‘Uh-huh?’
‘You won’t, like, come over all Victorian Dad, will you? Be embarrassing?’
‘I’ll be on my best behaviour,’ said Theo solemnly. ‘Promise.’
‘That,’ said Beth with a grin as she turned to go, ‘is exactly what I’m worried about.’
15 miles
Beth
‘Friends,’ announced Father Stephen at breakfast. ‘I don’t know about you, but I can’t believe we’re nearly there! Eighty-two miles down, twenty-two to go. And today we should have our first glimpse of Canterbury Cathedral. The end is nigh! In a good way, that is,’ he added, and everyone laughed.
Not that nigh, thought Beth. Even her rubbish maths told her that the remaining distance was more than a quarter of the miles already covered. So they were, what, three-quarters of the way there? Hang on. That wasn’t right. Four-fifths? Bloody fractions.
‘Today’s a long old day in terms of miles, I should warn you,’ continued Father Stephen. Sam groaned dramatically, immediately followed by Milo.
‘I’m phoning ChildLine!’ said Sam.
‘I’m phoning them too!’ echoed Milo.
Father Stephen smiled at them both. ‘Look, if you’ve managed this far, I’m sure you can make it to the end. You’ve both done brilliantly. George, too, before he went home.’
‘And Smith,’ said Milo.
‘And Smith. That goes without saying. Anyway, it’s pretty flat today. Just one short bit of uphill this afternoon, so that’s a mercy. And I’m delighted to say that the weather outlook is fine for the rest of the weekend. We should arrive in Canterbury bathed in sunshine. Now, how are all those feet today?’
Beth considered the question. In their family, the only feet anyone ever asked after tended to be Sam’s. The blister that had bothered her after the first day had shrunk and healed. She could feel a sort of stretch in her calf muscles, but they didn’t exactly ache now, which they most definitely had at the start of the week. Even her glutes – which she’d really felt when she got out of bed on Monday morning after the Box Hill day (OMG, the Box Hill day!) – seemed to have settled down. All in all, she felt OK. Good, even. Well, good but scared shitless. How was that even possible? That you could be, like, longing for something – well, someone – but kind of dreading their arrival at the same time?
She’d agonized about whether she should even let Matt come. For a whole load of reasons. Number one, she wasn’t at all sure she could cope with him coming under public scrutiny. The group was such a unit now, that his arrival would hardly escape notice. (‘This is Matt, everyone. He’s my friend from school.’ Urg!) Would everyone be all weird? Totally awkward? But then she remembered that Lucy and Ella were going home on Friday night. Their dad was coming to fetch them, and would be giving George a lift back to Farmleigh too. Some horsey thing the sisters had to do. George had a birthday party to go to. That made it all a bit easier, because Lucy would probably flirt with Matt – and she was annoyingly pretty, far prettier than Beth – and Ella would be all giggly and embarrassing.
Beth thought she could probably rely on Chloe to be sensible. She had a boyfriend of her own, even if he was a dead loss. Dullsville Dan. At least Chloe wouldn’t be fazed by Matt. In fact, she might even be impressed that Beth had . . . what? Got a Year Thirteen guy interested in her? If he was. How could he be? Oh fuck! Presumably he was; of course he must be. He was Mr K. He was schlepping halfway across the bloody country to find her, wasn’t he? And this morning’s song – ‘Walking on Sunshine’ – was a good omen, surely? Oh God, but what if Sam started being silly, along with Mini-Me Milo? Look at the two of them this morning! So immature!
Reason number two was that . . . well, flirting by text was one thing, lovely actually, his texts were sweet as, but actually meeting in person? It was a whole new, like, scenario. What if he was disappointed when he saw her again? Realized that it was all a horrible mistake and that she was just a poxy Year Eleven? Reason number three . . . well, this was the biggie. It wasn’t as if he even knew Mum, and this week was supposed to be all about remembering her. Would everyone think he was, like, gatecrashing or something? That it was totally inappropriate, him being there? Was it fair on Matt to expose him to this whole pilgrimage thing? Might he think she and her family were total freaks?
