Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘I’m not insulting her. You know I prefer older women.’ He smiled meaningfully at Zoe, then drained Sarah’s liqueur glass before heading upstairs.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, and Zoe laughed. ‘Please tell me you didn’t sleep with him.’

  She laughed again. ‘If I’d been interested, I don’t think he’d have said no. He was pulling your chain then, though.’

  ‘Sod.’

  ‘But now he’s a bit older…’

  ‘Cut it out.’

  ‘Seriously, he’s right—we slept in mixed dorms on the Camino. Why waste money? And…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’re travelling together for three weeks. Try not to let him get to you.’

  Zoe got up, and I was about to do likewise, when Sarah returned.

  ‘Have you got a minute, Dad?’

  A minute ran into thirty in which not much was discussed beyond an assurance that she was feeling okay, and the Chemin was in some ways what she had expected and in some ways not. Plus a few questions about Bernhard.

  Before she headed to her room—hers and Bernhard’s room—she produced a small package from her pocket. ‘Everyone else has one; I thought you should too.’ It was a small wooden tau on a string.

  Zoe was long gone.

  7

  ZOE

  My night’s sleep got off to a bad start; I’d been itching to sketch the ruins of the farm cottages we had passed, but couldn’t capture the sense of the family history I had felt in the rusting tools and broken windows. My pitch to the Chronicle was for cartoons of fellow pilgrims; I was looking forward to meeting some.

  I stayed awake in case Martin decided to join me when he’d finished with Sarah. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he didn’t: he’d holed up in his room before dinner.

  The following morning, Sarah, Bernhard and Martin were at breakfast when I came down.

  ‘Camille and Gilbert?’ I asked Martin.

  He shook his head, and I went upstairs and banged on the door. ‘Don’t take too long. It’s going to be hot.’

  It was a half-hour before they showed, another half-hour before they were done with breakfast, and another before they were packed and ready. Sarah and Bernhard had left, waving their phones when Martin tried to give them directions.

  ‘Nineteen kilometres,’ announced Martin as we set out together. ‘Same as yesterday. But more climbing. Easy does it.’

  Only twelve miles. On my first Camino, I’d averaged about sixteen. But if you did too much too early, you paid with sore muscles, blisters and aching feet.

  Though I wasn’t totally fit, I knew I could do it. Camille was a first-timer and Gilbert looked like he hadn’t worked out for a long time. The positive was that, while I’d seen pilgrims slow up, and sometimes stop for a while, I hadn’t seen many abandon the walk.

  I’d slathered myself in sun cream and zipped off the bottoms of my pants, but it was cool when we started. Not exactly fresh country air: there were cows around.

  The trail led us into still, cool pine forests. The tau with the white dove flitting left and right was there for us at every turn, leading us southeast while the Camino de Santiago went southwest. When the path narrowed, I pushed ahead, figuring if Camille wanted to talk she’d catch up. It only took a few minutes.

  ‘You told me you walked to Santiago. A promenade. This’—she waved her hands—‘is on dirt. And rocks. This is a hike.’

  In her fawn hiking shorts and a tech T-shirt that somehow made her look sexy, she seemed to be doing fine.

  ‘Better than highways with trucks.’

  ‘But there were gas stations, no?’

  ‘Gas?’

  ‘I need to pee.’

  On the Camino de Santiago, it had been easy to find a discreet place off the track. But I’d been travelling solo. Here, disappearing into the trees was a public announcement. And maybe I was being irresponsible. I’d heard of trails in South America that had been made intolerable by human waste.

  ‘On Camino Facebook sites they say you should take bags,’ I said. ‘Like for dogs. You empty them at the end of the day.’

  ‘Mon Dieu. What if they break in your pack?’

  We were still giggling when we got to Sarah and Bernhard, who were stopped, eating blackberries off a bush.

  ‘There is a joke?’ asked Bernhard.

  ‘Yes,’ said Camille. ‘A joke of men on women.’

  ‘Share,’ said Sarah.

  ‘I need to pee,’ said Camille.

  Sarah laughed. ‘It’s a long way to hold on to Beaujeu. Find a bush; we’ll do guard duty.’

