The Lost Guide To Life And Love Part 23

I followed the car through the gates. Clayton jumped out, yelling 'G'night mate' at the driver, and then motioning me into the house and up into the sitting room with the wonderful Iolo John painting. It seemed a lifetime ago that I'd gone to sleep on one of the orange sofas and Clayton had so carefully placed a duvet over me.

Standing in front of me now, he looked tired. He didn't have his usual starry glow, that gloss of success and self-confidence. Too many late nights out drinking. Too many lost matches. Too many failures at football and cards. Not to mention the driving ban.

'So Tilly, what do you want?' His tone was sharp.

'I just heard about the driving ban. I suppose it was that morning you were taking me for the train?'

He nodded.

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. No point. You were yelling at me to slow down.'

'I know, but...I've been thinking about you. I needed to clear something up.' I didn't really know how to go on.

Clayton said nothing. All signs of 'Quicksilver', of his sparky, drawly, mischievous conversation, had vanished. He just stood looking at me, waiting. He had, I realised, not offered me a drink, not even a cup of tea, certainly no little cakes. Hadn't even invited me to sit down. So I didn't. This was not a good meeting. But I was here, so I'd better say what I'd come to say.

'That night in Ravensike Lodge.'

'You did well that night. You're OK now?' His voice held the tiniest tiny spark of emotion and I clung to that.

'Ooh, um yes. Oh,' I said, suddenly remembering, 'thank you for the flowers.'

'Glad you got them. But I guess you weren't waiting out in the cold to tell me that. So what is it?'

I couldn't think of what I wanted to say, or how to say it politely, so instead the words just tumbled out. 'That girl, the one who said you were the father of her sister's baby, was she telling the truth?'

'No.'

There was a silence. Then Clayton asked, 'Was there anything else you wanted to know?'

'It was just that she was so sure.'

'And even though she was so drunk she couldn't stand, that she was screaming like a banshee and was also probably stoned out of her skull, you were ready to believe her? Just like that?'

'Well, no. Well, I suppose I mean yes. I was. But I didn't...' I was beginning to feel as though I might have got something horribly wrong.

Clayton sighed and suddenly I felt so desperately sorry for him and wished I could restore him to his Quicksilver self, with his daft and lively show-off chat.

'I thought we were friends, Tilly,' he said wearily. 'I thought we had something good. I'd never met anyone like you and I talked to you like I've never talked to anyone else. It was special. Then some drunken tart appears out of nowhere and oh yes, in a second you'd rather believe her than me. Hey, I thought you'd got to know me, yeah? You don't know a thing about her. Or her sister. But never mind, you still think she's more reliable than I am. Well great, Tilly. Thanks a lot.'

It would have been so much easier if he'd been angry. But his face was expressionless, his voice almost toneless. He could have been made from wood.

'You had this little place in your brain that said "flash footballer" and you fitted me right in there. Didn't matter what I was really like, did it? You weren't going to bother to find out. All that talking we'd done, just a waste of breath, wasn't it?'

He was right. My face burned. I'd been too quick to decide what he was like, completely ignored what I'd got to know about him, just on the basis of one drunken girl.

'So why was she saying such things? Why should she say them if they weren't true?' My attempt at outrage sounded feeble.

'Oh G.o.d, Tilly. Because she's mad? Because she's stoned? Because she just likes causing trouble? Don't ask me, ask her. Not that you'd get any sense out of her. Look,' he sighed again, 'if you really want to know, here's the story. Ten years ago, yes, I did have a little thing going with her sister. I was a kid, just making a name for myself. There were lots of women. I was having fun. She was one of them and I saw her for a few weeks, maybe two months. End of.

'Two years later, I'm with Shadwell, yeah?, going great. This woman suddenly appears back on the scene with a baby, tries to tell me I'm his father. But I know I'm not. The dates are sort of right, but only just. And don't tell me I was the only guy she was sleeping with. I'm not that stupid. But she reckoned that because I was the flavour of the month at the time-in the papers, on TV, the lot-that I was an easy touch; that I would just pay up. But I didn't. So I asked for blood tests and such and it was like I thought. The baby wasn't mine.

