Two-Hundred Steps Home Volume One

by Amanda Martin

  “Of course. Would you like to tell me about your travels? Why did you choose the YHA? Do you feel it promotes a healthy lifestyle?” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke and she realised at last she was back in her comfort zone. She might not know about making her own bed with a flat sheet or how to start a car with a manual choke but she knew about social media and she knew about fulfilling a brief, however stupid it was.

  As Hattie began to talk, waving her hands and nearly knocking over the vase of flowers on the table, Claire sipped at the coffee recently deposited in front of her and scribbled notes on a napkin.

  ***

  TWENTY

  So, this is the northernmost town in England? Whoop-di-do. Claire looked around the high-street and sighed. There isn’t even a bloody Starbucks. Caffé Nero just isn't the same.

  Claire had gone back to her room after breakfast to type up the notes on her interview with Hattie. She’d been determined to spend the day in her room playing on the iPad, but the greyness had closed in until she was driven out to seek colour and coffee.

  Before she left the hostel, Claire did a quick search on interesting information about Berwick. Her research threw up thrilling facts like Berwick meant Barley Farm. That seems about right. Stupid hick town. I wonder why Scotland wants it back?

  Claire decided to explore Berwick in an attempt to discover what made people think hostelling was so amazing. As yet nothing had cropped up to recommend it. Her idea of a vacation was to bake on a beach and read airport-purchased paperbacks. She always did some sight-seeing but it was the normal tick-box stuff: pyramids, opera houses, mountains. As far as she could tell Berwick’s best offering was a few boring bridges.

  What do Backpackers do all day? They can’t shop; they have no money. There’s no Sky in a hostel, internet is only available at £3 an hour unless you have a smartphone and what penniless student can afford one of those? How many times can you wander round places staring at the architecture?

  After two hours of exploring Claire’s feet were throbbing, her back ached and her brain was numb. What am I going to tweet about? The number of arches in the Royal Border Bridge?

  She remembered Hattie recommending a trip to some Priory on a nearby island that apparently was accessible by car at low tide. The old woman had raved about it so much Claire had almost been tempted until she’d checked it out on Wikipedia. It looked like a pile of old rock. She had never heard of Lindisfarne, and doubted anyone she knew had, so it didn’t count as a tick-box visit.

  Spying a bookshop, Claire decided the best thing she could do was plan her route and get through it as swiftly as possible. I wonder if I can stay in more than one hostel at a time? The wind whipped round her as she crossed the street and ducked into the store. She paused beneath the warmth of the heater while thoughts churned in her mind. The brief didn’t say anything about having to actually spend the night. Maybe I could check in, make a cup of Earl Grey in the kitchen, and move on. Cheered by the thought Claire scoured the shelves for a map of Britain. She needed to plot all the hostels and work out the shortest possible distance to drive around them all.

  In the back of her mind a nagging feeling tore at Claire’s new resolve. No matter how much she loathed Carl it was not in her nature to shirk a responsibility or put in a half-hearted effort. The happy feeling seeped away like a wave on the sand. I am going to have to do this properly or not at all. Not for them but for me, for my professional pride. Damn.

  On the shelf near the maps Claire saw the colourful spine of a Lonely Planet guide to Britain. She grabbed it and took her finds to the till. The sky seemed a little more grey as Claire hobbled back to the hostel on blistered feet.

  Claire spent the afternoon in the Bistro cross-referencing the YHA hostel guide, the Lonely Planet book and the map. When she finally collapsed into bed at 9.30pm she was almost smiling. At least I know where I’m going tomorrow. Well I know what it's called anyway. I wonder what Wooler has to offer.

  She was about to close her eyes when her mobile phone beeped. Two thoughts went through her head like lightning. Ruth’s got her results back, and Carl is texting to gloat. Reaching for her phone without turning on the light Claire held the screen up to her sleep-blurred eyes. She blinked until the words came into focus.

  Hey Claire. How are things? I miss you. Can we talk? Michael.