  It was a long way to Beaujeu—no promenade. And it had gotten hot. Camille and I stayed together. She seemed to be doing fine, but I was calling stops every thirty minutes just in case. When her water ran out, I pushed her to drink some of mine. Which led to another bathroom stop.

  ‘What do I do?’ said Camille.

  ‘Same deal as before—I’ll keep watch,’ I said, and she looked blank.

  ‘But last time there was a gas station.’

  ‘You mean yesterday?’

  ‘No, today. Sarah and I went together.’ Not what happened. And yesterday, she’d gone with Gilbert.

  I explained the off-track option—what she’d done two hours ago.

  Bernhard and Sarah caught up while Camille was in the trees, and I shared the story.

  ‘Confabulation,’ said Sarah. ‘Her brain inventing something to fill a memory gap.’

  The four of us stayed together for the remainder of the walk and, hot and exhausted, crashed into chairs at the first bar we saw. Sirops for Camille, Sarah and me, beer for Bernhard. I was feeling surprisingly good: my new pack, which had tipped Camille’s metric scales at five kilograms—with all my cold-weather gear inside—was way more comfortable than any I’d carried before.

  I had enough energy left to pull out my sketchbook. Still no pilgrims. I made do with a streetscape.

  We were on a second round by the time Martin and Gilbert arrived. Martin gave me a look that told me he’d had a tough time getting his man home.

  Two more beers, Martin signalled. Gilbert kissed Camille on the forehead. ‘She is amazing, no?’ Then he was overtaken by the end-of-day exhaustion I’d seen and felt so many times myself, flopping into a chair and looking into space. I didn’t think he’d be speaking or even drinking his beer for a while.

  ‘How far tomorrow?’ said Camille.

  ‘Let’s save it for dinner,’ said Martin.

  ‘Tonight’s restaurant has an excellent price-quality rapport.’ After a few hours’ rest, Gilbert had revived and was leading us to the village centre.

  ‘You seem to have everything organised,’ I said.

  ‘Gilbert’s job,’ said Camille, ‘is to arrange for me to see the Pope.’

  ‘When he waves from the balcony, right?’ I asked Gilbert as Camille walked ahead with Bernhard.

  Gilbert shook his head. ‘Camille thinks he will give her a private audience. I wrote to him—the Pope.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I received an answer, very polite. The Pope wished us bon courage but…he is very busy. Naturally…But I cannot tell her this.’

  We had a table on the street, and within half an hour the other tables, inside and out, were full. The wine list arrived, and I could feel a group anxiety. I guess I was the centre of it. And Gilbert was outside it.

  ‘Beaujolais for everyone?’ he asked and ordered two bottles. ‘Moulin-à-Vent. The king of Beaujolais.’ I checked the price on the menu. King-sized. And I only wanted one glass.

  The food prices were better. But it was still no eight-euro pilgrims’ menu of three filling courses and a carafe of local wine. I had been expecting not to have to worry about money this time.

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Martin, ‘that we need to plan a bit ahead.’

  ‘One day at time,’ said Bernhard. ‘This is the spirit of a pilgrimage.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. A pilgrim
age, not a gourmet tour.

  ‘Everyone does it in their own way, isn’t that the idea? No right and wrong.’ Sarah, looking at Martin, working on the gap she’d opened between us.

  Martin doubled down. ‘Last time, I booked ahead. And it was just me.’

  ‘It would definitely not be possible to find beds for nothing,’ said Bernhard. ‘Especially for six people who are obviously wealthy. In any case, it is unlikely there are volunteers who provide pilgrim welcomes on this camino.’

  ‘Actually, there are,’ said Martin. ‘In just about every village. But I imagine Bernhard’s right about the six of us.’

  ‘I am happy to continue to make reservations,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘Appreciated,’ said Martin, ‘but we need to be sensible about how far we walk. Perhaps my fellow veterans can share what we’ve learned?’ He swept the group with his hand, like a professor, and I found myself smiling at the reminder that that was what he was.

  The veterans, plus Sarah with her two days’ experience, all had something to say: early starts, accommodation close to the Chemin, cooking for ourselves if possible.

