Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘Is it often a problem?’ said Martin, in French.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. The previous owners were more strict, and some of our guests expect everything to be as it was. No meat, no eggs, understanding English and German and Dutch, and the crazy rules with the phones.’

  Angelique and her husband, Emeric, had bought the business as a retirement project, inheriting a live-in program for writers and musicians who cared about healthy eating and sustainable living.

  The cake came with a glass of white wine; Gilbert and Bernhard joined us, and Sarah followed—in her short shorts, tank top and low-cut hiking shoes. She gave us a look and disappeared out the door.

  Our room was up a tight spiralling staircase in the tower. Through the slit windows, we could see the darkening skies.

  ‘Shower first?’ I asked, and then we were kissing, his touch and smell an instant reminder of the intimacy I had missed so much. He tasted of apple cake and wine, and after the initial urgency the kisses became slower and gentle, his beard tickling as he opened my shirt and kissed my skin. It had been too long, and even counting the few days—and nights—we’d had together three years ago, we were still new to each other, uncertain and tentative. But, for me at least, there was none of the self-consciousness of the first time we had slept together.

  We had at least two hours until dinner to enjoy finding each other again. And all to the sound of beautiful classical music. At first, I thought I was imagining it. Then I realised it was coming from the room beneath us. Martin mumbled ‘Mozart’ as the cello was joined by…another cello, and another. The floor seemed to vibrate with the music. I let myself disappear into the magic of the instruments being bowed and plucked.

  Until there was a bang on the door. Shit. I had thought babies got in the way of sex. A twenty-year-old was worse.

  ‘Ignore it,’ said Martin.

  The next bang was a lot louder and this time the room lit up.

  We both started laughing. ‘The universe,’ said Martin.

  As we ate dinner, we watched the storm play out through a huge window: flashes across the sky and hail so loud it was hard to hear each other at times. We had been out there just a few hours earlier; our daily connection to the land and nature added to the power of the experience.

  All the food was vegetarian, the herbs and most of the vegetables home-grown. We were joined by the cellists—a British masterclass—and Martin got into a discussion with them about creativity. Brian seemed to be their spokesperson.

  ‘Each year we spend a week here. But it’s been a wee bit tricky this time. The new people are sweet, but they don’t have much English, and one of our group is vegan. Plus, he’s got an issue with radio waves. This was the one place…I mean, there are places in England, but we came here because everything was right.’

  ‘Hope he doesn’t spot this,’ said Martin, after dinner, fixing a router that had apparently been malfunctioning. I watched him working, dealing with a problem instead of complaining about it, spreading some karma. I felt positive being a part of it. It was hard not to look like the cat that got the cream as Martin and I went upstairs to bed—together.

  10

  MARTIN

  I came down to breakfast ahead of Zoe, partly to give her a bit of space after being so close, and partly not to rub it into Sarah that we were sleeping together. I needn’t have bothered: only the Brits were there. Emeric served a plunger of coffee and a plate of croissants as Sarah and Bernhard descended the stairs.

  ‘You went for a run?’ I asked Sarah.

  ‘You mean yesterday? Before dinner? You’ve seen me since then.’

  ‘You went running after walking all day?’

  ‘It was a short walk…Hold on—’ She touched Emeric’s arm as he was turning back.

  ‘’Erbal tea, correct?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, please. And could I have muesli and fruit and natural yoghurt. Please.’

  I translated for Emeric.

  Zoe had joined us and added in French: ‘That would be great. Same for me.’

  ‘We have yoghurt with berries in it. I’m sorry, no muesli.’

  ‘I meant plain unsweetened yoghurt.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The berry yoghurt is full of sugar. How can you not have plain yoghurt? I mean, vegetarian, biodynamic wine, radio waves…’

  I wasn’t sure if Emeric was following, but Sarah’s tone made the message clear.