  Claire’s heart thudded beneath her cotton nightie - bought for dorm-sharing days. What the hell does he want? She tried to think dispassionately about Michael but couldn’t manage it. Instead her mind filled with the look of pain in his deep brown eyes the last time she saw him. As if she had reached around during an embrace, stabbed him in the back and yelled, “Speak hands for me!”

  ***

  TWENTY-ONE

  The drive to Wooler was not long enough. Claire felt the weight of her phone pulling her like a black hole, dragging her in.

  I will not give in. I can't do it. However much I'm hurting him now, it's a fraction of what it will do if I answer now and leave again later.

  Claire sat upright in the uncomfortable seat and stared at the road ahead. The pull of the phone on the passenger seat was like an itch in the corner of her eye. A chicken-pox itch. All consuming but laden with the knowledge that a moment's weakness might leave a life-long scar.

  All too soon Claire reached her destination. Wooler. It was bigger than she expected; a pretty place with amazing views over the hills. I must check what hills they are and write about it in the blog. Healthy living and all that. I’m sure I’m meant to recommend hikes or mountain biking or something. She looked down at her pristine jeans, spotless Helly Hansens and unchipped nails. As if.

  She missed the YHA sign the first time and had to drive up and down Cheviot Street until she saw it next to a side road. Her expectations rose as she turned off down the lane but they crashed to earth when she drew up outside the building.

  A bit different to Berwick. You don’t get further from a five-story former Granary than this... sheltered-housing bungalow.

  It wasn’t just the building that was a surprise. It was the fact that it looked abandoned. Claire’s heart-rate picked up and she could taste bile rising in her throat. It hadn’t occurred to her to ring ahead and book. I mean, who stays in a hostel in March? Apparently no one in Wooler.

  Wanting to be proved wrong Claire got out the car and walked over to the low brick building. She peered through the windows and tried the door but she didn’t need to rattle it to know it was locked. Bollocks. It was freezing standing in the car park. Claire retreated to the car and got out her iPad. She tried to load the YHA page but couldn’t get any signal. Big fat hairy bollocks.

  Claire sat back in her seat, frozen. Her brain kept bouncing between her current predicament and the message from Michael. She was conscious of a strong urge to call him. He would know what to do. She shook her head, hard enough to hurt, and put the key in the ignition. Her choices were to drive back to Berwick or to find another YHA hostel nearby that was open, but she couldn’t make the decision here with no access to the wider world.

  Nearer the main road Claire’s iPad decided to reconnect to the superhighway and she was able to find another hostel in Alnwick that said it was open all year round. I should have checked that last night. Stupid girl. Not wanting to chance it, Claire phoned the hostel and was brightly informed that there was plenty of space either in a dorm or a private room. Book a private room, bugger the budget. Pay for it yourself if you have to. Claire listened to the internal voice and spoke into the receiver.

  “Can I book a dorm bed please? Yes, just for one night. Great. … Ten o’clock?” Claire checked her watch. “How long will it take from Wooler? … Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  What the…? What possessed me to book a dorm-bed? And reception is only open until 10am, what’s that all about? Thank god I left early this morning to avoid Hattie.

  Sighing at the betrayal of her brain, Claire tapped the post code into her Sat Nav and pull
ed back onto the main road. At least now she had more to think about than Michael. I guess I’d better check the hostel information and book ahead a day or two. She looked around the Skoda. This is not a car I want to spend the night in.

  Claire pulled up outside the dark brick building and shivered. It didn’t look very welcoming. The information on Alnwick said the hostel used to be a court house. I can believe it. A quick check showed her it was two minutes to ten. Abandoning the Skoda on the single yellow outside the building Claire rushed in before reception closed.

  Walking into the hostel was how Claire imagined it might be to enter the Tardis. As dark as it was on the outside it was bright on the inside. The interior was clearly new and although it was done in the cheap laminate and robust carpet of a dentist or doctors surgery at least it wasn’t oppressive. After staying at Berwick, Claire was getting used to the bland décor and barely registered it as she hurried to Reception.