  ‘All noted,’ said Martin. ‘Let’s keep it strictly under twenty-five kays in a day, for the time being. Maybe Gilbert can see if he can book us an easy one tomorrow.’

  Dinner came—burgers, including vegie burgers for Sarah and me, fries for everybody and duck for the French couple. And a third bottle.

  ‘Maybe go easy on the boozy nights,’ said Martin.

  Gilbert frowned. ‘Wine is good for digestion. And the heart.’ He called for the cheque. ‘This is mine.’

  Martin and I protested in unison. ‘No way.’

  Gilbert waved his arms. ‘Tonight, I am thanking everyone. For coming. For supporting Camille.’ He patted her hand and she batted it off.

  The wine may have been too much, but it got us through the half-mile walk back to our B&B. We were on the third floor. No elevators. There was that awkward pause at the landing—Martin’s room one way, mine the other. We had thrown ourselves at each other only a couple of days ago. The feeling was the same, if not stronger, at least for me.

  Then: ‘Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?’

  Martin had no idea.

  8

  MARTIN

  I knew exactly what Sarah was doing. I just wasn’t sure why: did she need reassurance that she was first in my priorities or was she trying to sabotage Zoe and me?

  I was going to struggle to manage this. I’d put Sarah’s—fortunately identical—tau charm in my backpack. Now I’d have one on my back and one around my neck.

  I made a point of starting out with Zoe the following morning. Gilbert had run with my suggestion that we have an easy day and found a chambre d’hôte—a B&B—that was halfway to our original destination.

  He briefed me as I filled my water bottle. Then: ‘You are walking only three weeks?’

  ‘I’ve a job to get back to. And Sarah has university.’

  ‘Is it possible you will take Zoe back also?’

  ‘She’s planning to walk all the way to Rome.’

  Gilbert nodded. ‘If that changes, you must tell me.’

  ‘Of course. Is there a special reason?’

  ‘Yes. Camille needs Zoe to be with her.’

  Perhaps I should have asked Gilbert to elaborate, but what he’d said fitted with the blood-sister bond. If Zoe did want to come home with me after three weeks, we’d deal with it then.

  Camille had slept in, and we left ahead of her and Gilbert. It was a tough climb out of town and I was pleased to be using a backpack rather than dragging my cart over the rocks. I walked a couple of steps behind Zoe, watching her negotiate the obstacles. Even on this short day, we would have three or four hours to talk—but, much as I wanted to move our relationship along, I wasn’t going to push it.

  We reached the top of the hill along a path covered in shale, and Zoe stopped for water.

  ‘I think I might walk by myself for a while,’ she said.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Just feeling a bit…crowded.’

  ‘Crowded? There’s nobody else in sight.’

  ‘All right. Pressured.’

  I wasn’t going to get any answers today.

  The walk was pleasant enough, amid rows of vines heavy with leaves and fruit. I dawdled into our accommodation just before noon, with the day beginning to heat up. Zoe, Sarah and Bernhard were stretched out on the lawn, looking at their phones.

  ‘They don’t open till four,’ called Sarah, ‘but there’s no password on the wifi.’

  Rather than violating Zoe’s personal space, I found a private spot to research the route ahead. It looked like Sarah and I could make the Italian border before having to return home. It would be a nice achievement.

  At three o’clock, restless, I headed back the way we’d come, looking for Camille and Gilbert. I found them a couple of kilometres out, sharing a baguette.

  ‘We started late,’ said Gilbert. ‘The accommodation will not be available until four.’

  I should have known from the previous walk that French B&Bs seldom opened before late afternoon. In the winter, I’d set out later and walked for longer, so it hadn’t been a problem.

  We checked in, and Gilbert and I spent an hour or so planning. Dinner was lentils and sausages for the meat-eaters, lentils for Zoe. I suspected they’d been cooked together. Zoe didn’t touch her quarter-litre of wine, and I didn’t let it go to waste.

  After I’d gone to my room, I might have heard a tap on the door, but didn’t check. I was busy repairing a lightshade that had come to grief and didn’t need anyone in my space.

