The Long Walk Home

by Will North

  Gwynne had made him the beneficiary of a small annuity and he lived on that, writing poetry, none of which he liked. His heart, his emotional condition, seemed controlled by the changing seasons, the darkness increasing as summer slipped into fall and fall into Seattle’s notoriously bleak winter. Weeks became months and his friends advised him, gently and with affection, that it was time he “moved on.” He didn’t know how. Thinking about it rationally didn’t help.

  And then one day it came to him: he needed to do it physically. He needed to carry Gwynne home to Wales, like a pallbearer. He needed to walk. The effort, the pain, the weeks spent moving toward the mountain at walking speed would be the cure. When he got there, he knew he would be able to let her go.

  ***

  ALEC REACHED THE bottom of the long lane from Tan y Gadair and stopped where it joined the paved road. He leaned on his walking stick—“Hazel,” he called it, because that was the wood from which it had been made, long ago, by a craftsman in England’s Lake District, a man who’d also died of cancer. He thought about the long walk back to Dolgellau. Then it dawned on him: it wasn’t that the walk back to town was long, it was that it was wrong. He had reached the end of his pilgrimage. He’d known it the moment he’d seen the Tourist Information Center photograph of Tan y Gadair, with the mountain behind it. This was where he was meant to stay.

  He turned around and began the climb back up to the farmhouse beneath the mountain. He had a proposal to make to Mrs. Fiona Edwards.

  three

  FIONA STOOD AT HER KITCHEN WINDOW, as if by staring at the place where the lane descended out of sight she could cause the American walker to reappear. She had felt an uncanny sense of recognition when she’d opened the door to the stranger, as if she’d known him all her life.

  It was silly. And besides, she was a married, middle-aged woman, for heaven’s sake. She never looked at other men. For one thing, she was simply too busy. Running the bed-and-breakfast—caring for guests, cooking, baking, doing laundry, making up rooms, keeping them clean, doing all the paperwork the Welsh Tourist Board and the Inland Revenue kept thinking up—consumed most of the day. What time and energy were left went to helping David on the farm. She didn’t even get to town much, except to shop for food.

  She didn’t mind the work; it filled her life. True, in the years since David had taken sick, life with him had become much more difficult. David had never been the most attentive or romantic of men—the very thought made her laugh. Still, even after he’d become ill and had to move away from the main house and the barns to an isolated building in a distant part of the farm, she spent many nights with him, as man and wife. As the illness wore on, however, he’d become first distant, then moody and unpredictable. The smallest things would turn him black with fury. The doctor had warned her he might have such spells and she had resolved to weather them. But it was getting harder. There were times now she feared him. It had emerged slowly, this fear, the way aphids sometimes attacked flowers in her garden: the changes were so small you didn’t notice them and then, suddenly, plants began losing their vitality. That’s how the fear felt: like it was sucking life from her marriage.

  At bottom, though, she knew David was a good soul. That mattered, certainly. He was a good father, too. He and their daughter, Meaghan, had a closeness that she sometimes envied. This surprised her, because David often said that he “didn’t understand women.” Sometimes she thought this was an excuse for not even trying, but he had, after all, grown up without a mother or sisters. His mother had died giving birth to his brother, Thomas, and the two of them had been raised on this very hill farm by their father—a good man, too, people said, until his wife’s death turned him as bitter as bolted lettuce. As the boys grew, David senior made it clear he expected one of them to take over the farm. Thomas made it equally clear that he wanted nothing to do with it. He had excelled at school, especially in maths, and had gone on to university. Today, he was an architect in London designing posh office buildings around the world—about as far away as you could get from Tan y Gadair.

