Two Steps Forward Page 13

  She walked me to my room, and outside the door kissed me goodnight. For about five minutes. It would be a lie to say I didn’t enjoy it, but when she walked back towards the stairs and I scurried into my room, my feeling was of having escaped.

  I fired up my computer and posted an entry on my blog.

  Richard from Tramayes had posted a query: Have you seen an American named Zoe?

  I replied to the effect that I had walked with her into Conques, but that we were now on different paths. Another writer had asked: I read that the Camino Francés is a party. Is this true for the Chemin in France? The enquiry was from Brazil. It was impossible to resist. I uploaded the photo of me with the Brazilians, drinking Ricard, my arm around Margarida.

  Then there was a truly uplifting Skype message. Integration by parts test. 94%. One dumb mistake. Thanks Dad.

  I decided to take the Vallée du Célé variant.

  My reasons were more complex than pursuing Renata, and I hoped that if we met up she would not interpret it that way. I wanted to put some space between Zoe and me, if only to get my head straightened out.

  The Célé route also looked flatter. There had been a steep descent into Figeac and I had been forced to zigzag like a skier to protect my knees. I did not want to endure another operation. Nor did I want to send out a message that the cart was hard on knees. Many potential buyers would be interested primarily because it put less strain on them than carrying a backpack.

  The following day I was in my chambre d’hôte at the oddly named Corn by mid-afternoon. If this was the flatter alternative, I was grateful not to be on the main Chemin. Madame took my washing and I sat in my room in a towel, blogging and marking my route for the GPS.

  Sarah popped up on Skype with a two-word message. Zoe, right?

  ?

  That’s her name, right?

  She had obviously been reading my blog and Richard from Tramayes’ query. I was about to compose a defensive parry when an alternative occurred to me—an alternative I would have thought of earlier if I hadn’t been so self-centred.

  Who’s the one giving YOU grief?

  What makes you think there’s someone?

  Give me a break.

  There WAS someone.

  And now?

  Don’t go there.

  But he’s still in the frame?

  Whatever that means. Mum hates him.

  Tricky. Fortunately, I didn’t have to reply. She added another message.

  I think you’d like him.

  Why?

  Engineering student.

  Good start ;-) Maybe.

  He’s 22.

  No father can imagine any boy suitable for their daughter. I knew plenty of engineering students. There were worse cohorts to draw from. But something told me that there was more to it than the age gap. Julia hated him, and while she might be miffed that Sarah had chosen someone in my image, I didn’t think that would translate into hate.

  And?

  Long pause.

  He’s got a girlfriend.

  And?

  He can’t leave her.

  Because?

  Baby.

  For the first time since it all went pear-shaped, I felt some sympathy for Julia. Sarah was having an affair with someone who was effectively—perhaps actually—married. And Julia had lost the right to take the high ground.

  You want to talk? I hoped she would say no. I needed to think.

  No. Thanks Dad. Then, You think I’m an idiot.

  Relationships are difficult.

  Really? Then, Night Dad. Love you.

  xxx

  What was she thinking? The simple answer was probably the right one: Julia and I had been focused on each other during the break-up and divorce, and then I had been out of touch. We had sent her a message: crises get our attention. Now she had created one of her own. The smart thing was to give her attention but not as a response to this sort of behaviour. The maths coaching was doing that.

  It was easy to perform this situation analysis sipping an aperitif in the south of France. It might be a little harder for Julia, sharing the house with a teenager in the throes of exam pressure, a messy relationship and the aftermath of divorce.

  In respect to the last of these, Jonathan had sent me an email: Thought I should let you know that Rupert and his wife are back together, more or less. Julia’s had a tough time. Hard to find winners in this one.

  I was feeling like I should be following Dead Walker’s example and going home to fix things up. But that would have taken me straight into a fight with Julia, which would have done none of us any good. I was making better progress on my relationship with Sarah at a distance.

