Part 26 (1/2)

'Then it's time to go home,' he said, reaching round me, kissing me and scrabbling in his jacket pocket for his phone to call a car. As he pulled the phone out, so a tiny piece of material came out with it. The tiny sc.r.a.p of velvet I had managed to tug off the tree all those months ago, the velvet that had helped me find my way through the fog. It must have stayed trapped in the bottom of the pocket where I had pushed it on that awful night.

Now it fluttered high in the air and seemed to glow in the light of the streetlamp. I reached out and caught it and tucked it safely into the pocket of my jeans as Clayton bent down and took me in his arms again.

'This is the beginning, Miss Tilly,' he said. 'Just the beginning.'

Chapter Thirty-Two.

The chapel looked wonderful. It had been cleaned, repaired, restored and once again stood grey and imposing and solid against the harsh background of the dale.

Inside it soared upwards to a blue and gold ceiling. Deep arched windows let in shafts of summer sun, bouncing off the newly painted white walls and filling the vast s.p.a.ce with light.

'And look at this,' said Matty triumphantly as she picked out one of the photos in the centre of a display.

'It's you!' I said.

'No, Miss Tilly, it's you!' said Clayton.

'Good grief,' said my mother, 'it's Kate.'

We all looked again. The photograph showed a tall, strong-faced woman standing in a fellside garden on a hot summer's day. She stood upright, gazing calmly, steadily at the camera. Even in the faded black and white you could see the sunburn on her face and arms. And a long lock of hair had come loose and curled down around her throat. She seemed unable to do anything about it, as she was standing in the doorway carrying a heavy enamel jug in both hands.

'Is she actually smiling at the camera?' I asked.

'Looks like it, doesn't it?' said Matty, her eyes swarming over the pictures, taking in every detail. 'But it isn't Mum. It's Granny Allen. As we've never seen her before. Amazing. Really amazing.'

'Where did the picture come from?' I wanted to know.

'Some old chap brought it in. It was in a bundle in an old house that had been a photographer's studio. There are more, too, but we need to do some work on them before we can show them. But they're all her and they're all completely different from any others of her. All by the same photographer. Goodness knows why they were kept. Or why they were so different. I've no idea.'

I looked at the expression in the last picture. Of Matilda Allen's half-smile, the amused glance. That smile wasn't for the camera, that smile was for the photographer.

'Oh, I don't know,' I said, suddenly seeing Granny Allen in a totally new light. 'I think we can make a good guess.'

The band played, the sun shone, the ladies of the chapel and the WI staggered back and forth with plates piled high with home-baked cakes and quiches, pies and pastries, tarts and trifles, sausages and sandwiches, cheeses and chicken legs, buns and biscuits.

Becca was das.h.i.+ng between The Miners' Arms and the chapel, helping where she could. As she nipped over to the chapel with a tray full of extra cutlery, I could hear her babbling to herself in Italian. She was off with Sandro a few days later to stay with his mother and sister for a few weeks.

'Oh, help. I'll never make a good impression. My Italian's still pathetic,' she fretted.

'Even with all that one-to-one tuition?' I grinned.

'Oh, don't! I'm sure he's taught me things that are quite unsuitable to say to his mother,' Becca wailed, bustling off with the cutlery.

Elsewhere, Alessandro and Clayton were signing autographs and chatting to groups of football fans. Matty was being filmed for a TV special. Dexter was talking enthusiastically to a girl from a colour supplement, and hordes of people were oohing and aaahing over their family pictures. Goodness knows when there had last been so many people at Hartstone.

An American was gazing intently at the photographs. 'We've got a picture of Granny Allen back home,' he said. 'She was my great-great-great grandmother, but she looks real fierce in her photo, with her Bible. Not like this. Hey,' he said suddenly, looking at us. 'You guys must be my relations. Some sort of cousins.'

Before long he was organizing us for a photograph. There was Matty and Dexter, Mum and Bill, me and Clayton, Becca and Sandro, laughing in the old chapel against a background of photographs. The sun streamed in and people milled about, eating, drinking and enjoying themselves.

'I wonder,' said Matty, wrapping her arms round Dexter and kissing him happily. 'I wonder what Granny Allen would say.'