He led the way to the stone steps, and ascended them to the road. The bus stop was further down, its tiny shelter empty: they passed it, and Maria paused, producing a small, compact camera. She took a photograph carefully, and they moved on between two rows of squat, heavy houses. An arrow pointed them along the turning to the right – which Maria also photographed. Then they came to a farmhouse, where another arrow was embedded in one of the granite gateposts: it directed them through the farmyard and up round a barn. Up again, and now the path took them into the trees, so they were cutting through a wood, rising all the time. It was steep, but good to be out of the wind.
‘I think you’re fitter than I am,’ gasped Michael, when they stopped to rest.
He was panting. She wasn’t.
She lifted the camera and took a shot of the way they had come.
‘Will you take one of me, please?’ she said.
‘For the folks back home?’
‘Of course.’
She posed with her hands on her hips, and he couldn’t see the smile because half her face was covered. She realised, and pulled the hood back: he took a second picture.
‘You have a camera?’ she said.
‘I don’t.’
‘You don’t have a phone? You must do.’
‘I don’t even have a phone. I left home without.’
‘Why?’
‘No reason. Nobody calls.’
‘You are very brave, I think. When we get back I can send you my pictures. Are you on Facebook?’
‘I’m afraid not. I don’t really do all that. I just… never get round to it.’
‘We use it all the time. You ready now?’
‘For what?’
‘For going on!’
‘Yes – of course.’
The trees grew thicker, and they crossed a stream. Then, just as the leaflet predicted, the footpath divided and the track on the left took them up again. Ancient trees stood either side, and it grew darker before the canopy lifted and lightened, and the wood turned yellow. They went through ferns and brambles, still climbing, and came to its edge. There they paused, a little nervously, for the land beyond was so different. It was stark, bare and brown, offering no shelter at all. The footpath was reassuringly clear, but it led into a kind of infinity – a plateau that was ominously empty of people.
‘What made you come here?’ said Michael.
‘Somebody at my work,’ replied Maria. ‘They were telling me about it – on and on.’
‘What did they say?’
‘That I should come and see the view. I told them, “Every time I get holiday, I try to do something.” I try to get away, so—’
‘Like a walking holiday, or—?’
‘Like an adventure. Like seeing some new place. A gallery, maybe.’
She was taking another photograph.
‘I don’t have much money, though, so it’s not easy.’
‘It’s an expensive hotel. Isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’
‘The train fare, as well – it all mounts up. Do you have a railcard?’
She laughed.
‘I don’t have a railcard. Do you have a railcard?’
‘No. I meant to get one, but…’
‘What?’
‘Sometimes you just don’t get round to things, do you?’
She put the camera away and looked at him.
‘Why are you here, Michael? You are not on holiday.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You told me last night. You said you were doing some business, but… I did not like to ask about business. People tell me I am very… what’s the word?’
‘Nosy?’
‘Not nosy. Like a policeman – like asking questions, always.’
‘Inquisitive. Suspicious.’
‘Suspicious, yes! People say I am like a detective, always asking why and what and who. So I try and remember not to. What is your business?’
She laughed as she said it, putting a hand over her mouth.
‘You see?’ she cried. ‘A bad habit!’
‘I’m in the cleaning business,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, I work in a school, and I work also in a hospital. And I work in a restaurant.’
‘But there’s only one of you.’
‘Yes, but I am a superhero. Joking…’
She laughed.
‘You have three jobs?’ he said.
‘The school is in the day. The hospital is in the evening – it’s a hospice, not a hospital. The restaurant is just three times each week, early morning. That’s cleaning, also.’
‘And this is London?’
‘No. This is Scotland, near Dumfries.’
‘Dumfries? Why?’
‘You know Dumfries?’
‘No.’
‘I work through an agency, and they say, “We have a place for you in Scotland: Dumfries.” I say, “Thank you very much,” and I buy a ticket.’
‘Do you live alone?’
She looked at him.
‘I think you are the policeman now,’ she said.
‘I’m curious.’
‘I don’t live alone. I live with some Filipinos and some from Malaysia. We have a flat, out near the football stadium. You like football?’
‘No.’
‘So what do you like?’
‘Oh, walking. Talking.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Come on, then. We should be doing more of the first one – the walking, I think.’
‘Not the talking?’
‘No.’
She set off, and Michael fell into step behind her. The path went through weedy grass at first, but that soon thinned and they were obliged to walk in single file. The wind had risen, of course, and though it wasn’t strong enough to blow them over they needed to concentrate, just to keep their balance. There was no point trying to speak, so Michael pieced things together, shocked as usual by his own ignorance. His image of Maria as a student was idealised nonsense, for her working day must be twelve or fourteen hours, and she seemed so frail. He watched her back, and her careful, elegant movement forward, and noted the fact that it was just as he’d predicted: she was leading him.