In the end, she confided in Tamsin about that one, knowing that she wouldn’t make her feel stupid. Tamsin considered for a moment, taking the question seriously. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Fair point. But from everything you’ve said, Beth-ster, he’s a pretty sensitive guy. He’s going to get the picture. And if he’s going to be part of your life, in any way – friend, boyfriend, whatever – he needs to understand what makes you tick. Part of getting to know you means getting to know your family. That includes hearing all about your mum. If he can’t hack that, I’d say he’s not worthy of your attention.’
‘So, Tamsin?’
‘Yeah?’
‘If he does come . . .’
‘Yes, doll?’
‘Can you . . . well, can you be on the lookout? Make sure the boys don’t play up?’
‘Course I can. Trust me. One step out of line and they’re dead meat.’
Working out the business of actually getting him here, there seemed to be a choice between Matt cadging a lift with Ruth and William and arriving first thing in the morning, or catching a train and joining the party later in the day. Beth thought she could trust her grandparents not to, well, interrogate him, but it was still a bit of a risk. And a bit mental, him being in the car with them for – what? an hour, an hour and a half? – when they’d never even met before. Also, if the whole thing was a disaster – and you just never knew – she and Matt were then stuck with each other for the entire day. Maybe tomorrow as well. So although it meant delaying his arrival by a few hours (she couldn’t wait! but she had to wait), it seemed overall best to plump for the train. That way he could do some revision for his A-levels, too, and the fact that she was thinking about that meant that she was being considerate and no one could accuse her of being irresponsible.
After breakfast Beth went back to her bunk in the camping barn to pack her bag. Breakfast! She suddenly realized that she’d been so preoccupied anticipating Matt’s arrival that she’d let her guard down and accidentally eaten breakfast. For the first time in, like, weeks. How had that happened? How many calories were there in a bowl of porridge? Not that many, surely? She pulled out her phone, failed to find a signal and gave up on the calorie app. She fought a wave of alarm. But oats were supposed to be, like, a superfood, weren’t they? At least she hadn’t wavered over those cupcakes. Bound to be full of sugar. She’d had chopped apple and apricot, too, because it was just there. But that was healthy, too, wasn’t it? Cautiously, she put a hand to her stomach and asked herself how she felt. Fuller than usual, yes . . . but not uncomfortably so. Still in control. Actually, it was kind of OK, not to be quite so light-headed. She felt sort of warm inside. In a good way. Fuelled for the day.
As she came back into the yard with her bag, she heard a car draw up. Assuming it would be her grandparents, she was surprised to see a black taxi. Uncle Tom! She’d forgotten that he was planning to rejoin them. That was good. He was fun. And would help dilute everyone a bit. Even though she wasn’t too sad in the circs to say goodbye to Lucy and Ella, she was worried that the party was shrinking. And that was most certainly not fair on Mum. It might look awkward when they did that TV piece. She kept losing count, but she thought they’d started out as a party of eighteen. Was that with or without Ruth? And Smith? She couldn’t remember. But at breakfast she’d worked out there would be just ten of them today. With Uncle Tom and Matt too, that meant twelve. Smith made it thirteen. And if it could be somewhere near a car park, and Granny Ruth could be there, they would be fourteen. She must ask Tamsin if it was all sorted out. She did hope it wouldn’t fall through. According to Tamsin, that happened all the time.
‘Unpredictable as anything,’ she said last nig
ht. ‘All depends if a bigger story breaks. Especially at weekends, when it’s usually just one man and a dog in the newsroom. On a good day.’
‘So how will we know?’
‘I’ll give them a call first thing. Need to get it sorted – make sure we’re in the right place and the right time. Get everyone teed-up in purple. I’ll bring along a few spare shirts, just in case.’
Did anyone know how hard Tamsin was working in the background? wondered Beth. She was getting loads of donations in through her radio reports, and by shaking her tin at pubs and tea rooms. And she was driving the whole Twitter campaign. So Twitter was a bit last year, never mind Facebook (puh-lease! rents alert!), but it was reaching a lot of people. And she wasn’t sure that any of the other adults had a clue about social networking. Honestly, she despaired about Dad sometimes. He was like something out of the Stone Age. Could barely send a text without a major panic. Thank goodness someone knew what they were about.
Buoyed by the happy thought that Canterbury was in reach and the terrain was flat, the walkers set off rather faster than usual.
