by Kim Wright
“I’d be happy to serve as judge,” Tess says. “So here are the rules. The stories don’t have to be true, or autobiographical. And yes, the nature of love is a worthy theme, but don’t imagine that all the stories must be romantic, or noble. You might tell a tale of the most foolish thing you’ve ever done for love, or one in which the lovers give up everything for each other, or even one in which they never meet. And since our time together terminates in Canterbury, the winner shall be declared there and treated to a marvelous dinner by the others. I know just the place.” Her voice and manner are that of a teacher giving an assignment, and when she finishes, I almost expect her to clap her hands. “Shall we draw lots to see who goes first?”
“I’ve never understood that term,” Valerie says, probably speaking for us all. “What are lots and how do you draw them?”
“Shortest straw?” asks the Athlete.
“No,” says Tess, “for that implies the loser goes first, and the right to tell the opening story of the journey is a great honor. You shall all draw cards. Highest begins.”
With this, she extracts a blue silk bundle from the backpack at her feet, which, when unwrapped, reveals an oversize and elaborately decorated deck of cards. It looks nearly medieval itself, the figures hand-drawn and faded, and I wonder what else Tess has in that pack. Leading these tours must require the host to be a veritable Mary Poppins, able to entertain, instruct, and comfort at a moment’s notice.
The deck goes around the circle, each woman selecting a card. I look at mine under the corner of the table, surprised to find that my heart is beating a bit faster. I don’t want to go first. It seems like too much responsibility, as if the first story might set the tone for our entire pilgrimage. But I wouldn’t want to go last either, so I’m relieved to get an eight of hearts. Right in the middle of the lineup and thus probably safe.
“Now turn them,” says Tess.
The cards turn. The winner/loser is Jean, who has pulled the queen of diamonds. It seems appropriate to her, just as I suppose a middling amount of love is appropriate to me.
But Jean is unfazed. “This is easy,” she says. “I can tell the story of my husband. Because I was married to the perfect man.”
Well, that’s quite a statement. It seems to strike the whole group mute for a moment and it’s the sort of remark that implies way more than it explains. The fact she said “was married” instead of “am married” proves she’s no longer with this man . . . and since she’s proclaimed him to be perfect, divorce isn’t likely. Jean must be a widow, and judging by the calmness with which she has spoken, this is not a fresh wound. Her husband died years ago, that’s my guess, which means not only that Becca is the daughter of a perfect man but she was half-orphaned sometime during her childhood or early adolescence. No wonder she seems so angry. The oldest, the only girl, her most likely family ally lost just when she needed him most.
“You’re talking about your first husband?” asks Claire.
“My only husband,” Jean says firmly, and Claire frowns, as if wondering how such a thing is possible.
“But the rest of you are married?” she persists, looking around the table, and I realize we’re all trying to define each other as quickly as possible, based on whatever criteria leaps to mind. For Claire the primary distinction seems to be among those who are married and those who are not, and I feel the customary tightness in my chest that I always get whenever the M-word arises. The assumption is that everyone gets married sooner or later, even the doughiest and dullest and most hopeless. The people you see walking around Walmart at three in the morning usually have someone with them.
As it turns out, Silvia in the sun is married and so is the black Athlete. Tess and Becca are single, but it’s okay because they’re young. Claire has been to the altar a hundred times, that’s been established, and the Queen of Jersey says, “I’m married,” and then adds “more or less.” So there’s a story there—I guess we’ll hear it soon enough—and Valerie says, “I’m a spinster.” Of course she would say “spinster.” Of course she would claim the most loaded possible word, all Quaker and Amish and witchy, and she would furthermore say it ironically. Making sure we all know she’s chosen this lesser-taken path, which we understand being a spinster is hip.
They look at me next, so I blurt out, “I was married once, but so long ago that it’s like it hardly happened.”
