Part 15 (1/2)

'I'll remember that,' I said as I put my mug on the draining board, thanked Kate for the coffee and went back out into the cold.

But I didn't remember, of course.

Although I kept checking my phone, there was still no message from Clayton. Back in The Miners' Arms at lunchtime, I checked through all the papers. Those pictures again. And yes, he did not look his best. He'd hate that, I thought. Really hate it. Most of the comments were good humoured. There were a couple of good cartoons too. But in one or two there was just that underlying niggle of the 'no-smoke-without-fire' school of journalism that would make you think that maybe Clayton Silver was involved in something dodgy. They linked him with Sim Maynard's questionable dealings too. I thought back to the men he'd met the day of the helicopter trip. And all that Jake had warned me about. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was being ridiculously naive. Maybe I'd been just like everyone else and fallen under the spell of a rich football star. I almost threw the papers across the room, just as Becca came in for her s.h.i.+ft.

'I've finished the scarf for your mum,' she said, handing me a carrier bag.

I opened it and pulled out the most wonderful scarf. It was black, as I'd asked, but tucked into the lacy pattern was a riot of brightly coloured flowers-vivid pinks, scarlets and purples, almost but not quite clas.h.i.+ng and looking gloriously vibrant. And at the centre of each one was a piece of cherry-red velvet, so bright that it seemed almost to glow.

'Is that all right?' asked Becca anxiously. 'It was the best way I could think of using the velvet.'

'It's brilliant, Becca, absolutely brilliant!' I said. Despite the black background it was wonderfully cheerful, the sort of scarf that made you smile just to look at.

'Mum will love it,' I said. How could she not? 'I can't wait to give it to her. In fact...' I had to go down to the next village to the little shop and post office for bread and milk. 'I'll send it to her today. It'll cheer her up.' I looked at it happily as I carefully put it back in its carrier bag and then got out my purse to pay Becca.

'And tell me all about Sandro.'

'Oh, he is just so nice,' said Becca, blus.h.i.+ng. 'He's rung twice and he just likes to talk. I think he gets a bit lonely. He lives in this block of flats where there was another Italian footballer, but he's moved away. He's learning to play golf because a lot of players do that and he's never played before, so he's hoping he can join in. Clayton took him to a driving range for practice last week. Did he tell you?'

'No. He didn't mention that.'

'Sandro said it was good fun. He likes Clayton.'

I felt unaccountably pleased. Though why should it matter to me, especially as he hadn't called?

'Look, I don't seem to be able to get hold of Clayton. If Sandro rings again, will you ask him how Clayton is, for me, please?'

'Of course. But I don't think he'll ring today. They've got a big match tomorrow, so they'll be travelling. But if he does, yes, of course I will.'

I went off to the post office. There was a sampler there too. G.o.d helps those who help themselves, it said. Only underneath someone had added: '...but not from the stock, please,' which made me smile. I posted the packet to my mum, stocked up on bread and milk and ham and some locally made chutney, went back to the cottage and started writing up the piece about the monks and their orchard, while I munched on ham sandwiches. I took a break and listened to The News Quiz. It was full of jokes about Clayton. Somehow, I didn't think he'd find them funny...

This time he wanted to take her a present. But had no idea what. His wife had always been easy to buy presents for-brooches and ornaments, frivolous things for show. But Matilda Allen was different. He thought about it as he printed up the last of the photographs before he set out on his journey again. He would like to buy her a shawl, not the practical one she wore as she went about her work, but a splendid shawl in extravagant reds to pick up and chime with her hair.

But she wouldn't like that. Too personal, too premature. In the meantime, perhaps there was some small thing, neither too personal nor too practical, that would be a suitable gift. He went back into the shop area at the front of the studio and then stopped. Of course. She had photographs of her sons but they were tucked away in her Bible. He would take her some frames. Then she could be surrounded by pictures of them. Just the thing. He picked out a selection from the stock in the large cabinet in the shop.

Next morning as he walked round to the stable to harness up the pony and load up the cart, he had to tuck in to the narrow pavement to let the brewery dray and its heavy s.h.i.+re horses pa.s.s. As he squeezed into the haberdasher's doorway, his eye fell towards the window and its crowded display. One small section caught his attention. Quickly, before he had time to think about it and change his mind, he ducked in through the tiny door.

Chapter Nineteen.

The wind whipped around the cottage and icy rain slashed against the windows. I felt sorry for the sheep. And even more sorry for Kate Alderson, buzzing around on the quad bike, taking feed up to them. I snuggled back down under my duvet, knowing that down at the farm they had been out in the weather for hours. I had one more interview to do-a farmer's wife who made proper puddings, sticky toffee, lemon and ginger, and gooey chocolate, all in a converted barn-and then I could go home again. I was tempted to nip down to London and just come back up, but that seemed a bit feeble just to escape from the weather. While I was here I could do more research for other pieces that I could come back up and do another time-in the summer, perhaps. Did they have summer up here? It seemed hard to believe right now. I pushed the duvet back and plodded off to the shower. If I wanted communication with the world, I was going to have to drive to find it.