‘Happy, Grandpa?’ she asked as they strode past a large white cross carved into the hillside.
‘Happy indeed, Beth. But at the risk of being a bore, I’m not sure everyone will be able to keep this up. Fair old way, fifteen miles.’
‘We, like, managed it on Wednesday, though? Or most of us did. That was the day Sam took off with Granny. What’s she doing today?’
‘Ah. Today,’ said Grandpa, smiling warmly. ‘I’ll have you know, young lady, that today has something special in store.’
Beth panicked briefly. Did he mean Matt’s arrival? ‘Today,’ continued William solemnly, ‘Granny is going to the Wye National Nature Reserve. Which, take it from me, is rather marvellous.’
‘So, like, you’ve been there?’
‘I haven’t been there, no. And if I’m absolutely honest with you, I’m not entirely sure how and why it’s different from all the other nature reserves your grandmama has visited this week. Apart from some remarkable coombes apparently formed by periglacial activity during the Ice Age. My hunch is that orchids of some description are on the agenda.’ He winked at her conspiratorially.
‘So why didn’t she take Sam along, then?’
‘Think he’s determined to finish the course,’ said William. He walked on a few paces, and then added casually, ‘He’s doing really well, you know.’
‘And . . . your point is?’
‘Sweet of you to keep an eye out, of course. Little chap’s lucky to have a big sister who cares. But I’m not sure you need to be on red alert the whole time.’
Beth was taken aback. Red alert? Was she? She couldn’t think of a time when she hadn’t fretted about Sam. It was just what she did. ‘But I can’t help worrying, Grandpa! Anything could happen. I mean . . . what if . . .’
‘What if what, exactly?’
‘If he, like, falls over? Has an accident? Gets ill again?’
‘Is that very likely?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not a flipping doctor!’
‘I know that, old thing,’ said William mildly. He stopped walking, to allow a dog-walker coming towards them to pass, and nodded good morning. The two of them stood back from the group for a few moments. ‘But he’s well, you know. Fit as a fiddle. All the medics who’ve ever looked after him tell us he’s fully recovered. Just look at him!’
Beth turned her gaze in the direction William was indicating with his stick. Sam and Milo were throwing a ball for Smith, who was barking excitedly. Every now and again a throw went astray, and one of them had to run down the slope to rescue the ball to stop it escaping any further into the valley below.
‘Where do they get their energy?’ asked William.
‘Come on, Grandpa. You’ve got more energy than anyone!’ said Beth, suddenly finding she was fighting tears. She struggled to remember a time when she hadn’t been frightened. ‘It’s just . . . I’m so scared . . .’
‘Of what?’
‘Everyone thought Mum and Josh were well, didn’t they? And then suddenly they weren’t. And people forget that and someone’s got to look out for Sam because Dad, well, Dad’s in a state, and that means he’s a bit useless and doesn’t always notice things, and anyway I have to watch him too, because otherwise he might die as well and then I’ll be like an orphan . . .’
By now the tears were streaming down her face. Oh fuck, why did this keep happening? William silently handed her an immaculately ironed hanky embroidered with a W. Those hankies were practically his trademark. He said nothing until she had herself under control.
‘I can understand it’s a worry,’ he said eventually. ‘But I think perhaps if you stop and think about it, you’ll find that you’re rather assuming Armageddon’s just around the corner. Not really very likely. On the scale of probability. Another thing to bear in mind . . . I’m not sure that you worrying about it would actually prevent the apocalypse anyway.’
He paused, and then added, ‘Rather a good bit in the Bible about that, actually. “Which of you by worrying can add an inch to his height?” or words to that effect. Sound advice. Old as the hills, but still true. Look it up sometime.’
Beth pondered for a moment. Her vigilance was so hard-wired into her that she never stopped to ask what it achieved.
‘It’s not all your responsibility, you know,’ said William. ‘Apart from the fact that I imagine it’s somewhat exhausting. Carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Like Atlas, in Greek mythology. Had to hold up the sky. Very tiring. And he was a Titan. Had colossal shoulders. A lot bigger than yours. Oh, and Beth . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘In the highly unlikely event that you’re orphaned, you can still count on us, old thing. May be a bit creaky, but we’re entirely at your disposal.’
