smell’s almost enough to get drunk on by itself. ‘As his eyes looked into mine, I looked away quickly and breathed in the rich smell of the wine. ‘Now take a small sip.’ I looked over the glass at him. I wanted to say, ‘Look, sunshine, I’ve drunk plenty of decent wine before you walked in here. My godfather’s restaurant has one of the best cellars in the country and I’m a respected food writer.’ But I dutifully sipped.
The wine slid down, soft and velvety. I closed my eyes for a moment, relishing the flavour. It was delicious. ‘Oh wow!’ said Becca. ‘That really is good.’
‘Glad you like it,’ said Clayton, still gazing at me. His hair was cropped close, revealing the shape of his skull. His skin was the colour of pale coffee. He had a Jamaican grandfather, I remembered I’d read somewhere.
But I refused to be impressed by his glamour and confidence. Just because he was good at football, and got paid ridiculous amounts of money for it, didn’t make him a god, I thought crossly.
‘Not bad,’ I said about the wine. ‘Though I’ve had better.’
He looked at me and smiled again, as though he knew exactly why I’d said what I had. ‘Lucky girl. But this is still pretty good to find in a pub surrounded by grass and sheep.’
Condescending or what? I’d only just discovered this was my ancestral homeland, but I was already indignant on its behalf. ‘Just because people live in the back of beyond doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate good wine,’ I said, while Becca blinked at me, surprised.
Then Clayton spotted the plate. ‘Sausages!’ he said and helped himself.
Then suddenly he was laughing again about the stream and the sat-nav. ‘That car’s a city car. It needs streets and signposts and lots of nice tall buildings to make it feel safe. That sat-nav lady ain’t a country girl at all.’ And Dexter drew him a little map showing how to get to the shooting lodge and asked him if he was going to be doing any shooting. Clayton grinned and said yes, he knew a bit about shooting, but not those sort of guns, and we smiled because we knew Clayton Silver had grown up on the sort of estate where guns were commonplace.
Just then the door opened again and a tall figure in working clothes—boots, jeans, shabby waterproof and a woolly hat—came in and went up to the side of the bar. Dexter’s eyes seemed to light up for a moment. ‘You’re back!’ he said, sounding pleased. ‘I’d heard.’ But the other person muttered something, looked in our direction and walked out again. Dexter’s expression was weird. He looked pleased and almost disappointed at the same time and watched as the figure walked back to the car park and jumped into an old four-by-four. Then he smiled to himself and went back to drawing his map. Funny. I didn’t have him down as gay.
But his face had definitely lit up.
Becca suddenly remembered the knitting she’d just put down on the bar and carefully picked it up and put it away in a big hessian bag.
Alessandro, who’d only been in this country since the start of the season, watched her and then smiled shyly and said that his mother and his sisters liked to knit, to make things. So Becca reached into her bag again and unwrapped some tissue paper to show him a finished scarf. The scarf was brilliant—the lacy knitting interspersed with big appliquéd flowers in bright sunshiney colours of yellow and orange—and looked wonderful.
‘Is beautiful,’ said Alessandro. He placed it gently round Becca’s neck. ‘Is more beautiful on you.’ He grinned while Becca blushed. The charmer.
I was still holding my coat, ready to go, but Clayton asked me if I was local and I said no, just staying up here writing for a food magazine, but I knew the stream where he’d got stuck. Despite myself I was soon chatting to him like an old friend—about London and restaurants, about roads and sheep. Apparently the footballers were only up here for two days because they had to get back to training, and suddenly the wine bottle was empty and they were leaving. Clayton picked up his car keys and walked out, just assuming Alessandro would follow him, which he did. Alessandro blew Becca a kiss while Clayton said, ‘Goodbye, Miss Tilly,’ very formally but grinning as he did so. Then they were gone to the sound of the expensive car roaring off back down the dale.
‘Well!’ said Becca, giggling. ‘That certainly brightened up the afternoon.’
‘Bit full of himself though, isn’t he, that Clayton Silver?’ I said, cross with myself for getting drawn in by his easy charm and trying not to recall his smiling eyes, his tight black T-shirt, his broad shoulders and his grin. I remembered the actresses who’d arrived at Club Balaika with him. Well, they were welcome to him. How upset the new celebrity-conscious Jake would be to have missed them.
With that, a group of spindly, mud-covered cyclists, clad in very unflattering bright yellow Lycra, parked their bikes outside and came in demanding soup and sandwiches. The magic had definitely gone. Becca sighed and went to serve them. I quickly sent a text to Susannah, saying, ‘Country life MUCH more interesting than I thought,’ and tucked my phone in my bag. Then I got it out again and sent a text to Jake, telling him who’d been in the pub. Seemed only fair. Then I went off to the loo.
There was a sampler in the passage, the twin of the one in the bar. ’Wine is a mocker‘, it said in neat, tiny stitches. ‘Strong drink is raging.’ Which was a bit daft to have in a pub. No wonder Dexter had hidden it away out of sight.