He was lucky, too. If he wasn’t there, she would be moving over this landscape alone, and she would be making slightly better progress because she wouldn’t have stopped to talk. She might be half a kilometre further on, and if she paused to turn and look backwards she would not see an awkward man, sweating already in a bright red coat. The landscape would be empty of him, and it would be only her.
Where would he be, if things had turned out differently?
He would be in some place he didn’t want to think about, because it was impossible to visualise. Something stopped him seeing himself broken and discoloured, and the idea of him being cut to pieces was simply beyond imagination… was the brain wired so it couldn’t process such a thing? A mortuary in Crewe, or Bromsgrove – Preston, even. Accrington – where the nurses were forced to put on gloves to move him? They hadn’t had to touch the Muslim man’s father. He had been surrounded by family.
He tried to imagine the darkness of a closed box, or a zipped-up bag – and he couldn’t. Instead, he walked on and let the wind surge around him. His boots were getting slightly heavier, and they were rising steadily into the gale, towards a twisted thorn tree – there was nothing else. The tree trembled in the wind, and when they got closer they saw there were actually three sheep huddled under it, which broke cover and ran bleating away. Soon, it was behind them, and they reached the undramatic crest of the hill, where a shallow dip took them through boggy ground towards a peak that was higher. Up they went. The same path continued in the same single furrow.
The brown slopes folded into each other, and if your legs kept working you could walk them for ever – Michael could walk right across England. In the far distance they spotted a little stone hut, and Maria stopped.
‘The shepherd’s store,’ she said in his
ear.
‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘You see? You don’t need me.’
She laughed.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave me! But when we get there we should have something to eat.’
‘That sounds sensible.’
‘What?’
‘I said that’s a good idea.’
‘Are you tired?’
‘No. Are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you were fit.’
‘I thought so too. You’re fitter than me. How old are you, Michael?’
‘Fifty-six.’
‘Thirty-three. Are you married?’
‘No. I’m like you, I think – obstinately single.’
She screwed up her eyes.
‘Obstinate means…?’
‘Stubborn. Someone who knows what they want. Do you think you’ll marry, when you go home? One day, perhaps?’
‘I don’t understand you,’ she said.
‘Will you marry? One day?’
‘I’m married already.’
The wind took her words away, and he had to move closer.
‘Say that again,’ he cried.
She pulled the flaps of her hood open.
‘I said, “I am married! I married twelve years ago. I have six children.”’
He simply stared at her. ‘That’s not possible,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because… where are they? Where’s your husband?’
‘In the Philippines, of course. My children are in the Philippines, and my husband is working overseas.’
‘In Scotland?’
‘No.’
‘Where?’
She laughed.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Let’s get to the house, okay? We sit down, out of the wind. We have some food, and… oh my God, you will wish you had not asked me about my family.’
‘About what?’
‘What?’
Another gust had snatched his words away.
‘What shouldn’t I have asked about?’ he cried.
‘About my children, Michael!’ she yelled. ‘I will show you photographs, and then I will start crying. It happens every day – three times a day.’
Another gust of wind hit, and Michael steadied her. There was rain now, very fine but also very constant. She got her camera out, and this time took a photograph of him. Then she turned and plodded on. It occurred to Michael that if Maria had made this trip alone, she would be getting nervous now – or he supposed she would, because he knew he would be. If he was out here on this exposed, blank hillside all alone he would be thinking only of the disasters that might befall, and how he should give up and turn back.
He would be worrying about getting lost.
Maria’s presence meant he wasn’t scared at all, and he wasn’t thinking of the future: he was experiencing the moment, in all its misty wetness, measuring his footsteps to a destination that must be getting closer. Before long, he could see that the house was smaller than he’d thought – and it wasn’t even a house. They reached it, and it was a carefully, beautifully built cube of rough stone, with a tin roof. It had one large wooden door which was padlocked shut – but it afforded them all the protection they needed, for they could sit against the most sheltered wall.
They didn’t speak for a while, because they had serious business to attend to: the packed lunches needed to be unwrapped, and there was tea to be poured. Maria had a thermos flask in her bag, and there was a flat space to rest it. She handed Michael her lunch-bag, and he unwrapped her sandwiches: she had chosen cheese. He unwrapped his own, and he had chosen ham. Like her, he had a bag of crisps, so he opened both packets. She poured tea into the flask’s plastic lid.
‘You like sweet tea?’ she said.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I never have sugar.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘What?’
‘I’m afraid I put sugar in already. In the hotel.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘I didn’t think about you.’
‘But it’ll do me good. I think we both need the energy.’
‘That’s true. Are we halfway yet?’
‘More than halfway, I think. Where’s the map?’
Maria pulled the leaflet out of her pocket, and it was sodden. He laughed, because it looked so sad, and she laughed too.
‘Disaster!’ he said. ‘We’ll never get home.’