  Zoe touched my hand as she sat down to breakfast. ‘Sorry about yesterday. Just the day-three blues or something.’

  ‘All good.’ I was glad she saw it as her problem.

  ‘Hey, you could apologise too. You weren’t exactly friendly at dinner.’

  ‘Things to do.’

  It was raining, and we waited for a break before setting off in our customary pairs for the second of the two shorter days. The trail was through pine forests and more vineyards; Gilbert pointed out that we were walking amid the grapes that made the Beaujolais we’d been drinking.

  Zoe cut straight to what was bothering her. ‘How’s Sarah doing? You guys seem to have a lot to talk about.’

  ‘We had to discuss the room-sharing business. You were right. If it had been anyone other than bloody Bernhard…’

  ‘Bernhard’s not the only one watching the pennies.’

  ‘Gilbert and I had a chat about that. We’ve got it sorted.’

  ‘Sweet for you guys. Do I get a say?’

  ‘Can’t see you’d have anything to contribute.’ I waited until she smiled. Faintly. ‘But you were asking about Sarah. She’s still dealing with the divorce; I don’t think it’s about you…personally.’

  ‘You don’t think? She’s twenty-one isn’t she?’

  ‘Twenty.’ I guessed where the assumption had come from. ‘Drinking age here is eighteen. Sixteen for beer and wine.’

  ‘I was married and expecting a child at twenty.’

  ‘Sarah’s been living away from home for two years.’

  ‘Still sounds like she hasn’t separated from her parents.’

  ‘My therapist would say that most of us never do. What about you and your mother?’

  She tilted her head. ‘You have a therapist?’

  ‘I met some Californian woman who seemed to think I was a bit short on self-awareness, and I thought I’d better lift my game. You know, in case we got together.’ Closer to the truth than what I’d told myself at the time.

  ‘What about your daughters?’ I asked. Her rapport with them seemed to be the opposite of the strained relationship I had with Sarah.

  ‘Strained. The insurance company argued that Keith’s death was a suicide and wouldn’t pay up, and Lauren decided to fight them. She’s a bit like that—always trying to prove herself. I said if she won, sh
e and Tessa could keep the money.’

  ‘Not overdoing the independence just a bit?’

  ‘That’s what Tessa thought. When the money came through, she insisted that part of it went toward an apartment for me.’

  ‘Decent of her. But the right thing to do. I’d have thought Keith…’

  ‘Lauren had committed her original share to a new home—and she pushed back, and ended up looking like the bad person, which she blames Tessa for. I don’t need to go on, do I?’

  ‘Only if you want to. But they shouldn’t have a problem with you.’

  ‘I’m always worrying that I’ll say something that one of them will use against the other.’

  ‘You should have come to Sheffield.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  I didn’t, but reached out and held her hand until the path narrowed and forced us into single file. We’d beaten the rain, which had been threatening since we left.

  The gîte was right on the Chemin, a converted farmhouse with two towers and views across the valley, and overgrown gardens full of flowers, herbs and vegetables. I drew Zoe’s attention to the sign over the door: Le Nid de la Palombe—Chambres d’Hôtes, Restaurant Bio. The Dove’s Nest—B&B, Organic Restaurant. Gilbert had done well.

  Bernhard and Sarah caught up as we arrived. The proprietor, an older woman, met us with keys in hand.

  ‘Two beds?’

  Bernhard nodded and took a key.

  She turned to me. ‘Monsieur Eden? Grand lit? Double?’

  I checked Zoe’s expression, smiled and nodded.

  9

  ZOE

  ‘You convinced me. Sharing makes sense,’ said Martin, grinning.

  It definitely did. After two days of shorter walks, I was feeling better about everything. There was something special about the gîte, too. Maybe it was the sign in French and English: Please no mobile phones to prevent health danger from radio waves. The place hummed with positive energy.

  Bernhard and Sarah had gone upstairs, and we were about to follow when the proprietor, Angelique, emerged from behind the kitchen bench with a cake fresh from the oven, smelling of apple and cinnamon and dripping with butter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in halting English, ‘but there are eggs. And butter. Is that a problem for you?’