  David, on the other hand, struggled through school. It was years before the school authorities determined he was dyslexic, and by that time the pattern was set: he hated to read. Words swam on the page and made no sense. He struggled to spell simple words. As he grew, though, it became clear he had a special affinity for animals. His father’s milk cow followed him around like a pet. He could sit on the ground in the farmyard and the chickens would gather around him, clucking and cooing softly, and eat from his hand. He seemed to know instinctively where the wide-ranging hill sheep would be found when it was time to bring them down to the winter pastures. At lambing time, he could tell which sheep would have difficulty giving birth. And he ran his father’s border collie brilliantly, using the subtlest whistles and calls to guide her in herding the skittish sheep. As a boy he won so many ribbons at the annual sheepdog trials that the authorities moved him up to the adult class to give other youngsters a chance.

  And he loved the hills. You’d have thought he’d had enough of them working in the mountains every day, but even before he and Fiona married, David had taken up fell-running, a particularly arduous form of footrace in which otherwise sane men competed against one another by running up and over the treacherous ridges and mountain ranges in North Wales. He was a founding member of the Eryri Harriers, a fell-running club, and had competed elsewhere in the United Kingdom—in the Lake District, Yorkshire, even Scotland. Fiona thought the whole thing was daft and feared he’d break a leg or fall off a cliff somewhere, but David was thickly muscled and well suited to the sport and won a number of trophies. Finally, though, his knees gave out from the punishment, and he’d had to stop competing.

  Although Fiona knew David was clever—that was obvious from the farm’s success—years of failure at school had left deep scars. He tended to disparage Fiona’s passion for books, preferring to limit his reading to farm magazines. He wasn’t much for conversation, either. Most days before the illness—how often her thoughts began with that phrase now—he’d come in from the hills in the evening, bathe in their big claw-foot tub, wolf down whatever was for supper, and collapse in front of the television while she read her books in the kitchen. She appreciated how exhausting it was to run a hill farm, but she had hoped for something more. Even as a girl she’d dreamed of a marriage in which the dailiness of life was shared in the evening, around the table, perhaps, or before the fire. Fiona had thought somehow that by marrying a farmer, someone who didn’t have to go away to work the way her own father had, she’d have that kind of togetherness. It hadn’t turned out that way. As for more physical forms of intimacy, well, though David had courted her ardently when they’d met, after they married his interest in lovemaking had faded more quickly than hers. Since his illness it had vanished altogether. To tell the truth, she didn’t much miss the sex; even in the beginning it had been perfunctory at best. And after her doctor told her she’d be unable to have any more children, David had become even less interested, as if without the opportunity to create a son and heir to take over the farm, sex had become pointless. Fiona thought about her daughter, about how her whole life lay before her, and wondered what shape her own private dreams were taking. Meaghan had turned into a beautiful young woman with the slate-black hair and dark features of her father but her mother’s delicate proportions. Even in a place as small as Dolgellau, the girl had no shortage of boys calling on her. Now that she was off at university, Fiona could only imagine what she was getting up to. That’s the problem, she thought, almost wistfully. I can only imagine it.

  Fiona shook herself out of her reverie, turned away from the window, and went upstairs to turn down her guests’ beds. She had taken to leaving a small, locally made chocolate truffle in a paper doily on each pillow and her guests seemed to appreciate it, along with the individually packaged soaps and toiletries in the bathrooms. These things increased her operating expenses, but the costs were more than offset by the numb
er of return visitors.

  Over the years Fiona had redecorated the interiors of each of her guest rooms. One had an old oak four-poster bed in it, and the other two had double beds with luxurious drapes that swooped down from the ceiling and gathered at each side of thickly padded and tufted headboards. Taking a cue from Country Living magazine, she’d got rid of the busily patterned, rather gaudy carpets that were customary in Welsh houses and replaced them with wall-to-wall carpets in a muted sage green. The windows were draped in a contrasting dusty rose velvet, and the floral-pattern coverlets on the beds picked up both colors. She painted the walls the color of buttermilk and the windows and trim a brilliant white enamel. She sent away to London for fine sheets and pillowcases in the same warm cream color as the walls. And because she loved to read and assumed that others did as well, each room had upholstered chairs, books lined up along the deep windowsill, and antique reading tables with lamps that shed a soft and flattering light. There were also candles, and matches to encourage guests to use them. On top of the dresser in each room, Fiona placed a tray with a decanter of dry sherry and two small glasses. Romance, she felt, was important, no matter the age of her guests.