It’s a good lie. I know, because I’ve told it many times before and no one has ever challenged me. People are comfortable with divorcées, far more comfortable than they are with the spinsters of the world, and I’ve now been evoking the ghost of this discarded husband for at least ten years, ever since I rounded the bend of thirty-five and being single suddenly began to feel abnormal. I’ve given him a name, Michael. A height, “shorter than me,” and a profession, architect, sometimes even adding, “He worked on big public buildings like airports, that sort of thing.”
“So shall we settle our bill of fare?” says Tess. “A van is waiting outside to drive us to our first inn and tomorrow, bright and early, we will begin the trail.”
Bill of fare. Love it. So British, so old-fashioned and cute. This is what we’re paying for. There are murmurs of agreement all around, credit cards being produced, scarves being retrieved, the scrape of chairs being pushed back. A hum in the air. A sense of departure. Should I throw in my lot with this group of women? For we’ve come truly to the point of no return, I suppose. If I’m going to catch the train to Canterbury on my own, I should leave now. If I’m going to the airport, and back to America, then I should have left thirty minutes ago. I look around the table. A companion is someone with whom you eat—a rather random and not particularly high standard of friendship, but what the hell. If history has taught us anything, it’s that no woman should journey to Canterbury alone.
JUST AS Tess promised, a van is waiting for us, parked in an alley behind the George, near a Dumpster in a position that is undoubtedly illegal. The young man leaning against it looks like a hood. Pimply and lanky, a cigarette dangling from his lips. But the moment he sees Tess approaching, all of us behind her dragging our bags and packs over the cobblestones, he straightens up and flings the cigarette to the side, suddenly all pep and service. There’s an art to loading this many suitcases, ranging from a stylish bag with LOUIS VUITTON emblazoned on the side, probably Claire’s, to a nearly shredded military-style knapsack, probably Becca’s. But the young man gets them all wedged in with a practiced ease.
Fitting in the women proves trickier. We hesitate at the door of the van, no one quite willing to go first. I want to redeem myself as a good sport, so I step up and struggle my way to the back row, with the Athlete right behind me and Valerie, still chattering, trailing her. The black-haired Queen of Jersey takes the seat in front of us, along with Jean and her daughter, leaving Claire and Silvia in the best position, beside the door and only two to a row. Tess slides in the passenger seat beside the driver, who has been introduced as Tim.
Valerie wants to talk. She wants to know where I’ve come from, why I joined them at the last minute, what brings me to Canterbury. My initial scan of the situation has convinced me she’s pretty much the last one I want to befriend and God knows how long we’re going to be wedged in this van. So to discourage her I say I want to read my email before we leave the city. It isn’t totally a lie. Just as I said back in the George, I suspect phone service will be spotty in the country, so this may be my last chance to check in for days. I should text something to Ned and at least let him know that we won’t be talking tomorrow. I’m responsible like that, even when I’ve just been dumped.
But when I wiggle my purse up to my lap, I can’t find my phone. I dig systematically through every compartment in the bag, my panic slowly rising with each zipper I pull and pouch I explore. And then the mental image pops in my head. Me putting the phone down on the bar beside the closely cropped man when I signed my bill. I must not
have picked it up again.
“I’ve left my phone,” I call out. “I think it’s back in the bar.”
This is a minor-league disaster, of course. We have edged from the parking lot and are on a city street, our journey underway. Who knows how hard it will be to change direction on these small, confusing, one-way roads and wind our way back to the George. And I’m in the worst possible part of the van to climb out, the left-hand seat in the very back. Five or six women will have to move to set me free. I’ve already joined them late, with my weird name and bad attitude, and now I’m starting off the trip by being a mondo pain in the ass.
“Use mine,” says the Athlete, slipping her backpack to her lap, and managing the transfer far more smoothly than I did. “Call the restaurant and see if they have it.”
“Are you sure? Roaming is expensive.”
“No problem. I bought one of those programs with unlimited travel minutes.” As she unzips her backpack to take out the phone, I glimpse the undeniable glint of a gold Godiva chocolate box, nearly hidden in the folds of a scarf. So that’s her formula. Order a salad when you’re in public and pick at it in the most ostentatious manner, giving little side lectures on antioxidants and organic farming as you go, making sure everyone at the table understands you’re a paragon of health and self-control. But then at night, alone and in bed, I bet she hits the Godiva and hits it hard.