  “Ah you must be the lady who rang from Wooler. Did no one tell you it isn’t open all year round?” The man at reception grinned jovially. Claire felt the blood rush to her cheeks and replied in a small voice. “I didn’t think to ask.”

  “New to this are you sweetheart? Best to book ahead even at this time of year. Lucky we had space.”

  Claire felt as if she had been chastised. She filled in the forms, asked where she could park the car, and took the key to her room without another word. She wasn’t ready to view the dorm, or to discover who she would be sharing her personal space with that evening. With a short wave at the cheery receptionist she went back to her car just as a Parking Attendant stuck a ticket to the windscreen.

  Bugger.

  In a former life Claire would have rushed up to the man and attempted to charm, cajole or threaten him into taking the ticket back. Instead she waited a few paces away until he had walked off, then went to the car and ripped the yellow square off. She climbed into the driver’s seat, fighting back tears, and vowed to put the damn thing in the post to Carl.

  They didn’t say anything about the bloody daily budget having to cover parking tickets.

  ***

  TWENTY-TWO

  Claire put her key in the lock, opened the door, and peered into the room as if someone might jump out and attack her. It was dark so she reached inside for a light switch, hoping no one was asleep. Surely no one will be in bed at 8pm?

  A quick scan of the bunk beds showed them all unoccupied. Claire released a breath she didn’t realise she had been holding and stepped into the room. It looked like only one or two of the four beds were taken, as there were only two bags in the room. Relieved to be alone Claire shut the door behind her and had a proper look at the room. The walls were blue and cream and there were stripy curtains in similar colours. It’s not about to win any décor or luxury awards but at least it’s clean.

  She looked closely at the beds and realised that both bottom bunks had been claimed by the current occupants. Maybe I should have come straight to the room this morning, I might have been able to claim a bottom bunk. She didn’t fancy the idea of climbing up and down a ladder in the night. I haven’t slept in a top bunk since I was about eight and I got concussion falling out in the night. Thank god mum thought it was time for me and Ruth to have our own rooms.

  The memory brought others to mind. How Ruth used to wriggle, shaking the bed as she shifted position every fifteen minutes. Her snoring that would resonate up through the mattress when she had a cold. Claire felt a chill prickle her skin. She hated sharing her space with people. Except Michael. The words entered her mind only to be shoved away.

  Claire chose the bunk furthest from the door and tucked her bag in the corner. She removed her nightie and wash-bag from the rucksack and threw them on the bed to stake her claim. Then, with nothing else to keep her, she decided it was time to go and have dinner. She hesitated before taking her iPad from its position stuffed between cashmere sweaters. She had avoided having it on display in the hostel in case it marked her as different, but she needed to spend some time on Twitter and the other social media sites and it would prevent her from looking like an idiot by herself at dinner.

  The hostel dining room reminded Claire of school dinners at primary school, before she was whisked away to join the same school her father had attended. Not that there had been girls there in his day. The dining hall there had been rather more opulent.

  Claire chose a seat in the corner and prayed no one else would join her. There were a few people in the dining room but it wasn’t crowded. Claire ordered the most palatable thing on offer, then loaded up her blog and tried to think of something interesting to write. She had spent the day in a giant second hand bookstore - largely because it was warm and she didn’t have to walk anywhere. She wasn’t a big reader, but had found herself caught up in some silly romance with a bright cover. The book was in her bag upstairs. Purely for research purposes, so I can embody the backpacker spirit.

  “Hello, may we join you?”

  Claire looked up from her iPad to see two blonde girls standing in front of her holding trays. A swift glance confirmed what she already knew - that there were empty tables in the dining room. Claire hesitated. She couldn’t bring herself to tell the women no, feck off. But at the same time she didn’t fancy being crowded in by a couple of strangers. She noticed a flicker of consternation whisk across one of the girl’s faces and relented.

  “Of course, please.” She gestured to the empty seats and sat back so her iPad wasn’t taking up table space. There are two of them, it’s not like I need to make conversation. Claire resolutely stared at her screen, giving off her best Metro-travelling vibes, the ones that created an area of blank space around her even when the trains were crushed with commuters. It failed.