  She’d just turned down the last bed when she heard a knock at the door.

  Finally, she thought.

  But it wasn’t the Bryce-Wetheralls. It was the American again. Behind him, in the fading light of the day, she noticed clouds building over the sea.

  “Oh! You’ve come back!” she said. She was slightly unnerved to find him there again, and secretly delighted.

  “I have an idea,” he said, as if their earlier conversation hadn’t ended. “You have a lot of pastureland, and I have a tent. How about if we invent a new form of accommodation? We could call it ‘tent-and-breakfast.’ You get an extra paying guest and I get to stop walking.”

  Only an American, she thought, could think up something so unconventional. She looked at him for a moment, speechless, and then began laughing, with a richness that seemed to him to come from someplace deeper than her petite frame could possibly produce.

  “Brilliant!” she said at last.

  He looked directly into her eyes and what she suddenly saw was utter exhaustion.

  “You have no idea how good that is to hear,” he said softly.

  “But look,” Fiona said, leading him out into the garden, “you don’t need to disappear into one of the pastures; why not pick a nice flat spot over here on the lawn ... by the apple tree, perhaps? Yes, I think that will do. It’s quite private; no one will be able to see you from the house. What do you think?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”

  She rattled on: “Right, that’s done then. Pitch your tent or whatever you need to do and I’ll put on tea. Come in when you’ve got yourself sorted. You’ll be wanting a bath, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “That would be great,” Alec said, groaning a bit as he dropped the heavy pack to the ground.

  Fiona turned to go and then stopped. “I have no idea who you are,” she said, looking back to where he stood.

  “Alexander Hudson. Alec.”

  “Fiona,” she said, walking back to the house. “My friends call me Fi.”

  And then she was gone. Alec stood looking across the garden to the entrance to the stone farmhouse. It had been his idea to walk back up the lane, and to suggest this odd arrangement, and yet somehow he felt this woman had taken charge. After weeks of solitary decision making, he felt comfortably cared for.

  He pulled the tent out of his pack and attached the two telescoping ultralight poles to their grommets and clips, bringing the tent almost instantly from a flat expanse of nylon to a taut dome. Then he attached the waterproof fly that arched over the tent. He’d done it so many times that it took only a few moments. He slung the backpack into the tent and climbed in after it. In another few minutes he’d blown up his inflatable pad and laid out his sleeping bag. He pulled some clean clothes out of the backpack, crawled out of the tent, and walked back to the house. Leaving his boots at the door, he entered the hall.

  “Hello?” he called.

  “In here!”

  He padded through her formal dining room, noting it had already been set for breakfast, and stopped at the entry to the kitchen.

  “Well, come in, come in,” Fiona said. “I’ll just put the kettle on.” She’d been cooking.

  “I was wondering if I might have that shower first,” Alec said.

  “Of course you can,” she said. “I should have thought of that. But you’ll have to settle for a bath. The guest rooms all have lovely new baths with showers, but of course they’re all taken, so I’m afraid you’ll have to use the old tub in my bathroom.”

  She led him back through the dining room, to the entry hall, and then through a low oak door with a small sign that said private.

  “Mind your head, now. This is the oldest part of the house and they didn’t grow them as tall as you back then.” They’d entered a small but cozy sitting room with its own fireplace. There were two high-backed wing chairs on either side of the hearth, and the wall opposite was lined with books. The wide-planked oak floor was covered by a worn but still beautiful Persian carpet, and a creamy sheepskin rug lay directly in front of the fire. Curled up on the furry sheepskin, as if anticipating a fire in the grate, was a black cat. The cat looked up.

  “That’s Sooty,” Fiona said. “He thinks he owns the place. Not the friendliest cat in the world, but he’s company.”