  Zoe tried to hose it down. ‘I guess where I come from those things go together. Last night’s meal was the best I’ve had on the Chemin…’

  ‘I’m not talking about dinner,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m talking about breakfast. Every morning. Muesli is like the cheapest stuff; it’s oats; heaps of people eat it; how hard is it to keep a two-euro packet of oats? I mean, how much do you charge?’

  Jesus.

  Bernhard—Bernhard—stepped in. ‘In Germany, you would get salami. But my girlfriend is training for the marathon…’

  Girlfriend did it. Sarah got up, and, in the absence of a cereal bowl to tip over his head, stormed upstairs.

  ‘Good luck walking that one back,’ said Zoe to Bernhard, laughing. ‘But I know where she’s coming from. Seriously, white bread and croissants? And this place is supposed to be organic.’

  ‘We will apologise before we leave,’ said Bernhard.

  I gave him a pat on the shoulder as I stood up. ‘Ta.’

  We got a sprinkling of rain in the second half of the day, and I used the excuse of checking her gear to engage with Sarah.

  ‘You want to talk to me about this morning, right?’

  ‘Not as your parent. You make your own calls, but everyone in the group feels it if there’s an argument, within or without.’

  ‘We apologised before we left. I get that it’s culture. And they’re new. But if people don’t know, they won’t change.’

  ‘Fair enough. Have you forgiven Bernhard?’

  ‘For calling me his girlfriend? He’s a klutz.’

  ‘And the marathon?’

  ‘I was shooting for an iron man, but training was getting in the way of study. So I’ve backed off to a marathon. Maybe I’ll pick it up again…’ She stopped, holding something back.

  In the end, I filled the silence. ‘How’s it going? The training?’

  ‘I’m close to ninety minutes for the half-marathon, and the rule of thumb is double that time and add ten minutes.’

  ‘You’re faster than I ever was.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Have you told your mother?’

  ‘Thought I’d keep it as a surprise.’

  ‘Then tell her you’re working out or something. She’s worried you’re not eating properly.’

  ‘So am I. Fifteen miles on croissants and jam. But you want to know what I think of Zoe, right?’

  ‘Not really. I want to know if you’re all right and, if not, if there’s anything we can do about it.’

  ‘Mister Problem Solver. I saw you fixing the tap.’

  I’d packed a basic toolkit with the idea of finding repairs to do when we stayed at small, family-owned places. Minor plumbing, a fixture that had come loose, something that would make me feel I was giving a little back to the world I was walking through. Emeric had had no idea how to fix the router or the tap. I wondered how long they’d persevere with their retirement project.

  ‘Zoe’s all right. Mum’d say a bit fluffy but, hey, California, right? How are you doing with her?’

  ‘How are you finding Bernhard?’

  ‘I told you, he’s a klutz.’

  Walking is conducive to long pauses. It was about a hundred metres before she added, ‘Has he said anything about me?’

  •

  Zoe and I shared a room in Villefranche-sur-Saône, north of Lyon, around two hundred and fifty kilometres from the Italian border. The larger town gave us a wider range of dinner options, and we found a Moroccan restaurant which dished up more vegetables than even Zoe and Sarah could finish. Gilb
ert’s generous cost-sharing proposal had been accepted: split the food bills and he would pay for wine, allowing him to indulge his passion without sponsorship from the rest of us.

  I was eating and drinking well, sleeping with the only woman I’d clicked with for a long time, keeping fit, and making, it seemed, some progress with Sarah. Couldn’t complain.

  11

  ZOE

  The days were beginning to have a rhythm. Martin, with his new beard and hair that seemed to have grown longer already, was like a cute English sheepdog at our heels in the morning. In the evenings, after we revived over a glass of wine or beer, he wandered around looking for things to fix. Friends back home clicked the heart emoji when I posted a picture.

  From the burbs of Villefranche-sur-Saône, we crossed a bridge spanning the Saône river, and entered fields of corn and sunflowers with heads that had turned black and were too heavy to rise and greet the sun.

  I’d thought that Camille and Gilbert wouldn’t last three days, yet on day six they were still walking. Gilbert was slow, sometimes coming in an hour after Sarah and Bernhard, sometimes with Martin, more often with Camille, but always coming in.

