Читать книгу The Lost Guide to Life and Love - Sharon Griffiths - Страница 10

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.’