Beth looked up at her grandfather. ‘Before we catch up with the others, can I . . . like . . . have a hug, Grandpa?’ she asked thickly.
Father Stephen was right about the weather. The day was fine and increasingly warm. By mid-morning Uncle Tom, Tamsin and he were in animated conversation about the wisdom of stopping for a drink at a suitable pub.
‘My guidebook says that Charing’s very scenic,’ said Uncle Tom. ‘Lots of pilgrim history. The old archbishop’s palace? Thirteenth-century church? Side trip to the Royal Oak? What do you think?’
‘I had no idea you were so interested in ecclesiastical history, Tom,’ said Father Stephen serenely. ‘The only trouble is, your guidebook’s sadly out of date. I believe the pub is closed. But if you can hang on for another hour or so there’s an equally charming pilgrim church in Westwell. And at Boughton Lees. Pubs in both villages, you’ll be glad to know.’
‘Whaddya reckon, Tom? Can you hang on?’ asked Tamsin.
‘Not sure we have a choice,’ said Uncle Tom. He was hovering around Tamsin like a wasp round jam, thought Beth. He’d done the same last weekend. Tom and Tamsin? Was that why he’d rushed back?
‘Good. We have a plan,’ said Father Stephen. ‘Mind you, there’s another interesting church we might look in on later.’ Beth spotted Uncle Tom wink surreptitiously at Tamsin.
‘Tell us more, Father Steve,’ said Tamsin, ignoring Tom.
‘Well, it’s another ruin, like the archbishop’s palace at Charing. St Mary’s Eastwell. Haunted, supposedly.’
‘Haunted? Strewth! Spill the beans!’
‘I’m sure it’s stuff and nonsense. People always like a good haunting, especially when a church is in ruins,’ said Father Stephen. ‘St Mary’s has been derelict for sixty years or more. It’s right next to a lake. Something to do with seepage into the foundations. Then the estate was used for tank manoeuvres during the Second World War, and that weakened the structure more than ever. The roof finally fell in during the 1950s.’
‘But what about the ghost?’ asked Beth.
‘A monk who lurks, apparently. But the other interesting thing there is the association with Richar
d de Eastwell. The last of the Plantagenets.’
‘Sorry, Father. I don’t know my Pommie history. Can you elaborate?’
‘Well, this Richard was the illegitimate son of King Richard III.’
‘Ah! Heard of him. King Richard of the car park!’
‘Well, yes. After the Battle of Bosworth, the Plantagenet star waned, and this Richard ended up working as a craftsman here in Kent. He died in the 1550s and his tomb is in the graveyard.’
‘So he could be the one haunting the church?’ asked Beth.
‘No idea,’ said Father Stephen. ‘A bit of a tall story, I’d say.’
‘Richard III had a whole load of bastards, did he?’ asked Tom. ‘Those royals! Honestly. They had a fine old time of it.’
‘Three, I think. Not all acknowledged in his lifetime,’ said Father Stephen.
‘Well, all right if you’re the king, I guess,’ said Tamsin pointedly. ‘But you can bet your bottom dollar that there’s a whole other yarn to tell if you asked those women for their side of the story. No fun being left high and dry with a sprog, if you ask me. Royal or otherwise.’
In the end, it was almost two o’clock by the time they reached the pub. A traditional country inn in dark red brick, it was ideally positioned overlooking the village cricket green.
‘Isn’t this just perfect?’ said Tamsin, setting a tray of drinks in front of the walkers who had gathered round benches in the sun. ‘An English village scene right out of Hollywood. And the sun’s even shining for a change!’
‘I can tell already that I’m not going to want to leave,’ said Catherine. ‘This is utter bliss. My legs always protest horribly after a break.’
‘I know,’ said Mary Anne. ‘It’s almost easier if you just keep going.’
‘Almost,’ said Catherine. ‘But not quite!’
‘Well, I’m afraid we can’t hang about too long,’ said Tamsin. ‘We need to be up the road by three o’clock for this TV piece.’
‘So tell us, Tamsin, what’s the plan?’ asked Mary Anne.
‘Father Steve?’ called Tamsin. ‘Do you want to run us through the batting order?’
Knowing Anna Page 20