  ‘We seem to be working all right,’ Martin said, trying to be casual but watching my reaction.

  ‘Like the three years never happened.’

  ‘It’s a good test. Spending so much time in each other’s company.’

  ‘The Chemin will do that.’

  It was fifteen minutes before Martin came back to it.

  ‘How do you feel about checking out Sheffield?’

  ‘How do you feel about checking out San Francisco?’

  ‘At least come and stay. Then we can decide.’

  I felt my stomach flutter. Maybe this could work. Things had changed.

  Except that all the change had been on my side. Three years on and the same elephant was in the room—a pretty, skinny elephant who, from everything I’d seen, was a regular twenty-year-old whose biggest problem was being too dependent on her father. And maybe vice versa.

  I caught Sarah alone late morning.

  ‘How are you enjoying the walk?’ She was moving fast; maybe she’d sped up.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I want to just say…I’m sorry if this wasn’t the vacation you had in mind with your dad.’

  ‘He told me you’d be here.’

  ‘Are you enjoying pre-med?’

  ‘We don’t have pre-med in the UK. We do medicine from the start.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. You think it works better?’

  ‘Nothing to compare with.’ Her tone said, ‘Say what you came to say.’

  ‘Look, I think it’s great Martin has such a close relationship with his daughter. I’ve got two daughters too. I never stopped them seeing their dad.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I mean, I know you’ve got a great relationship with your dad…’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘He didn’t need to.’ That was better. There was a tiny thaw before she iced up again.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I won’t get in your way.’

  She picked up her pace, and I slowed and waited for Camille to catch me.

  ‘I don’t think she likes me,’ I said.

  ‘Of course not—she is protecting her father. Plenty of time. By the time you marry Marteen she will be begging to be bridesmaid.’

  She started laughing. ‘She is young. More interested in Bernhard. But Bernhard is playing it cool. If I was younger… or maybe that is not necessary with Bernhard. What about you and Martin?’

  ‘We’re doing okay.’

  ‘Okay? He is here for only two more weeks, no? And after that?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can live in England. I guess that’s why I’m feeling unsure.’

  ‘Naturally. England’s weather is bad; the food is worse. You have visited?’

  ‘No, but—’

  Camille waved her hand. ‘If he loves you, he will do whatever you want.’

  ‘Even if it means letting down his daughter?’

  ‘She is a woman. She has her own life.’

  If only. Camille pointed to a signpost. ‘We are in Ars. The sarcophagus of St Jean-Marie is here. His body does not decay: a miracle.’

  It was something of a Catholic mecca—probably the wrong word—and we were learning that Camille really did want to check off every church and crucifix on the Way. I guess that was what you were meant to do on a pilgrimage.

  We toured the église and chapelles—but Camille seemed less moved by the ornate beauty and the history than I was. She did take a moment to hover in front of a statue of St Jean-Marie, then brushed his hand, paid her euro for a candle and lit it.

  ‘Do you say the same prayer each time?’

  Camille shook her head. ‘Each day I light a candle for someone I have sinned against.’

  A sin a day. I guess that kind of made sense. Better than praying for a miracle cure.

  Camille took my hand. ‘Light one with me, Zoe.’

  She put another euro in the slot and passed me a candle.

  ‘You don’t have to believe in God, just in penance. And redemption. Today, mine is for Bastien’s mother. I tried to keep her son from her. Out of love, but…’

  It was my first moment of real connection with Camille. I lit my candle.

  ‘It’s for Keith,’ I said.

  ‘You are still feeling guilty about his suicide?’

  ‘I’ve resolved…’ That had been one of the outcomes of my first camino.

  ‘But you still light a candle.’

  I nodded. And for the first time, anywhere, to anyone, I didn’t protest that the coroner and the insurance company had been unable to prove that his death was not an accident.

  After Ars there were more cornfields, and then we got lost looking for our B&B, which was off the track.

