Sharon Griffiths - The Lost Guide to Life and Love

As the helicopter came down by Ravensike Lodge, I looked out anxiously for the shooting parties, but they were out of sight, thank goodness. I didn’t think that the gamekeeper would take too kindly to a helicopter buzzing through his carefully driven birds. We got out, the rotor blades slowed down gradually to silence. The pilot walked off with a wave and Clayton and I were still standing there, with only the sound of the sheep.

‘Thank you for lunch,’ I said. ‘And the helicopter ride.’

‘It was a pleasure,’ replied Clayton. ‘Are you OK to get home from here? If not, I can get someone to drive you.’ He nodded his head towards the house.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks. It’s been good.’ And it had. I was surprised at how much I’d enjoyed myself. When he wasn’t showing off, Clayton Silver could be OK, really. I supposed.

‘Hey, I guess I’d better have your number, yeah?’

‘Well, yes. If you think…I mean…Well, why not?’

He took out his desperately stylish phone, keyed something in and then handed it to me.

I saw that he’d typed ‘Miss Tilly’. I tapped in my number and I resisted the urge to scroll down through his other numbers. I didn’t want to seem too keen, so I just smiled and handed it back to him, as if it were neither here nor there.

He put his phone in his pocket, then put his arms round me and kissed me, first on the cheek and then on the mouth, just lightly but very nicely indeed. I didn’t want to enjoy it. But I did. Quite a lot. I tried to look indignant but I failed.

‘I’m glad you could join me,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed the conversation and I just loved making you go pink!’ And, of course, I immediately went bright pink again. I was cross with myself. Cross with him. He laughed and added insult to injury by kissing my cheek once more before turning and loping back up the drive and in through the gates of Ravensike Lodge, which opened magically as he approached. I expect famous footballers get used to that sort of fairy-tale thing.

The house was sparse, but clean. It had a flagged floor scattered with pegged rugs and a fire burned cheerfully in the range. As the photographer’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed with surprise a small selection of books on a shelf by the window, and, in a chair by the fire, a boy of about eight or nine, his leg wrapped in makeshift bandages round a wooden splint, resting on a stool. The boy seemed to be knitting. He turned to look at the stranger.

‘My youngest,’ said the woman. ‘He hurt his leg in a fall and cannot yet get back to work.’ She dipped her head and shrugged off her shawl. He almost gasped at the sight of her hair—a rich red auburn. As she shook her shawl, one thick lock of her hair came loose and fell gently down around her throat. Impatiently, she pinned it back and he marvelled at the elegance of her movement. He could, he thought, have been looking at one of the society women who came to his studio to be photographed, not someone scraping a living in this wild dale. She nodded in the direction of the boy. ‘Until he’s back at work he can knit and make himself useful that way.’

She went to the fire, stirred something in the pot, tasted it and looked at the boy. ‘You can have your broth now.’ The boy’s face lit up.

The woman looked at the photographer. ‘You’re welcome to a drop.’

‘That would be very kind.’ He was cold and wet and some broth would indeed be wonderful, but he knew there wasn’t much food to spare in this household. ‘But only a drop, please, Mrs…’

‘Allen. Matilda Allen.’

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