'Do you really think I would walk away if I thought I had a son? Whatever stupid cow was his mother? No way. I thought you would have known that. I really did-you of all people...'

'I did really,' I said. 'Once I had a chance to think about it. I guess that's why I came today. To ask you and to say I'm sorry. You're right, I just leapt to the wrong conclusions. I should never have doubted you.'

'No. You shouldn't.'

'I don't know why I did. And I'm very sorry. I really am. I should have known better, should have known you better.'

'Right. OK.'

We were still standing, awkwardly, in this huge s.h.i.+p-like room, looking out at the lights of London.

'Anything else you want to know?'

'No, I guess not. But, I should tell you...' Suddenly I didn't want to say what I'd done. 'I sold the necklace.'

He gave me a hard look.

'I sold it for five thousand pounds. I think the man will sell it on for a lot more.' I was gabbling, spoke quickly, anxiously, to tell the story. 'I gave the money to charities. One of my mother's Fairtrade projects and Ted Blake's charity too.'

His expression relaxed and he nodded. 'Right. I'll let you out.' He walked out of the room and down the glorious curving wooden stairs.

'I'm sorry,' I said to his back, 'about the club going through such a hard time. It can't be easy.'

'It's not.'

'How did it go today?'

'We lost of course. But we're getting used to that. Too used.' He shrugged. I could see the ripple of muscles under his jacket. 'We ain't got no players. n.o.body gives a toss. Caretaker coach is clueless. No one knows what's going to happen. Half the team will be gone in January. We're playing with kids.' He stopped on the stairs and briefly turned round to me. 'But maybe today we weren't total c.r.a.p. Maybe there's the makings of a team there. But it's a long way off yet. And it'll all change soon.'

He was opening the front door for me.

'There's just one more thing,' I said, as a blast of cold air swirled in. If this was the last time I was going to see Clayton Silver, I might as well get my two-penn'orth in. 'It's just to say that I really enjoyed the times we spent together,' I said. 'I'm very glad I met you. I just wish I'd had the chance to get to know you better. I hope everything works out in all this mess and that you can get the team back together, or move on, or whatever you want.'

'That it?'

'No.' Deep breath. Last chance. 'You look tired and not particularly healthy. You look as though you're drinking too much and not eating properly and goodness knows what else. I just wish you'd look after yourself properly-or let Maria look after you. I don't understand what's going on in the club, but if everyone's going to be transferred after Christmas, surely you need to be at peak fitness otherwise no one will want you. But for your own sake, mostly. The club may be collapsing around you, but, oh Clayton, you're too good to waste.'

I wanted to shake him, slap him, hug him-get him out of this awful, defeated state. I couldn't bear it. 'Where's Quicksilver?' I was almost shouting now. 'He seems to have vanished when everyone needs him most. The club might be ruined, but you don't have to be ruined with it...Don't throw it all away. Please don't.'

I paused for breath, frustrated at my inability to get through to him. 'Have you spoken to Denny? What does he say? He wouldn't think much of the way you're going on, would he?'

Finally, I ran out of steam. All I could say was, 'Take care of yourself. Please.'

Clayton was staring at me impa.s.sively. 'Quite finished now, have you?'

'Yes.'

'I'll open the gates for you.'

'Right. Thank you.'

I'd said my bit and much good it had done me, but at least I'd said it. I went out into the dark. The security lights blazed and the huge gates opened out for me. I looked back to wave goodbye at Clayton but he'd already gone in and the door was shut. The gates closed behind me. The light faded. I'd done what I'd come for. I'd said my piece. I'd told the truth and shamed the devil. Ha!

The only truth I knew now-too late-was that I had misjudged Clayton. Somewhere in that h.e.l.lish Halloween party I had got it horribly wrong. Made the wrong judgements.