But then in the Ladies there was yet another of the things on the wall next to the Tampax machine. ‘Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.’ I could see it reflected in the mirror when I was brushing my hair. Probably Dexter’s idea of a joke. I thought of some small girl having to spend hours stitching it. It seemed a very stern lesson to learn so young.
‘Probably see you tomorrow,’ I said to Becca back in the bar.
‘You never know, we might have some more interesting customers,’ she grinned as I went out to find PIP in the car park.
Chapter Six (#ulink_54cd788e-b6fb-5320-947e-e683f5efa9d9)
I took a deep breath. I’d only had two small glasses of wine. I was driving just over a mile. I’d be all right. I got into the little van and off I went up the high moor road.
In the farmyard I could see Mrs Alderson doing something with a hose. Torrents of water were pouring over the yard as she waded along in wellies. She waved and I turned in. I’d better explain to her about Jake, I suppose. I stopped the engine and stepped out onto the damp concrete and was hit with a very agricultural smell. Cows, I guessed, wrinkling my nose and looking down at the small rivulets washing against my shoes.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ said Mrs Alderson, surprised, and directing the jet of water into the furthest corner away from me. ‘I thought it was Reuben Stephen. This is his van.’
‘Not any more,’ I said, and explained as she laughed. ‘I hope old Wes isn’t charging you full rent for this heap!’
‘No, just a token gesture.’
‘Good. Well, this car knows its way round these tracks, so you’ll be all right. And Wes will always come out and rescue you if it breaks down. Are you sure you’re OK up there on your own? I noticed your young man…’ She stopped, tactfully. ‘I mean, it’s perfectly safe, but if you’re not used to it, it can be a bit spooky.’
‘It was fine, thank you,’ I said firmly. ‘I lit the fire and had one of your ready meals for supper. It was great, thanks.’
We both looked up the fellside to the cottage. Above it I could see a quad bike parked and a tall figure striding over the moor with a bale of hay. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked very like the person who’d opened the door of the pub and left so quickly.
‘Matt, my eldest,’ said Mrs Alderson quickly. ‘Home for a while and helping out. If there’s anything you want, just ask.’
I thanked her and wanted to ask about the house and the stream, tell her about my mother, but with that I was suddenly deafened by a vastly magnified telephone bell echoing round the yard. ‘Sorry. Telephone. Waiting for a call. Got to go,’ said Mrs Alderson, throwing the hose down, lunging for the tap and striding into the house.
I backed out of the yard and through the stream. I thought of Clayton Silver and his glamorous car. I laughed, and for a split second, I felt the car slip as the water seemed to want to take it downstream over the slimy stones. My insides lurched. Concentrate, girl! I got control again, revved the little van and roared up the track, my heart thumping a little. I hadn’t liked the way the van had almost gone. Could have been nasty. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine. Could one handsome footballer so easily make me forget a lifetime of indoctrination?
Strong drink is a mocker. I should have paid more attention to that sampler. I got out of the van and shook my head clear in the sharp clean air.
As I did so, I spotted the track—well, a path really, certainly not wide enough for a car—that wound enticingly round the back of the house. A walk would do me good. I set off up the path, which went on a steep slant up to the top of the moor. A solid path, bumpy but clear enough, flattened grass scattered with cobbles and stones that were shiny from being trodden on by countless feet. I could feel the muscles pulling at the backs of my legs and was glad the stunning views gave me the excuse to stop and get my breath. Although it was late afternoon, it was a much clearer day than yesterday.
After the muggy crowdedness of London streets, there was something unnerving about these moors. So much space; so much emptiness. How did you know where you were or find your way? Or even who you were?
But the fresh air was just what I needed after the encounter with Clayton Silver.
He clearly thought he was so important just because he could kick a ball around a bit. Expecting everyone to be so impressed. Just because he had a nice smile and knew his way round a wine list. But, I had to admit, there was something about him. He was just so…alive. Even when he was just sitting on a bar stool with a glass of wine in his hand, you could feel the energy in the man. ‘Quicksilver,’ they always called him in the headlines. The trouble was that he made headlines not only on the sports pages but elsewhere in the newspapers and celebrity magazines—when he wasn’t scoring goals, Clayton Silver liked to party, usually accompanied by the latest in a long line of gorgeous-looking women. Typical footballer. Overpaid and full of himself. Odd that I should have been in his company twice in the space of a few days—and in such different places—but Clayton Silver was not part of my world and never would be. I put him firmly out of my head.
By now I was nearly at the top of the path. Down below me I could see Matt Alderson buzzing along on the quad bike. Suddenly, I was on the ridge and could see down into the next valley. I recognised it. The derelict buildings, abandoned cottages, that great sweep of landscape—it was a scene from one of Dexter’s photos. An abandoned industrial scene. At first glance you’d think no one had ever lived up here, ever, but what had Becca said? Like the Klondike. I wanted to go down and explore it, but it would soon be dark. In any case, I didn’t want to roam too far. I was scared of getting lost. I turned back, over the ridge, and slithered back down to the cottage.