  As if to prove her wrong, Sooty hauled himself to his feet, stretched, yawned, sidled over to Alec, and began nuzzling his ankles, weaving in and out of his legs.

  “Well, well,” Fiona said, genuinely surprised. “That’s a first.”

  “I don’t know what it is,” Alec said, reaching down to stroke the animal, “but cats seem to take to me.”

  When he stood up again, she had a bemused look on her face.

  “Bath?” he said.

  “Oh. Right. This way.”

  She led him through a bedroom with an enormous and very old and richly carved four-poster bed hung with forest-green velvet curtains at each corner, into a small bathroom with an old claw-foot tub. She pulled fresh towels from a corner cupboard.

  “I hope you won’t mind; I haven’t got round to updating this bathroom. A bit like the shoemaker’s children going barefoot, I suppose.”

  Alec smiled. He hadn’t fit into a tub since he was a child. “I’ll be fine.”

  For just a fraction of a second, Fiona visualized him trying to fold his naked body into her tub. She shook the vision away.

  “Right, then. I’m off to take supper to David, so when you’re finished, just come through to the kitchen.”

  “David?”

  “My husband. And I’m running late. Take your time.”

  “Thanks,” he called after her as he turned the handles.

  Alec had camped the previous two nights, and now, as he slid down into the steaming tub, he thought about how healing hot water was and how odd it was that after the fall of Rome the magic of hot-water therapy, which the Romans had developed to an art form, had been completely forgotten in western Europe for centuries. It was almost inconceivable.

  When he stepped out of the tub some time later, he felt newly born. From his shaving kit, he pulled the old wooden-handled brass razor Gwynne had given him years ago, slipped in a new blade, slathered on his shaving cream, and scraped off his three-day beard, dismayed at how gray it was. As he looked in the mirror over the pedestal sink he realized the three weeks of hiking had melted away the softness around his waist that had appeared, like an unwelcome party guest, after his fortieth birthday.

  “Not bad for an old guy,” he said to himself, but his gaunt face told a different story; he had aged visibly from the ordeal of Gwynne’s death.

  He was putting away his shaving gear when he realized there was something odd about the bathroom: it was entirely feminine. There were small, round French-milled soaps, powders, bath sal
ts, a candle in a tarnished antique silver-plate holder, and, on the windowsill, two small bottles of perfume: Amarige by Givenchy, never opened, and another, half full, called—comically, he thought, for this part of the world—Rain.

  But there was no razor, no shave cream, no heavy-duty soap for a farmer’s grimy hands. There was only one toothbrush, standing upright in a delicate glass by the sink. Fiona was married. She’d said so; her husband’s name was David. But in this bathroom at least, there was no evidence of him at all.

  He put on a clean white expedition shirt, black wrinkle-free trousers, and a pair of lightweight black loafers, and threw a charcoal gray sweater around his shoulders. Then he went back out to the entry hall and took his boots, hiking clothes, and shaving kit to the tent. He noticed that the wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped. It was nearly dark.

  Fiona was pouring hot water into the teapot when he came back into the kitchen. She turned around and exclaimed, “My goodness! You certainly clean up nicely!”

  She wanted to stuff the words back down her throat, but it was too late.

  Alec smiled. “I have to admit I was surprised you took me in. I looked like a hobo.”

  It wasn’t that, of course, and Fiona knew it. With the salt-and-pepper stubble shaved off his jaws he looked ten years younger. With his white shirt and his deeply tanned skin, Alec Hudson was—in Fiona’s experience at least—well, rather nice to look at. And though he was dressed very simply, there was a sort of casual elegance about the way he’d put the pieces together. All of this had taken only milliseconds to register; she felt like she was still trying to catch herself in mid-fall.

  “Tea! How do you like it? White? With sugar?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Yes, please what?”

  Alec chuckled. “Yes, please both.”

  He pulled a chair out from under the scrubbed pine kitchen table and sat. Leaning back against the wooden slats, he stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. It felt good to sit.