  Dinner at the chambre d’hôte was exceptional, both for the food and the company. Renata had arrived after me, and we had a meal of restaurant quality—good-French-restaurant quality, cooked by Madame Laundry’s husband. I’d have wagered that he had spent most of our tariff on the ingredients. He was obviously not doing it for the money and we both sensed that the best repayment was praise, which we heaped on him lavishly.

  He was perhaps sixty-five and, after dinner, over glasses of Armagnac, explained that he was retired, and that he and his wife ran the bed and breakfast for pleasure: for the company and the conversation of people like Renata and me. They had a modest house in an isolated village, but they seemed to have made a good life for themselves.

  Renata and I agreed on breakfast at 8 a.m. and I assumed we would walk together.

  It was another tough hike to Marcilhac sur Célé. At around the twenty-kilometre mark there was a steep and rough ascent. The cart handled the terrain well enough, as it always did, but halfway up I had to call a break.

  ‘See you at the hotel,’ said Renata, and walked on.

  When I arrived, she was in the bar, in conversation with the Danish walker she had crossed the Aubrac with. She introduced him as Torben. He was a compact chap, with that determinedly fit look of men in their sixties who have decided to confront age head-on at the gym. The three of us ate together, but when Torben called for coffee and after-dinner drinks I decided I was a third wheel, and beat a retreat.

  As I was finishing my blog entry, there was a tap at my door. Renata, showing the effects of probably more than one digestif, stepped in and planted a full kiss on my mouth.

  ‘Last chance,’ she said, ‘or tomorrow I am walking with Torben.’ Then she kissed me again, as if to ensure my choice was an informed one.

  ‘Perhaps we will meet again before Santiago,’ she said, and left.

  Yum yum, goodnight.

  For almost three weeks I walked alone, passing through Moissac, Lectoure and Condom and any number of towns and villages between, across vineyards, orchards in blossom and unfenced fields of golden crops, staying in cheap hotels and chambres d’hôte. I had a table for one at a gourmet restaurant in Cahors, shared a pot of coq au vin with fellow pilgrims at a hostel in Lascabanes and cooked for myself from the array of preserves at a duck farm between Aire sur l’Adour and Uzan.

  I was back on the main Chemin, and though I saw few walkers during the day, we piled up in the evenings at the bars and hostels. I guessed there were about a dozen on each section of the track at any time, about half of them French, most doing a two-week stage rather than the full Chemin.

  Sarah’s openness had ended; we were back to short text messages.

  On Day Forty-three, after a longish day into Sauvelade, I had given myself an easier seventeen kilometres. Mixing up the distances, as I had learned to do in my marathon training, was working well. I was on schedule to reach St Jean Pied de Port, on the Spanish border, in three days.

  I had phoned the sole chambre d’hôte listed in the guidebook. A voice message had informed me that the owners were on holiday, but recommended an unlisted alternative where I had duly booked.

  Signs led me to the location listed in the guide. A handwritten note and map on the gate redirected me to the back-up, a less well-kept cottage down the road.
>
  ‘You ’ere for the room?’

  Those five words told me the owner’s nationality (English), origin (Bradford), politics (Conservative or UKIP), likely reason for being in France (weather / house prices / bloody immigrants back home) and general attitude (chip on shoulder).

  He showed me upstairs to what was the most basic—or makeshift—accommodation I’d been offered in a chambre d’hôte. Two single beds were crammed into what had obviously been a child’s room: Tintin on the curtains, toys on the shelves and no private bathroom. Wifi? No, though my phone detected a secured network.

  The stamp for my credencial confirmed my suspicions: it had the name of the original chambre d’hôte on it. Steptoe and wife were filling in, making do and making money without making any investment. C’est la vie. I was done for the day.

  Which was fortuitous. Because when I heard a knock on the door and slipped downstairs to see who might be joining me, it was Zoe.

  35

  ZOE

  I was halfway through explaining who I was—in my improved French—when I saw him.

  ‘Martin!’ I may have squealed. The short, older man who had answered the door jumped back as if I had. I dropped my pack, already hanging off one shoulder, and threw myself at Martin.

  ‘Oh my God—I found you! I’ve only got three days to go and I’d almost given up.’ I kissed him on both cheeks.