Going down such a steep slope was just as much effort as going up. I stopped for a moment, fearing I would go headfirst if I wasn’t careful. My foot had caught in something. I bent down and picked up a small piece of leather with a buckle attached. I turned it over in my hand, wondering what it could be. Too big to be off a shoe or jacket. Maybe it was part of a bag, or maybe even a harness for a horse or pony. I thought of a pony picking its way down this steep and narrow path, a packhorse, maybe, that had come over the bridge. Caught in the buckle was a knot of some material. As I tried to see what it was, it came unfolded and proved to be a short length of cherry-red velvet ribbon. Goodness knows how long it had been scrunched up with the leather. Yet, as it unrolled, it was still cheerily bright and as luxuriously soft as it must have been when it first got caught on the buckle, however many years ago. Odd. I stroked it as I made my way back to the cottage.
Even close up, under the lights, I could tell no more about the bit of leather, the buckle and the ribbon. It was a worthless bit of stuff, I imagined, but I couldn’t throw it away. Instead, I put it carefully on the windowsill with the other finds, my contribution to the house and its history.
I lit the fire again—easy-peasy now I knew what I was doing—but as I curled up on the sofa and gazed into the flames, all I could see was a laughing footballer with a gorgeous grin. I got up and switched on the television. How dare he invade my head?
The photographer carefully placed the last box of photographic plates into the corner of the cart, sandwiched it in with his battered carpetbag and deftly tied down the tarpaulin that covered it all. Once again he checked the buckles and straps on the harness of the sturdy little pony and climbed into the narrow seat.
He longed to be away from the town with its dark narrow streets and the people who plagued him. He yearned for fresh air, open spaces, and subjects for his camera more interesting than the parade of the town’s traders, their fat wives and their spoilt children. Every day the families would come in, sit in the chair, just so, standing behind the pile of books, or the globe or the potted plant or the painted rustic scene which he supplied to furnish the photograph. He should be grateful to them that they enabled him to live well enough to buy the latest new equipment, which fascinated him. But he wanted to use his camera for more interesting things to record for posterity.
He picked up the reins. ‘Walk on, girl, walk on. We’re off adventuring again.’
Chapter Seven (#ulink_5e2ccdd8-2955-5dd5-9905-a3268879969c)
The cheese-maker took some finding. There was no sat-nav in the van, of course, so I was following the map. Trouble was that some of the roads were so small that either they weren’t on the map or they just didn’t look like roads. And they don’t do an A-Z of bits of moors and hills. Finally I crawled up a steep and narrow road with a dry-stone wall on one side and a high hedge on the other. I just prayed I didn’t meet anyone coming towards me because I wasn’t sure if I could back up to one of the passing places.
But it was worth it: the lady was terrific. She and her husband had inherited an old family recipe—the last in existence—for High Dales cheese and had started off making it in a bucket in the kitchen of their city-centre semi. They finally got it right, moved to a farm, made tons of cheese, won awards and made it famous. It was a great story, perfect for The Foodie. Even worth putting on the white overall, hat and hairnet I needed to go into the dairy with its rows of cheeses stacked on the shelves. Back in their office, they put a generous plateful of samples of their cheeses out for me to try. I asked questions and scribbled the answers while nibbling at a chunk of light, salty, crumbly cheese. Wonderful. They gave me some samples to take home with me too. Cheese on toast for supper.
When I told the cheese-maker where I was staying and that I had to call in to The Miners’ Arms to use the Internet, she promptly went back into the dairy and brought me out a huge chunk of cheese, which she wrapped in tinfoil and stuck in the bag with the others she’d given me.
‘Dexter Metcalfe is a good customer of ours and that’s a new cheese we’ve been trying—made with nettles. Give this to him and tell him to let me know what he thinks. He knows his food, does Dexter.’
‘They’re shooting today,’ said Becca as soon as I walked in. She was pulling pints for a group of walkers. ‘Dennis the gamekeeper went past in his smart shooting suit and Len went past with the beaters in the game cart. Do you think they’ll call in afterwards?’
‘Who? The beaters?’ I asked, baffled, not even totally sure what beaters did.
‘No, silly, Clayton and Alessandro.’ I loved the way their names slipped so casually off her tongue, as if she’d known them for ever.
‘Shouldn’t think so. They’ve probably got food and drink enough where they are,’ I replied, cross that she assumed I was just as interested in the two footballers as she was. As if I’d even thought of them at all.
‘Mmmm…It would be good, though, wouldn’t it?’ Becca was going dreamy over the pumps.
‘Becca, they’re only footballers,’ I said. ‘They’re good at running round in shorts kicking a ball. Like small boys, only paid more. They’re not finding a cure for cancer.’
Yikes! I sounded just like my mother. Now that was a scary thought.
While I waited to use the computer, I sat with a coffee—definitely a coffee this time—and flicked through the papers. Despite what I’d been saying to Becca, for the first time in my life, I started with the sports pages. But there were no pictures of Clayton Silver, nor Alessandro. It was full of pictures of other footballers from other teams who had been playing the night before. I turned back quickly to the main pages, as if I hadn’t actually meant to look at the sports pages, skipped over the serious stuff and studied the gossip columns. But there were more pictures of the girl from the nightclub.
‘That Foxy model seems to have well and truly vanished,’ I said vaguely to Becca as I turned the pages.