‘No, we have the other map,’ she said, giggling. ‘We won’t get lost! Anyway, you’ve been here before. You remember this place?’
‘Not really. It’s very vague.’
‘You must try. I think this is a very old building – you must have come here, and sat against it.’
‘It was a while ago,’ he said. ‘But listen – I think we should have just one sandwich each, and save the other two.’
‘In case we have to spend the night here?’
She was laughing at him, and he was shaking his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I think the last part will be hard. We’ll need an extra boost.’
‘A what?’
‘An extra boost. An… injection.’
‘Yes. You are very wise, Michael. I think, without you, I might have given up.’
‘There’s still time to do that.’
‘You want to give up?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Of course not. I don’t have a choice.’
She took a sip of tea, and passed the cup to him. He took his first bite of ham sandwich, adding a few crisps. He waited, then, and the taste exploded: he hadn’t had that particular combination for years. For a moment, the ham stuck to the roof of his mouth as it always had, and always would, and she watched him as he worked at it with his tongue. Yet again, she was grinning at him, as if he was a clown.
‘Why don’t you have a choice?’ he said at last.
‘I do. I do, really… but…’
She bit into her sandwich, and he saw the same ecstasy cross her face as had crossed his. He waited as she chewed and swallowed.
‘I told someone I would definitely come here,’ she said. ‘Someone who… this is a secret, okay? Someone who is paying for my hotel. Paying for the train, also.’
‘Who?’
‘I must not say.’
‘Why not?’
‘You could get me fired.’
‘Why? And why would I want to get you fired?’
She laughed.
‘It’s because of all the rules,’ she said. ‘You’re not allowed to take money from people. Patients, I mean. In the hospice. If they find out, it could be a big problem for me. So you keep it to yourself, please.’
‘Keep what to myself? I still don’t understand—’
‘The fact that I just told you… That this person who is paying me… And you should drink the tea, before it gets cold.’
He took a mouthful as instructed.
‘So who is he?’ he said.
‘It’s a she. She’s a patient and we talk, and I meet her granddaughter. She is very old – very sick – and she is saying all the time, “You must go to this place, and that place. England is so beautiful,” she says, “and you must, must, must go to Higher Lee.”’
‘Why?’
‘She came with her husband, years ago. It’s very beautiful, I guess.’
‘And you came all the way up here because she… What? She organised it?’
‘Yes.’
‘She paid for the hotel?’
‘She did that, with her granddaughter. I said I could not take any cash, but if they made it possible then I would love to go. They made the booking.’
‘Is she dying, do you think?’
Maria looked at him.
‘It’s a hospice, Michael,’ she said. ‘They are all dying, yes – and this is not my camera. The granddaughter lent it to me, and so I am looking at all this scenery for her. My eyes will be her eyes, if you understand me? That’s what she said.’
‘I
do understand.’
‘Good.’
She frowned.
‘I could not go back and say, “Yes, a very nice hotel, thank you – but I got lost!” She would never forgive me.’
‘How old is she?’
‘I think eighty-five. I must hurry back, or she will be gone! I’m joking.’
Michael sipped the sweet tea again and returned the cup. He took another bite of his sandwich, and she did the same. He had an image of the old woman now, in her hospital bed, and he felt only admiration.
‘Look,’ said Maria. ‘Look at that…’
The wind had died suddenly and the mist rolled back. They could see into a long valley, and at its far end – even as they watched – the sun managed to break through. What was strange, though – and impossible – was that when they looked the other way, the weather was so different. The clouds were dark grey turning to black, and the rain was visible like a soft curving curtain. Maria held her camera up, and Michael noticed that this time she was filming: she panned from left to right, taking in the extremes. The next moment, the valley disappeared.
They finished the sandwiches and wrapped the remaining two up in film. Maria had the rest of Michael’s crisps, and they drained the cup of tea. There were two biscuits: Michael had taken them from the jar in his room, feeling slightly guilty.
‘Shall we save them for later?’ he said – for Maria was looking at them, too.
‘I think we should. How much further is it?’
‘About an hour?’
‘One hour to the ridge. Then up to the top. Then all the way back, and home – if we’re alive.’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Of course.’
‘Come on.’
She patted his pocket.
‘You should put on your waterproof trousers,’ she said.
‘You’re right.’
She watched him as he removed them, and let them flap in the wind. He crouched, and unzipped the ankles to make them wide, but it was still difficult to work the legs over his boots, and standing up it was impossible. He managed to get the left one over his left foot, but he was tottering – and he had to sit down. Only then did he realise she was now filming him, and was finding the whole thing funny. When he pulled the trousers up to his waist, she was bent double with laughter: the folds had made his abdomen and hips stick out. He adjusted the waistband, and it was his bottom that looked ludicrous – Maria was helpless.
Train Man Page 24