The Athlete pauses for a minute, as if she is as surprised to find the candy box there as anyone, then hands me her phone. “Go ahead,” she says. “I have unlimited time. Really.”
Tess calls back the number of the George and I type it in, but it’s busy. I try again. Busy again.
“I’m so sorry about this,” I call up to the front of the van, but Tess is chirpy. She knows her job.
“It’s easier to turn back than to wait for the line to clear,” she says over her shoulder and then she murmurs a few low words to the driver and the other women hasten to assure me it’s no big deal, we’ll just pop right back. It’s too early in the trip for any of us to be rude to each other, or even honest, and when Tim stops the van in the street dead in front of the George, everyone is cheerful about climbing out and making way for me.
I’m breathless when I get to the door of the pub, my heart pounding, my mind already racing. Everything I need to function in the world is in that phone. Contact information for everyone I work with, my plane reservation back home, my bank accounts, my compass and camera and bills and music and games and step counter. If I lose that phone, I will be utterly adrift. It will almost be like I never existed.
The laconic bartender is still in the exact position where I left him, leaning against the wall, arms folded. I spew out my story. Describe the phone, with its vineyard-themed cover, the picture of Freddy on the screen. Point out where I was sitting. Mention the man who had dined beside me, who I had the sense was somewhat of a regular. But there is no phone. He looks beneath the bar and in the back to make sure, even goes to talk to the hostess, but returns empty-handed.
“How can it just be missing?” I ask him. I can hear how shrill my voice is. I am right on the cusp of screaming. “What in the name of God am I supposed to do now?”
He leans back against the altar of liquor, his arms once again crossed over his chest. “You could buy a new one,” he says.
“You don’t understand. It isn’t the phone itself. It’s what was on it. My whole world was in that phone. I’m not even sure how I’ll get back to America now.”
He shakes his head. “No need to panic, miss. You can’t really lose anything anymore, not the way they have it all fixed today. Everything you need is in the cloud.”
“It’s just that . . . are you sure you didn’t see it?”
“Here you go,” he says, reaching into his shirt pocket. “Use mine and call yourself.”
“But roaming charges . . .”
“Quite all right. No one will answer. We’re just listening for the tone, aren’t we?”
Good point. I struggle for a moment to remember my number and then thumb it in. The phone rings . . . and rings. My ringtone is church bells, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the default mode and I never bothered to change it. The young man turns down the sound system behind the bar and he and I both listen, intently, for church bells.
No luck. I hear the click and then my own voice on the outgoing message starting and I hang up. The bartender shrugs. “So it would seem to be gone, eh miss? Poor luck.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly. Poor luck.”
Four
For the first night of the trip we stay in a little town near the start of the trail, which has a carved wooden statue dedicated to the Canterbury pilgrims in the village square. The next morning we all take turns posing beside it, our walking staffs in hand. My camera was on my phone, so I have to rely on the others for my shot.
The two pilgrims in the statue have differing facial expressions. One of them is solemn and sorrowful, his gaze lowered to the ground, while the other’s head is thrown back with a knowing smirk. The carving is relatively new, according to Tess, so I suppose the figures are meant to represent a contemporary view on why various pilgrims might have taken to the trail. For some it was a mission of penitence, and for others, more of a spring break road trip—an excuse to get the hell out of town for a while, the proverbial change of scenery, a chance to drink, carouse, or bed a wench from another village.
The Athlete’s name has turned out to be Steffi. She takes my picture when my turn comes and promises to email it to me. I have no doubt that she’s the kind of woman who will do exactly whatever she says she will do, but we haven’t yet set a foot on the trail, and she’s already getting on everyone’s nerves. She keeps peppering Tess with questions about how far we will walk today, how much elevation we will gain, and our approximate pace per hour. She has one of those Fitbit things strapped to her wrist and she consults it every few minutes, even though Tess has patiently explained that exercise is not what this particular walk is about.
