‘Oh, yes. Not much choice really. After college, I went to Leeds to work for an agency, then I had a few years in London, doing more and more work for myself, my own projects. Then I got married and moved up to Manchester…’
Married? Oh, maybe he wasn’t gay after all then.
‘…but then my marriage fell apart.’ Oh. Maybe he was…
‘…and then my dad died and I inherited this place. It had been let out for years. I didn’t really know what to do with it. But my wife—ex-wife—wanted her share of the Manchester house—like, immediately. She is one scary woman. So we sold that. And I was just wondering what to do, where to go, and then the tenants moved out of here so I thought I could spend the money doing this up. Have a sabbatical. Otherwise known as coming back to lick my wounds. Finding yourself orphaned and divorced in a matter of months concentrates the mind a bit. I needed time to think. And this seemed the best place to do it.’
He looked suddenly embarrassed, as if he’d said too much. I tried to think of something cheerful and positive to say.
‘You seem to have made a good job of it. The pub, that is.’
‘You think so? Thanks. I’m really pleased with the way it’s going. It’s just…well, it’s hard to get out taking pictures when you’re supervising builders, and talking to brewers and sourcing food and hiring staff. I want to make a go of this, but I want to get back to the day job too.’
‘But you’ve only been going a few months. In a few months more, you’ll really be established, then you can take up the day job again as well.’
‘Yeah, well, I hope so. Still, this always used to be a pub. Had a terrible reputation years ago, but then it closed and there’re no pubs in this end of the dale. One or two café, but not much for tourists and visitors. We want to bring money into the dale and this seemed one way to do it. Of course, it’s cost a lot more money, time and effort than I ever thought possible. But yes, I’m back.’
‘For ever?’
‘Who knows? For now at least.’
‘Back where you started.’
‘No, not really. Not even that.’ He looked sad for a moment. ‘Because while I’ve been messing up my life, other people have been moving on with theirs. Out of reach. And now it’s too late.’
‘It’s never too late,’ I said encouragingly, if rather fatuously, nodding at the sampler on the wall.
‘Sometimes it might be,’ he said, and shrugged and went into the back, returning with an armful of logs.
Oh dear. There was obviously a lost love in his past, but I didn’t know him well enough to enquire further. Sitting there at the bar, trying bits of food, just as I had yesterday, I noticed that Becca looked up hopefully every time the door opened, but it was just the usual groups of walkers, cyclists and people out for afternoon drives. I sent some texts, checked my emails, treated myself to a bowl of soup and a baguette. It was comfortable and cosy in the pub, but I had to go. I had the cheese-maker interview to write up. And it was getting dark.
‘If you get lonely up there, you can always come down in the evening, for a bit of company,’ said Dexter as he threw another log on the fire. The wood crackled and the sparks shot up. ‘Not so many visitors in the evening. More locals.’
‘Nice thought, but I’ve got work to do. Anyway, I’m not sure I would like to go through the ford or up that track in the dark.’
‘There’s always someone who’d give you a lift back up—if you don’t mind the back of a pick-up or a quad bike.’ He cleared my plates away and, with a wave to Becca, I went out into the gloom.
This time, drunk on neither wine nor exotic footballers, I managed the ford without any problem and PIP roared up the track. Already the house felt like home. I switched on all the lights, made myself a strong coffee and settled down to work. First of all I looked through my notes, marking good quotes, underlining parts, linking passages. Usually I worked in the office or at home with Jake to distract me. It’s amazing how much more work you can get done when there are no distractions.
Soon I opened up my laptop and started writing. The words flowed and the piece almost wrote itself. I finished the rough draft. That would do for tonight. I’d read it again and polish it in the morning. Like soup, a piece was always better when you’d left it to cook for a bit. I switched off the laptop, yawned and stretched. It was ten o’clock and I was suddenly hit with a wave of loneliness as well as fatigue.
If I’d been at home now, working at the table by the window in my little sitting room, Jake would probably have been there, working on his own laptop or sprawled on the sofa, flicking through the news or sports channels. He’d have brought me a glass of wine, maybe a little plate of cheese and biscuits or some hot buttered toast. And when I’d finished working, I would have cuddled up against him on the sofa.
I missed him. But was that because he was Jake, or just because he was someone, anyone, to be there? I was beginning to see that we’d just drifted into our relationship. Bits of it had been good. And I realised—almost for the first time, that yes, he brought me toast and cheese and things—but only when he fancied them for himself. And while I worked, Jake would lie there with the TV blaring, constantly flicking between channels. But if he was working and I wanted to watch something, he’d get cross, because how could he concentrate with all that noise? So I would read a book or listen to my iPod so he could work in peace. I’d been pretty dumb, hadn’t I? Not quite a doormat, but heading that way. Silly Tilly indeed.
I thought about it as I flexed my stiff shoulders, made my way upstairs and ran a hot, deep bath. And as I lay there, listening to the sheep—not scared at all now—I realised that yes, I was a little bit miffed that he could talk to Felicity, work with her and not me. So maybe my pride was a little bit dented. But my heart? I probed the idea and my heart like worrying a bad tooth. A twinge, maybe. But agony? No. I didn’t think so. I twiddled the tap with my toes and added a great gush of hot water and settled back comfortably. I could live without Jake.
The track was steep, the rain like icicles. The photographer dismounted and walked alongside the pony as they plodded up the bleak fellside and thought about the photographs he had taken that morning, an old man and a boy cutting peat. He thought he’d possibly caught an expression. He hoped so. He longed to get back to his studio, the darkroom, to find out. It was a lucky chance to find someone like that. The overseer at the small mine there hadn’t been too sure about photographs, nothing that would stop the men working. He would call back. But first he had to get into the next dale, get pictures of mines, machinery and the men who worked them.
The path was slippery now, partly from the driving rain and partly from the mud that flowed down from a ramshackle row of cottages that seemed to have grown up from the fellside and seemed ready to collapse back into it. One or two showed signs that the inhabitants had made an effort, with makeshift curtains made from sacking, but most were indistinguishable from the midden heaps behind them. Above him he could see another house. Even through the driving rain he could see it was in a better state than the others, with clean windows, a proper path and a tidy wall providing some slight shelter for a sparse vegetable plot. A bedraggled hen squawked as a tall woman emerged from the house carrying a bucket, which she filled from the water butt with one hand, the other holding a shawl over her head. She must have sensed the photographer looking at her, for she stopped and turned.
For a moment, despite the