Now Clayton was going through a nightmare and I could do nothing to help him. He needed someone to get him through this bleak time. But it wasn't going to be me.

I walked off in search of a bus stop, my chin tucked into the scarf, stamping along the road in a fury with myself.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Polly's brother's engagement party was OK. I managed fine. There were plenty of people there I knew and they were all pleased to see me. One or two of them, who hadn't seen me since the accident, asked about the Halloween adventures. But I was able to say to them, 'Thanks for asking but I really want to forget about it now.' So I had a few gla.s.ses of wine, nibbled some juicy king prawns in chilli dip, and I talked to friends, and danced with a couple of blokes, all very easy and no pressure. I was almost enjoying myself. It was good to be in a party that was just so normal.

In the kitchen, talking to Polly's brother about possible wedding dates, I suddenly heard Clayton's name mentioned above my head. I looked up, baffled, and realised that someone had switched on the small flat-screen TV above the microwave.

'Missed the footie results earlier,' said a chap who had been a year or two ahead of me in school. 'Just catching up with the sports news now.'

I looked up at the screen. Three football pundits in sharp suits were sitting in squashy armchairs discussing one of the day's matches.

'Well, it might have been a two-two draw, but it was a real triumph for Shadwell. They can be proud of themselves. Their first point for seven weeks.'

'Their first goal for seven weeks,' chirped up another pundit. 'And it was all down to Clayton Silver. He never stopped. He was all over the pitch. He wasn't playing just his own game but everyone else's too. Encouraging, cajoling, shouting-a real captain's game. And boy did it work.'

'Yes,' said the third. 'There was a young team out there tonight-let's face it, all the experienced players are either injured or on remand. The manager and his a.s.sistant have gone. Half the backroom staff have left. Dreadful atmosphere at the club, but you'd never guess that from their performance tonight. Silver seemed to inspire those youngsters.'

'Maybe we were all a bit premature in writing off Shadwell.'

'Well, they've still got a mountain to climb, a terrific mountain to climb, but on the evidence of tonight's performance, at least they're in with a chance. Here's what Clayton Silver had to say when our reporter spoke to him after the match...'

As they cut to the interview, someone switched off the television, but I felt strangely proud that he'd done so well. I wished I could tell him in person. But he had made it quite clear he didn't want to speak to me again.

I hoped all that praise he was getting from the TV commentators would restore some of the Clayton Silver gloss. I went back to discussing wedding plans with Jamie, and it was as if seeing Clayton doing well had lifted one tiny worry from my shoulders.

Next day I was glancing at the sports pages while I was waiting for the kettle to boil. They were all singing Clayton's praises.

I couldn't go round to see him again. That was an absolute no-no. Maybe I could call? No, too embarra.s.sing. I didn't have his email address. Text? Yes, maybe. But then I remembered Bill when he set off on his grown-up gap year. He had sent my mother lots of postcards as well as emails. Pretty postcards with funny short messages and drawings on the back. Some of them had almost made her smile before she threw them away.

I found a card-one of a London bus that I meant to send to an American friend-and wondered what to write on it. Finally I drew a little stick man holding up a scarf saying Shadwell and just wrote, 'Well done.'

It seemed a bit inadequate. I looked at it. Was it a really stupid thing to do? Would Clayton think I was just being annoying? I went out and posted it quickly, before I could have second thoughts.

Their next match was another draw. I sent another postcard. A London policeman this time. I drew two little stickmen waving their scarves. 'Keep on keeping on!' I wrote.

Clayton probably thought I was mad. But he could always throw the cards in the bin.

For weeks she trod the path between her own house and her son's with an extra briskness. As she tended to her increasingly ailing daughter-in-law, or worked with her son, sometimes she would see someone on horseback or in a pony and trap and her heart would lift. But it was always someone going to the mine about official business. One day the photographer would come back. She knew that. And this time, she knew what she would say to him.

