Her long skirt and shawl were the colours of the fellside behind her. She seemed made of the very soil and rock.
‘Good afternoon!’ said the photographer cheerily through the rain, touching his hand to his dripping hat.
‘Never so good for taking pictures,’ said the woman.
‘Ah, you already know my business in the dale.’
‘Word travels.’
She would, he knew, make an admirable subject for his camera. Just so, with the steep and narrow track beside her and the towering expanse of hill behind. He touched his hat again. ‘Would you be interested in a photographic portrait?’ he asked.
She looked down at him and for a brief second seemed almost amused at the thought. Then her mouth hardened again. ’ “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” says the preacher,’ she said. ‘But you are in need of shelter. If you wish, you can rest out of the rain a while.’
‘Gladly. Thank you.’
He tied the pony to the gate, checked that the tarpaulin was keeping his precious camera dry, and then followed the woman into the house.
The next morning was wonderful, one of those autumn days that are almost still summer. Even up there, at the top of the world, I could feel the warmth through the window. It was only my third morning here but already it felt right. I felt at home. I burbled happily to myself as I sat at the kitchen table, with my laptop and a mug of coffee, and kept glancing out at the glorious views while I tidied up my piece on the cheese-maker. Finally, satisfied with what I’d done, I saved it on to a memory stick, ready to go down to the pub and send it off. But I didn’t have to go yet, did I? The sun was shining. That track at the back of the house was too enticing. Work done, I had no one to answer to but myself. Not even Granny Allen could argue with that.
I tugged on my walking boots, bought last year for a holiday in Wales with Jake. The fleece too. At least I looked the part.
It didn’t take me too long to get up to the ridge again. Pausing at the top to get my breath, I looked down the dale. I thought about what Dexter had said. It was like looking at ghosts—those abandoned buildings, the ruined houses. A whole industry had thrived here and then vanished. The path plunged down past abandoned heaps of stones that must once have been buildings for the mines. Tall chimneys towered over empty spaces where hundreds of men once worked but now were left to sheep, which sheltered among the soaring pillars and cropped the grass, as if nothing had ever disturbed the peace.
I felt a little uneasy, like an intruder. Was it sensible to be up here on my own? Jake had thought it wasn’t sensible for me to stay the night in the cottage on my own, but I’d done that, hadn’t I?
Some new railings and a warning sign surrounded an arched entrance opening straight into the hillside. ‘Danger. Old mine workings. Keep out,’ it said. I peered into the entrance, could see the skilfully arranged pattern of bricks in its ceiling, still supporting the moor above it. At my feet were rusty railway lines. Even though they were much grown over with grass and turf, I could follow them into another vast arched building, open now to the elements, with birds fluttering among the high bricks. I sneezed and the sound echoed and bounced round the huge empty and deserted space. It was an eerie place. What must it have been like here, I wondered, with all those men and machinery, the noise, the activity? The buildings could have been inhabited by a race of giants. Now they had all gone. Now it was just me, the sheep and the birds and silence. Weird. Seriously weird.
Walking alone in this strange landscape felt like the start of an adventure but just a little creepy. It was reassuring to see a Public Footpath sign. Very twenty-first century. It was a good firm track, too, easy walking on the springy turf. I had no map, no idea of where I was or where I was heading, but I couldn’t get lost. I would just walk on for another twenty minutes or so, then turn round and come back. The track curved round a low hill. I would just see what was on the other side…
I strode out briskly. The air smelt clean and fresh and was nicely cold on my face. It really woke me up. Bouncing along a turf path is a lot more fun than pounding away on a treadmill in the gym, and certainly better without the posers and preeners and designer Lycra. Above me I could hear the cries of birds. Didn’t know what they were. Maybe I’d get a bird book and find out, I thought. This country air was definitely getting to me.
I suddenly realised that nobody knew I was here. No one. I was completely free. I didn’t have to get back at a particular time or for a particular person. Or fit in with anyone else’s plans. My heart thudded a little at the thought. It was frightening, but it was also wonderful and exciting. Total freedom, to please myself. I did a little skip to celebrate and then strode out along the path.
I could hear another noise now, a strange sound that I sort of recognised but couldn’t quite place. Some farm machinery, I supposed, though I didn’t think there was much actual farming going on up here, not the sort that used combine harvesters or things like that. Apart from hearing The Archers, when Mum was listening to it, I was a bit hazy on all things agricultural. But I was pretty sure that this wasn’t the sort of land where you grew things, apart from grass and sheep. Whatever was making the noise, though, it had to be big. I’d soon find out, as I rounded the bend at the foot of the hill. And then I saw it.
A helicopter. Right in front of me. So close it seemed enormous. Like a huge buzzing dragonfly perched on a flat, white-painted piece of moorland. I could feel the force from the blades, and see it sending ripples across the grass. What a strange place to find a helipad. But then I looked further and understood. Just a few hundred yards away was a vast house, all Victorian turrets and chimneys, surrounded by a high stone wall and large gates. ‘Ravensike Lodge’, said a sign. ‘Private’.
Of course. Ravensike was originally a Victorian shooting lodge, that’s why it was plonked down in the middle of nowhere surrounded by moors and grouse and partridges and all those things that people liked to shoot at. And now it was owned by a billionaire who owned a glitzy football club and a helipad. I wondered what the grouse made of that. Don’t suppose it made much difference to them who took a pot shot at them.
Intrigued, despite the noise and the blast from the blades, I walked slowly towards it. A man was sprinting down the drive. Presumably he was the passenger the pilot was waiting for. He ran effortlessly, fluidly. He was clearly pretty fit. He wore black jeans and a black leather jacket. His hair was closely cropped, almost shaved. He had a beautifully shaped head.
Oh my God, it was Clayton Silver. Was there no getting away from the man?
I wanted to turn and run back to the cottage, but instead I just stood there staring at him; he must have felt my look because he stopped on the edge of the helipad and glanced over in my direction. He looked away and then back again.
‘Miss Tilly!’ he shouted above the roar. ‘Is that you?’ He ducked under the rotor blades of the helicopter and then strolled towards me.
‘You skipping work?’ he shouted, the draught from the helicopter blades whipping his words away. ‘Shouldn’t you be writing about sausages?’
‘Cheese-makers!’ I yelled. ‘And I’ve done it. I’m just getting some fresh air before I go back and do some more. I didn’t
