Part 16 (1/2)

'Judge not, that ye be not judged,' said one sternly, in neat little st.i.tches. though the message was a bit blurred behind the mottled, fly-specked gla.s.s. 'Pride goeth before a fall' and, 'Love thyself last' demanded others. I looked away to the tables below them.

'My G.o.d, what a feast!'

The tables were spread with endless plates piled high with sandwiches, fruit loaves, scones, cream cakes, fruit tarts, jam tarts, dishes of trifle, sausage rolls, plates of cheese, gingerbread, Victoria sponges, pies, quiches, fairy cakes, Swiss rolls. I had never seen so much food.

'Well, it's a celebration, la.s.s, isn't it?' said an old lady, clearly in her best coat, hat and pinny. 'You've got to make an effort.'

Celebration. And suddenly a thought for a whole new series for The Foodie magazine popped into my head. 'Celebration'-weddings, birthdays, chapel teas, Bar Mitzvahs, street parties, stag nights...My head filled with images of all sorts of food, from five-tiered wedding cakes with handmade decorations, to chocolate fountains, whole salmon, tapas, profiterole bombes or pork pies. Yes. What a wonderful last-page piece that would make. I would suggest it to Pete as soon as I got back. I was so busy treasuring the possibilities of this wonderful new idea that I didn't for a moment notice the slight ripple of anxiety around me.

'Where's the extra cups? And all the paper plates?'

'Gwen was going to get them, but she had to go to Kirby Stephen, their Emma's baby's on its way.'

'Has anyone else got them?'

'Eeh, I don't think so.'

With that an elderly man in a dog collar popped his head round the door. 'My goodness, what a spread,' he said. 'I always say that this chapel has the best anniversary tea in the dale.' And he clearly meant it. 'Right, the band's ready, so if you'd like to come through next door.'

'But what about the plates?' hissed one of the ladies. 'And all the extra cups?'

'I'll get them,' said Kate, doing her jacket up again.

'Where are they?' I asked.

'Just at The Miners'. Dexter said we could borrow extra from him. He got the plates for us too.'

'I'll go,' I said, 'if you don't mind me driving your car. Then you can go in to the service.'

Kate hesitated. But she wasn't one for s.h.i.+lly-shallying. 'Smas.h.i.+ng,' she said, handing over the keys. 'Dexter should have them all ready. And you can just sneak in the back later, if you like.'

With that the band struck up a rousing tune. The schoolroom emptied and I scampered out through the rain to Kate's car.

Dexter had all the cups, saucers and plates waiting on a table by the door. 'I was just about to bring them down myself,' he said. 'I was wondering what was happening.'

He helped me load them up and I drove carefully back down to the chapel. Once I'd staggered into the schoolroom with the box, I thought I might as well unpack them and set them out. Cup and saucer, cup and saucer, on the trestle tables covered with white sheets. The huge urn was hissing gently away. A line of teapots stood waiting, ready to be filled. A ramshackle collection of varied milk jugs and a big tin of Nescafe, a paper cup full of spoons. There was something so homely and timeless about it. It would make a lovely picture for the magazine.

From the chapel next door I could hear the bra.s.s band doing their stuff and the voices singing alongside. It was cheering. I wandered round the schoolroom, looking at the fly-specked samplers and faded photos-a Sunday school anniversary picnic from years ago, solemn little girls in pinafores, a presentation to somebody for something-lots of men in black suits and whiskers; an anniversary service from the 1950s-people overflowing down the steps and onto the road outside. The chapel was full today, but still nowhere near that full.

I was thinking of all the people who had lived in this dale and of how it was now emptying, with deserted houses, abandoned barns, when even above the triumphant playing in the chapel next door I could hear a strange noise. There it was again.

Oh G.o.d, it was my mobile. I was so rarely anywhere where there was reception these days that I just wasn't used to hearing its sound. How bizarre. I fumbled it out of my pocket.

'So is that the lady who got me into so much trouble?' His voice was deep and throaty with the hint of a laugh.

'Clayton! Oh G.o.d, I am just so sorry. Was it dreadful? Have you had a lot of stick about it? I felt so awful, if I hadn't fallen asleep-'

'You try and give me back my present. You fall asleep on me. You get me arrested.'

'I know, I know, I'm sorry.' The band and congregation next door were now belting out 'Rejoice, in the name of the Lord!' at full volume. It was a bizarre accompaniment.

'So what happened? I mean, you were only a minute, weren't you?'

'Nah. I got a cab right back to the house, yeah? But when we got to the gates, I didn't have the remote control-that's in the cars.'

'But there's a keypad at the side, isn't there?'

'Yeah. But I couldn't remember the number. It's in my phone. And my phone was in the car, and the car was at King's Cross, wasn't it? And the taxi driver guy was getting really antsy by now.'

Luckily Maria, dear little Maria, had come out to feed the birds and seen him and let him in so he could get his wallet.

'So I just let the cab take me straight back, but we must have been gone-oh, I don't know, maybe an hour by then. And when I went to my car, there were all these bollards and barriers round it and a load of police. That's when they took me in.'

'But surely if you really were a terrorist, you wouldn't come back to get your car?'

'Right. I told them that, but would they listen? Would they s.h.i.+te. So we had to go through the whole thing: what was I doing, why had I left my car, why had I gone off and abandoned it. Why why why.'

'Oh gosh. Were they horrible?' For a moment I imagined police brutality and torture tactics.

'Nah,' Clayton laughed. 'Not really. One was a bit of a little Hitler but the other two were OK. They knew it was just a c.o.c.k-up. At the end I had to fill in a form to say if I thought I'd been unfairly questioned or discriminated against.'

'So what did you say?'

'I said yes-because the guys were all Spurs supporters. They thought that was pretty cool really and asked for my autograph...and not just on the form. The worst part was all the guys at training taking the p.i.s.s out of me. And some of the supporters at the game on Friday.'

'But you played brilliantly. I read the match reports.'

'Did you? Yeah, well, I thought I'd show them what they could do with their jokes: stuff 'em right where the sun don't s.h.i.+ne.'

'You seem so relaxed about it! I was getting worried when you weren't answering your phone. I thought you must be really angry about what had happened.'

'Well, yeah, it wasn't good. And those pictures in the papers! How can I be the king of cool looking like that?' he laughed. 'It'll be a nice story for the autobiography, though, won't it?'

I could feel a great weight lifting from my shoulders. If Clayton could laugh about it, I needn't feel guilty. It had taken him a few days to sort it out in his head, but now he was laughing at himself. I was, I realised, grinning myself.

'So where are you now, Miss Tilly the Terrorist?'

'I'm up north. Actually in chapel at the moment. There's a service going on the other side of the wall.'

'You're in chapel?' He sounded surprised. 'Are you a church lady too?'

'Not at all. Just helping out.'

'But you're up north, yeah? With all the sheep?'

'Yes that's right.'