  ‘The path is here,’ announced Bernhard, checking his phone. On one side was corn grown to above head height, on the other a ploughed field with clumps of earth a yard high. The ditch—which Bernhard’s app seemed to have mapped as a path—was choked with branches, bushes and blackberries.

  ‘It is only three hundred metres.’

  ‘And if we go around?’ asked Camille.

  ‘Two kilometres.’

  Camille didn’t hesitate. Afterward, Gilbert produced spray-on antiseptic and Sarah played nurse for our minor cuts.

  ‘I have a surprise for everyone when we get to Pérouges,’ Camille said as she prepared ratatouille—our first self-cooked meal. ‘Old city. The musketeer movie, it was made there.’

  Bernhard was checking his phone. ‘It was mostly shot in Austria.’

  Camille waved her hand. ‘The French movie.’

  ‘Early start tomorrow,’ said Martin. ‘Going to be hot, and a bit longer than we’d like.’

  ‘How far?’ Camille asked.

  ‘It’s flat but close to thirty kilometres. No real choice, I’m afraid.’

  12

  MARTIN

  Gilbert and I had been obliged to make a choice. We were looking at thirty-two kilometres to Pérouges, the next stop on the Association Chemins d’Assise itinerary. There was only one possible break—Saint André de Corcy, nine kilometres down the road. We’d lose a day and still have twenty-three kilometres the next.

  We had all pulled up reasonably well, bar the cuts and scratches from Bernhard’s idiotic short cut. Bernhard, Zoe and I had walked longer distances before, and Sarah the marathon girl would not have a problem.

  After consideration, Gilbert had been up for it. ‘Camille will be pleased with the achievement.’

  ‘Okay, but we start at dawn.’

  ‘Camille will not be pleased with that.’

  ‘She’ll be a sight less pleased if she has to walk in the heat.’

  A long day’s walk is a bit like a marriage, or at least my marriage to Julia. You start off full of energy, settle into a routine which passes quickly if you’re enjoying the
journey, then the last bit is nothing but hard slog and looking forward to it being over. That said, there are a few tricks that can make it more pleasant.

  When the team arrived in the kitchen at 6.30 a.m. I had coffee brewing.

  ‘Breakfast?’ said Sarah.

  ‘Let’s knock over five kilometres first.’

  •

  Watching the sun rise is a pleasure that could begin every day, if only we pulled ourselves out of bed. Perhaps it would pall, but today, walking fresh after a strong coffee, I could sense that everyone was lifted by it. The track was easy, and we proceeded through deep-green woodlands, the grass dried only at the perimeter, for a little over an hour in our usual pairs, until Bernhard stopped, dumped his pack and plonked himself on a log.

  ‘Five kilometres. Breakfast.’

  I’d planned to sneak in an extra kilometre, but it was a pleasant spot. I pulled out six peaches and a small bag, which I passed to Sarah.

  She smiled, perhaps despite herself. ‘Muesli. Where did you get this?’

  ‘There was a giant jar.’

  ‘You should have pinched more.’

  ‘That would have been very un-pilgrim-like.’ I reached into my pack and pulled out a larger bag. ‘I left five euros. But you can carry it.’

  ‘Too early for croissants,’ said Camille. This was the problem with starting before the proprietor could do the boulangerie run.

  ‘Four kilometres to the bakery and they’ll be fresh out of the oven.’

  My bag of motivational tricks got us a fair way, though Camille pointed out the option of accommodation in Saint André as we munched our croissants and warm pain aux raisins. But as the sun hit its high point, we were one with the wilting sunflowers. Even Bernhard and Sarah looked grateful when I called breaks every two kilometres.

  And there was the inevitable stop for Camille to light a candle. Zoe was now accompanying her: ‘Connecting with Camille at a more spiritual level.’

  On long days, you feel your body closing down in anticipation of the end. It had gone 3.00 p.m. when we reached the outskirts of Pérouges, and Bernhard announced that both the thirty-kilometre and thirty-degree marks had been broached.