  Martin hugged me back and laughed: ‘You’re looking brilliant!’

  I was feeling it. I’d had three weeks since my day off in Conques to get my thoughts together, and my body and head were in a better place than they had been for a long time. It hadn’t all been easy, but Conques had brought me peace and I had lit a candle for my mother before I left. Though I had chosen not to forgive my father, or the pastor, I had accepted my past and was no longer tormented by it every time I saw a cross.

  I felt ready to move on and was grateful to have had time in a beautiful country, living simply and healthily. Any doubts about reaching my destination had been blown away by my first glimpse of the Pyrenees. The range of white-capped mountains stretched along the horizon as a marker of an impossible task almost achieved.

  Camille had emailed and insisted on meeting me in St Jean Pied de Port and driving me back to Paris for my flight: ‘A road trip, chérie.’

  The universe was going to get me to the Spanish border, and home. And now it had brought me to Martin. I’d seen his single-wheel track in the mud coming into Navarrenx. A fisherman on the river told me he’d seen Martin pulling the cart out of town an hour earlier, so I took a gamble and continued on.

  I had bottled the things I wanted to share with him and now the cork popped. ‘Have you seen the Brazilians? Did you stay with the religious guy who…’

  ‘Whoa!’ Martin was laughing. ‘I think our host would like to establish if you’re staying.’

  ‘Pardon, monsieur, je voudrais…’

  ‘We speak English ’ere.’

  He did, but the accent was so strong I could barely understand him. At that point, another backpacker, a petite older woman, arrived. The owner looked at us both.

  ‘I’ve only two rooms. You’ll have to share.’

  The other woman—who introduced herself as Monique—didn’t speak English. Martin had talked with her a few times on the Chemin and interpreted as we followed the owner upstairs. Our room had a double bed and a lot of stuff—computer bits, books, clothes—piled in boxes. I turned to Martin.

  ‘How big is your room?’

  ‘Bigger than this. Two beds.’

  What the hell. We’d shared a dorm in Golinhac. The hostess—a tall woman who reminded me of Margaret Thatcher, but with a weaker chin and an overbite—arrived with a towel, looked me up and down, and sniffed. ‘Yer brother, is ’e, then?’

  When I came downstairs, Martin was in the living room typing on his phone.

  ‘Needed to text my daughter—Sarah. Now I’m yours.’

  ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘Who’d know? I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Right now, I want to hear about what you’ve been doing. You drink scotch?’

  ‘I’m not really a whisky drinker.’

  ‘The Camino will change you.’ He said it with a French accent—a perfect impression of Monsieur Chevalier—and I found myself marvelling at how my feelings toward him had changed since that meeting in Cluny.

  He disappeared for a minute and returned with two tumblers. He gave me one. ‘Drink most of it. Leave a bit.’

  I sipped cautiously. ‘It’s water, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s water. But you’d have thought I’d asked for Dom Pérignon.’

  I stood guard at the door while Martin poured two slugs from the bottle on the sideboard. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and clinked my glass. ‘We’re entitled to an aperitif, so I’m helping Steptoe to comply with the law.’

  I’d never drunk hard liquor before the Camino, but was getting used to it.

  Martin sipped from his own glass. ‘What’s happened? I haven’t seen the Brazilians since Figeac.’

  ‘I caught them just after that. They lost a day because they separated from Renata and there was some confusion about getting back together. They’re with Bernhard and the Danish guy—Torben.’

  ‘Bernhard?’

  ‘Apologised. So did I. I think Paola made him do it before she’d let him travel with them. Did you see the guy walking in the kilt? Scottish?’

  ‘Scottish? Who’d have guessed?’

  ‘Stop it. Seriously, he was walking the whole way in a kilt and he said he never washed it.’

  ‘What about the Dutch couple with the dog who stayed in the same hotel every night?’

  ‘The same hotel? How?’

  ‘Bicycle and van. Drive to the day’s endpoint, drop the bike—’

  Our host interrupted to announce that dinner was served. As we moved to the dining room, Martin took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back.