“Each group must find its own pace,” Tess says, “and the first day out is always a bit of an experiment. I’ll be able to give you a greater sense of the numbers this evening, when I see how far we’ve come.”
It’s a rather incomplete explanation. This is Monday, and we know we have five days to walk the trail before a pilgrim blessing awaits us in Canterbury Cathedral at three o’clock Saturday afternoon. Not to mention that our nights in various inns have been prearranged along the route. In order to meet those obligations, it would seem that Tess would have to have some sense of how far and fast we will walk. Steffi jumps on the discrepancy at once.
“So you adapt the route based on the speed of the group,” she says, her voice disapproving. Even a little frantic, like I imagine mine was when the bartender back in London told me he couldn’t find my phone. “If you can see that we’re slow, you cut off part of each day’s walk, is that how it works? So you’re saying there’s a chance we won’t see it all?”
In the past eighteen hours I’ve learned not only that Steffi is black and female, which of course is obvious, but also that she’s a doctor whose specialty is heart disease in women. She’s used to fighting, I think. Used to taking every step along the path, climbing every hill, and it chaps her ass to no end to think there’s something out there somewhere that we might miss. Even if what we miss is just a few miles of farmland that look precisely like all the others.
I start to say something, to tell her not to worry about it, that walking fifteen miles a day isn’t any more likely to purify your soul or challenge your body than walking ten, but then I stop myself. I’m still the outsider. And not just because I missed the opening lunch at the George, but because I missed dinner last night as well. By the time we’d gotten there and unloaded the van it had been nearly dusk, and the fact that I’d flown the red-eye the night before had caught up with me. I’d begged
off of joining the others in the pub, and climbed the narrow stairs to my small, nunlike room, my suitcase clanging behind me with every step.
I’d snatched a banana from a basket on the registration desk but when I sat down on the bed to eat it, I saw that it was dusty. Perfect. Evidently that fruit was intended as decoration, not as an invitation for the guests of the inn to randomly pillage. In fact, by fishing a banana from the bottom of the bowl I may have messed up the symmetry. Maybe the whole arrangement was now off balance, with apples and pears tumbling to the floor left and right. Crazy bloody Americans, the innkeepers were undoubtedly thinking. If we don’t lock them in their rooms at night, they’ll probably eat the shrubbery off the lawn.
I showered and put on my nightgown, exhausted but with the sense I’d have trouble falling asleep. Normally I use my phone to wind myself down at night, reading articles from links on Twitter, checking email, playing Angry Birds. When I’d gone to the window and looked out from my high little room, I could see the whole village, such as it was, with a smoky autumn dusk settling over the town. A single human was visible: the vicar, walking from the church in his robes, weaving his way among the listing tombstones. And I wondered how I’d come to be here, in this place I hadn’t even known existed until a couple of hours before. How I had found myself surrounded by strangers, with no clear way back to the airport or America or anything real, and as I looked at the village it had suddenly struck me that, without my phone, I couldn’t even call for help. The only thing I might have done was open the window and scream . . . but there was no one to hear me but the vicar and I had no idea what sort of assistance a vicar could provide.
A cat was there too. He’d come to the window and was looking at me with exasperation, pushing at the panes of glass with his paw. Evidently I was in his favorite room. I cracked the window open—no screens—and he slid silkily through, then claimed his place on the lumpen little bed. Okay, I thought. Here’s what I don’t have. I don’t have a mother, or a lover, or a phone, or any fucking clue of why I’m here, where I’m going next, or what any of this means. But I do have a cat and a dusty banana and a vicar across the way, so let’s see what comfort I can derive from these small certainties. And maybe I could read. I could hold a book in my hands. If memory served, the feel of a book was generally quite soothing. I’d passed a bookcase on the landing, halfway up, crammed full of whatever had been left by the inn’s former guests, the titles pointing this way and that.
