The Lost Guide to Life and Love. Sharon Griffiths

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       Chapter Six

      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 СКАЧАТЬ