  Dinner was sausages, mashed potatoes and cabbage, and a jug of red wine. Monique took one sip and wrinkled her nose. ‘Entrée?’

  ‘If you can get through that lot, I’ll find you something more,’ said the man that Martin had for some reason named Steptoe. I took some potato and carrots, but left the meat. Martin noticed.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’d have some fish for the lady, mate? Can of sardies or something?’ He said something like summit. If he was mocking Steptoe’s accent, I hoped our host didn’t notice. I could see he was about to say no but changed his mind.

  ‘No problem, guv.’

  In a few minutes, I had a piece of fried whitefish on my plate. The first bite brought back memories of childhood—it tasted fishy. I thought for a moment about how spoiled I’d been: in LA, we’d turn our nose up at anything but the freshest. Fish that had spent a few days in the fridge—after being frozen and thawed—hadn’t hurt me as a kid and it was unlikely to now.

  As I walked up to bed, I had second thoughts. I felt a wave of nausea. Maybe it was nerves. I remembered how I’d felt after Martin kissed me in Conques and my stomach did a somersault.

  Had I been reading the signals wrong? I’d had a bit to drink. Did I want to do anything other than sleep? I hadn’t slept with anyone but Keith in fifteen years. And Martin must have some issues of his own—or he’d surely have taken up the Hot Rabbit’s offer.

  Martin smiled, grabbed a toiletry bag and headed for the bathroom. I took the chance to get into my own nightwear—a worn T-shirt. Not what I’d have picked for a first night. And all the time I was thinking: this man isn’t Keith.

  Martin was in shorts when he came back. I forgot my nerves.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ he said.

  ‘Likewise,’ I replied, realising it was true.

  He stretched an arm out and caressed my shoulder. Then he kissed me and I let myself go with it, savouring the physical closeness I had missed every night I had gone to bed by myself since Keith’s death, pretending I was okay.

  The kiss was lo
ng and unhurried, and I felt conscious of being older and wiser than when I had been dating, and more comfortable with myself, whatever might come.

  Then my stomach heaved. It had probably been trying to send me a message for some time, but I had given myself over to something else. I only just made it to the bathroom. At least Monique wasn’t in it. I sat in my T-shirt and underwear on the floor, with my head over the bowl, wanting to die.

  It was at least fifteen minutes before I felt ready to come back. Martin mumbled a cautious ‘Are you all right?’ from his bed. I barely managed, ‘I’m not feeling so good.’ I wanted to cry. He didn’t move and I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I crawled into bed and let tears trickle down my face as I spent another night alone.

  I was aware of Martin waking in the morning before I fell asleep again. I had lost count of how many times I had been up in the night. I still felt sick, though not as badly, and quite weak.

  Monique was packing to leave and said she had slept well. I told her I had been ill.

  ‘Le poisson,’ she said authoritatively.

  She produced a bag from her pack with an array of pills in plastic bottles, selected one and handed it to me.

  ‘Herbal?’ I asked.

  ‘Homéopathique.’

  Downstairs, Steptoe was waiting and announced that Martin had ‘buggered off without paying’. We had shared the room and eighty euros was due. Then, after I’d handed over most of my massage earnings, he produced the scotch bottle. There was a line marked about an inch above the level of the liquid.

  ‘Your mate’s a thief,’ he said. ‘I could call the police, but I’ll settle for fifty euros.’

  As I was reopening the packet that held my last hundred and eighty euros, feeling I’d do anything to erase the shame, Mrs Thatcher appeared. ‘What happened to the fish I had for the cat?’

  I put my money away. ‘Call the fucking police,’ I said.

  I wasn’t sure how long the pill would take to work, but I wasn’t planning on sticking around. I hit the Camino with only one thing on my mind: to catch Martin and tell him what I thought of him.

  He would try to put as much distance as he could between us. I should know—hadn’t I run every time shit went down in my life? From Fergus Falls to St Louis, and then LA, and from LA to France. And after that meltdown in St Privat d’Allier.