The weather changed in the sudden way it did in the dale. The fog came down. For days it had been so thick that it had seemed to be in the very house, pressing on everyone, making everything heavy with damp. The children were fretting and fractious. Their mother coughed endlessly and their father looked increasingly anxious. Everything was damp and dark, even at noon. The damp and cold seeped in through the very stones of the house. Carrying a bucket of milk, Matilda splashed across the slurry-covered yard between the cow byre and the kitchen door, her fingers frozen. Not even the very clever photographer could take his pictures when you could barely see across the yard.

Chapter Thirty.

It was an excellent Christmas. Mum had actually accepted Bill's invitation to spend it with him at his restaurant. I wasn't as astonished as I might have been. Though at first I felt a bit doubtful as the taxi drove through the nearly empty streets. Probably because Mum had gone very quiet. She stood in front of the bistro door, taking the deep breaths she does when she needs to calm herself. But she was wearing the red cashmere cardigan I'd bought her. She'd declared herself delighted with it, had insisted on wearing it to Bill's. She looked good in it and I was inordinately pleased, even though I could hardly get used to not seeing her in black. The world seemed to be s.h.i.+fting around me.

Suddenly the door flew open and there was Bill, beaming, a paper hat on his head and a sprig of holly tucked into the front of his chef 's ap.r.o.n. We could see relief on his face and smell delicious turkey smells from the kitchen and hear jolly choruses of 'G.o.d rest ye merry, gentlemen'.

'Happy Christmas!' said Bill, greeting us both with a kiss. 'I'm so pleased you've come at last. Frankie, you look wonderful. Oh and you too, Tilly,' he added hastily.

'Happy Christmas!' I said, handing him over the foodie gifts I'd brought-some of the sloe gin and chocolate-covered sloes I'd found up north-and thinking it odd that Mum hadn't brought him anything.

'Ooh thank you,' he said, weighing up the bottle in his hand. 'This seems interesting. I shall keep it to open later, if I may. In the meantime, let me introduce you.'

There was Ram, a tall Nigerian law student who was washer-up and kitchen porter and whose wife and children were still in Nigeria, Elsie who was tiny and ancient and who'd done Bill's admin since he'd very first set up on his own. Then there was Liz, a waitress who was about forty but looked older and had the sort of face that hinted at a life too dreadful to ask about.

I wondered if it would have been better if Mum and I had stayed at home and had our normal polite and peaceful time without these strangers.

Finally there was Declan: gay, Irish and, once again, between partners, but refusing to show he cared and putting on a sparkling performance.

'Tilly!' he whooped in greeting. 'And this must be the fabulous Frankie! Champagne?'

For the next hour or so he acted as host, master of ceremonies and lord of misrule, while a beaming Bill-refusing all offers of help-came in and out of the kitchen with plates of starters: little smoked salmon nibbles, skewered langoustines, scallops on the tiniest slivers of black pudding. And then the turkey and all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. And the pudding blazing away like something out of d.i.c.kens.

'Ooh, Bill, you're better than Mrs Cratchit!' said Declan, filling our gla.s.ses yet again. 'As Tiny Tim said, "G.o.d bless us every one!"'

We pulled crackers, told jokes, paid forfeits, drank lots more wine. Ram told us about his young son and the daughter he had not yet seen. Elsie told outrageous stories of her escapades during the war, and flirted with Ram, Declan and Bill equally enthusiastically. Liz said little but smiled quite a lot, which was nice to see. Declan became more outrageous and in the end even my mother began to laugh.

Using the tiny games that had come from the crackers, we played dominoes and snakes and ladders-my mother and Ram being the fiercest compet.i.tors of all; sang along to the carols; had chunks of cheese and some tiny mince pies that were delicious. And then coffee and brandy, until we were all too full to move and slumped, smiling, round the table.

We all offered to help Bill clear up, but he refused all offers, until finally he said, 'Well, all right then, Frankie, if you insist,' and the two of them disappeared into the kitchen with much chattering and more laughter. The world felt right. And I wished I hadn't drunk so much because I wanted to know if it really was like that and it wasn't just the wine.