No word from Clayton, though the papers were full of him again. Apparently he'd played brilliantly the night before. 'He may not be a terrorist, but he certainly terrified the opposition,' was the general theme. Simeon Maynard was in the news too. A couple of his deputies had left his companies with no warning. 'Are these rats deserting the sinking s.h.i.+p while the vultures begin to circle?' asked one paper with a wonderful rag-bag of mixed metaphors. The more serious newspapers were talking of investigations by the Serious Fraud Office and the Department of Trade and Industry. I wondered how Jake was getting on with his own investigations.

I had plenty of time to read the papers. The foul weather meant that the pub was practically deserted. Dexter was trying to do some paperwork.

'Aren't you tempted to go back to full-time photography?' I asked idly, looking at some of the colour supplement pages, and thinking what a cracking job he'd made of the Matty pictures.

'Yes and no. Yes because I enjoy it. It's what I do. What I am. But no, not the same as I was doing before. I've been there, done that, and b.u.g.g.e.red up a marriage partly because of it. Or married the wrong woman in the first place. I want to take pictures but I don't want my old life.' He shrugged. 'Something will work out.' Again he pushed his hair out of his eyes. 'b.l.o.o.d.y hair,' he muttered. 'Must get it cut.'

'I'll cut it for you,' said Becca brightly, coming in from the kitchen with mugs of tea for us. 'I'll do it now, if you like. After all,' she looked round the empty bar, 'we're not exactly rushed off our feet.'

'Are you safe with scissors?' Dexter asked warily.

'Had a Sat.u.r.day job at Through the Looking Gla.s.s. I've cut hair loads of times. And let's face it,' she looked witheringly at his tangled curls, 'I can't make it much worse, can I? When did you last have it cut?'

'Um, for my dad's funeral, I suppose.'

'Dexter, that was a year ago! Get in the back now! Tilly-shout ifwe have a customer.'

While the back room was turned into a salon, I settled at the computer. There was a nice email from my mother thanking me for the scarf. 'Wonderful to think that there is still such talent in a place like Hartstone Edge,' she said. 'It is so bright and cheerful I am looking forward to wearing it.'

Bright and cheerful? Mum sounded positively chirpy. Maybe the accident and the enforced rest had done her some good.

After about twenty minutes, Becca appeared in the bar. 'Are you ready for the transformation?' she asked. Dexter followed her, looking a bit embarra.s.sed but totally different. Becca had done a great job. Dexter's hair now lay in crisp flat curls close to his head. The new cut emphasised his strong features and made him somehow look more purposeful. I'd always thought he was quite good looking, but now I could actually see his face and his wide grey eyes I realised he was handsome-in a rugged, lived-in sort of way. Becca raised her eyebrows and gave me a quick conspiratorial grin as we admired him.

'Thanks, Becca. I can see where I'm going now,' said Dexter as he came and sat next to me at the other computer. 'The paperwork can wait. I'm going to get on with this.' And he gestured towards a huge pile of old photos, part of the project that he'd been raving about with Matty.

'How many have you got there?' I asked. 'You must have hundreds!'

'Word's got round that I'm interested,' he said. 'People keep turning up with them. There were two sisters in yesterday brought me this lot...' He held up a bulging carrier bag. '...They've been clearing out their mother's house and found all these. They've kept a few, but didn't know what to do with the rest so gave them to me. They heard I was collecting.'

'Are you?'

'Well, yes, although I never thought it would take off like this. Some of these are brilliant. Lots of old family snaps, of course, but others that go back a hundred years or more, portraits and pictures of people at work. Obviously a professional photographer was going round capturing ”picturesque” scenes. Fascinating. Some of them are a bit fragile, so that's why I'm scanning them in, so at least we'll have permanent records of them.'

'Pity there's nowhere to display them.'

'Exactly. Oh, there are a few in a couple of the local museums, and you can buy prints of some of them, the most famous ones. Everyone has that Granny Allen and her Bible picture. But it would be great to have a proper display.'

'How are you doing matching up people and their ancestors?'

'That's really taken off as well. I took a picture of those sisters on the steps of the old chapel. Their parents were married there, so we have the wedding photo. That's good because, not only does it show the family, but it shows how the chapel's changed too. It looks very sad now compared with its glory days.'

I tried to imagine what it must have been like when the chapel had been full of people belting out hymns.

With nothing better to do-and perhaps because I was still hoping Clayton might ring-I stayed in the pub for the rest of the morning, helping Dexter with the pictures as he tried to sort them into groups. The faces were fascinating-a man and a boy cutting peat, a boy lying back with his leg in a sort of splint. He was knitting and staring, fascinated, at the camera.

'It must be odd to have so many professional pictures of a place like Hartstone,' I said, as I put some more into the 'Farm workers' folder. 'He must have made a few trips up here, because these are taken at different times of year.' The boy and the horse were taken against a light covering of snow. Some of the others looked as though they were taken in high summer. Others could be any time.

'Something must have kept the photographer coming back.'

'Something-or someone.'

We got on with the sorting and scanning. Dexter seemed to have set himself a pretty enormous task. An email pinged in for me. 'From Matty,' I said, surprised.

'Oh, what does she say?' asked Dexter eagerly.