  “Hi, my name is Ola, this is my sister Francis. We are from Sweden. The nice man at reception said you were staying in our room, so we come to say hello.”

  Claire looked up and stifled a sigh. She couldn’t ignore them now, no matter how tempting it was to pretend she didn’t speak English. “Hi, I’m Claire, nice to meet you.”

  “You are English yes? You travel long?”

  The one Claire thought was Ola was clearly puzzled that someone would choose to travel solo round their own country in the middle of winter. Or that’s what I would think anyway. Who knows what she’s thinking under that beautiful Scandinavian mask. Claire tried to decide whether to come up with a story more interesting than the truth, but she couldn’t find the energy. She settled for a slight twisting of the facts.

  “I’m a writer. I’m researching a piece on hostelling in Britain.”

  The girl who hadn’t yet spoken, Francis, lit up at the words. “You write for Lonely Planet?” She spoke the words reverentially, as if Lonely Planet were on a par with the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.

  “No, sorry, it’s an independent piece.” She finished speaking then gazed away, signalling that she had no more conversation. The girls took the hint and began talking quietly to each other in their own language.

  I wonder if they’re talking about me? Claire eyed up the lasagne and garlic bread the girls were eating and wondered if it was too late to change her order.

  If one of us is going to reek of garlic all night, I want it to be me.

  ***

  TWENTY-THREE

  A soft glow shone through the window and across Claire’s face. Used to sleeping in the cave-like darkness of a room with blackout blinds Claire was pulled awake by the light. It took a while to work out where she was and why her blinds weren’t closed. Irritated as much by the memory of the last few days as by being woken, Claire rose on one elbow to figure out where the light was coming from. From her elevated position on the top bunk she could see through the gap in the curtains right down to the road.

  Snow. Marvellous.

  The moon illuminated the street below like studio lighting, making it difficult to tell what time it was. The room was silent. Claire blessed the Gods that the Scandinavian wom
en didn't snore. She fumbled under her pillow to locate her phone, although she could nearly tell the time on her watch by the eerie light seeping through from outside.

  2am. Bollocks.

  Claire felt wide awake. If she'd been at home she would have got up and done some work, knowing it was the quickest way to feel sleepy again. With two strangers in the room with her she felt she couldn't turn on the light or even make too much noise in case she woke them.

  This is what that damn Maglite is for then. Shame it's in the bottom of my rucksack. Not much good there. I don’t even have headphones to listen to music. Idiot.

  Claire lay in the dark trying to distinguish the sound of Ola and Francis breathing. She wondered whether she should check if they were still alive. What responsibility did you have for your bedfellows if they were also complete strangers?

  Claire heard a noise that made her heart thump in her ears. Someone was fumbling outside their door, scratching, as if trying to insert a key. I'm glad it's locked. Imagine someone trying to get in the wrong bunk in the middle of the night. She shivered at the idea of having to fend off some sweaty oik and felt glad she’d had the forethought to buy a nightie.

  The room filled with the sound of Claire’s shallow breathing as she strained to hear if the noise had gone away. It hadn't. Utterly awake now, she tensed ready to defend herself as she heard voices outside the door. What if someone's trying to break in, to steal our stuff? Claire wondered if she should wake the girls.

  I'm surprised they're not awake already with that racket. Maybe this is normal. Maybe you have to learn to sleep surrounded by noise, like you do when flying. A stab of pain shot through Claire's head as she contemplated weeks of broken sleep. I really don’t do well on less than six hours.

  At last the fumbling stopped. Claire took a deep breath which stuck in her throat as the door opened and a light pierced the darkness, followed by another. Flashlight beams shone overhead like search lights as two very drunk girls staggered into the room. One of them tripped over and fell heavily against Claire’s bunk; the other pulled her friend upright with a snigger. They shushed each other and giggled as they headed into the en-suite. Claire could hear them talking in loud whispers that they obviously thought was them being quiet. She couldn't decide what was more annoying: Being woken up by a couple of drunks or being awake already and discovering she'd been trying hard to be silent and considerate in an empty room.