Two-Hundred Steps Home Volume Five

by Amanda Martin

  ***

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Claire ran her eye down the list of links on the website and sighed. This is wearing thin. Go Ape – done that; country parks – done that; Spa Day – not allowed even if it is tempting; narrow-gage railway – done that though worth mentioning on the blog; country house – done that. Looks like I’m going to have to wait for Julia’s email after all. The only thing on the list that could be considered a high-adrenalin activity was karting, and Claire decided she’d sooner resign.

  There must be something new to do in Sherwood Forest. Her mind filled with images of men in tights hiding in the trees and the words of the song “Robin Hood” began to play in her head.

  Right, so what is Robin Hood famous for? Archery? That’s a possibility. Or what about horse riding? A nice gentle hack through the trees might be nice. A quick search on the internet threw up several possibilities and Claire was soon booked up.

  There we go, Julia, no need for you to lower yourself to the task at all. It’s all in hand. Though I don’t think plodding through the trees on a pony is going to humiliate me quite enough for you. Tough.

  Claire stared between the horse’s ears at the rump of the pony in front, and tried not to cry. Her legs hurt, her bum hurt and, thanks to a moment’s inattention, her head hurt where she’d ridden into a low-slung branch. So much for a relaxing hack through the woods. The worst part was being the eldest in the group by more than a decade. Claire hadn’t enquired what group she’d be joining and it turned out to be a bunch of teenagers on some Outward Bound expedition.

  Head low, Claire let the horse find its own path through the forest and tried to enjoy the sound of bird song and the occasional sight of snow drops deep beneath the trees. After an hour even the teenage chatter began to diminish. Through the foliage around her, Claire could sense the sky darkening and the humidity rising.

  It’s going to rain. Bugger. I really must get in the habit of checking the forecast. She pulled up the collar of her coat and wished she’d thought to put the hood up underneath her hard hat.

  Well, Julia, is this miserable enough for you? Hunching her shoulders, Claire was reminded of a character in one of Sky’s story books about a sulking vulture called Boris. The thought made her smile briefly, but the feeling didn’t last long.

  The temperature plummeted as the sun disappeared behind a charcoal grey cloud, hovering it seemed only metres above the trees. There was a pause, then heavy rain drops began to splatter through the leaves.

  Claire felt as if she’d fallen into the percussion section of the orchestra pit. The rain splashing on her hard hat syncopated with the clopping of the hooves on the path and the whistle of the wind through the trees.

  The horse in front of her stopped and Claire craned her neck to see the problem. Horses had gathered in a group at the front and she wondered if someone had fallen off or been injured. I can’t imagine any of these plod-a-longs bucking. More likely someone fell asleep from boredom and slid off.

  A whisper came back along the line to Claire. The teenager on the pony in front didn’t turn and share it with her, but she got the general gist. We’re lost.

  Claire gave a quick kick to the ribs of her beast and on the third attempt it shuffled forwards, past the gaggle of teenagers. Eventually she drew alongside the guide, a woman no older than Claire, who was staring at a tatty piece of now-soggy paper, turning it this way and that.

  “Are we lost?”

  Claire didn’t mean to sound so accusatory, but cold and fatigue sharpened her voice. The girl looked up, her face woebegone. She nodded slightly without making eye contact.

  “How can we be lost? Surely you know the route like the back of your hand? We’re not in the Amazon rainforest.”

  “I’m new. This is the first time I’ve taken a group out on my own. I’m used to riding on the downs, these trees make me claustrophobic.”

  Claire swore under her breath. I feel a hundred years old. There clearly wasn’t any point bothering with the sodden map. She pulled out her phone and prayed for signal. Luck was on her side. Frowning over the screen, trying to shield it from the rain, she fathomed the general direction of the stables.

  “We need to head that way.” She pointed through the trees, but the rain had reduced visibility to almost zero. Shouting over the gathering wind, Claire added, “Though I don’t know how we find a path through this.”

  The guide shouted back, her facing losing some of its gloom.

  “Sorry?” Claire yelled.

  “I said the ponies will find their way home, if we point them the right way.”

  Claire nodded, then signalled for the guide to lead on. She let the teenagers past, and took up position at the rear again – this time to watch for stragglers rather than to mope.

  Only I could come on a pony trek with the clueless newbie. Thank you evil genie Carl and your handmaiden Julia. I don’t know how you arranged it, but you managed to inject adrenalin even into this.

  ***

  TWENTY-SIX

  Claire looked up at the glorious building, set in parkland, and smiled. She was glad to leave the trees and the rain and the smell of horses behind. All she wanted was a hot bath or shower and something alcoholic to send her into the land of nod.

  She walked through check-in like a zombie, nodding in the right places and scrawling her name on the paperwork. She regretted the lack of a private room but, if the outside of the hostel was anything to go by, the dorms would be lovely.

  Claire opened the door to her room, then stepped out to double-check the number. There must be some mistake. She checked the paper in her hand. It was definitely the right room.

  She stared at the chaos, trying to make sense of it. The floor was barely visible beneath a litter of clothes, plastic bags, stray shoes and other paraphernalia. A bra hung from the nearest bunk bed. The top bunk seemed to be occupied, although Claire wasn't sure if it was a body or a crumpled duvet.

  This can’t be right. There isn’t room for a mouse to move in here, never mind an extra person.

  Eventually, like a Where’s Wally puzzle, Claire spotted an unoccupied bunk near the window. She was surprised it was free – usually the beds under the window were taken first – until she realised the curtains were so thin the morning light would illuminate the bed like a spotlight. Something about the state of the room suggested to Claire that these girls were not early risers.

  A memory from early in her trip intruded on Claire’s thoughts. Those bloody Swedish girls. That's all I need. I wonder if it's too late to get a different room. She backed out and headed down to reception.

  “Sorry love, the last bed was taken just after you arrived. Is there a problem?”

  Claire thought about the stench of clashing body sprays, the comatose body huddled under a duvet at 5pm, the general clutter and chaos. I guess that's hostelling, I'll just have to write a post about it.

  “No, there’s no problem. I'm a light sleeper and the free bed is by the window, that’s all.”

  “I can lend you an eye mask if you like?”

  Claire was touched by the offer, but shook her head. “No need, I have one, thank you, and ear plugs.” Like airplane freebies, without the glamorous destination to look forward to. She sighed, then a thought sparked in her mind.

  Actually, hostels should do that. How much nicer would some people find their hostelling experience if they discovered the wonders of ear plugs? You could have a little packet on each bed with the sheets; maybe get the eye-masks sponsored by local businesses so they don’t cost anything. If I ever have my own hostel, that's what I'll do.

  ***

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Claire curled over towards the window and buried her nose in the pillow. This is meant to be an all-female dorm. Why am I stuck with two snorers and a person who farts like a lager lout loaded with kebab? Screwing her earplugs in tighter, Claire fumbled under the covers for her phone. 4a.m. What the…?

  The snoring from the bunk beneath re
sonated through Claire’s mattress, undermining the work of the earplugs. I guess there’s a limit to what they can do against that industrial sawing noise. Swallowing her frustration, Claire pulled the duvet over her head and tried to return to her dream. It had been a rather pleasant one, featuring a leading man that was a morph of Josh and Anthony. Josh’s personality and Anthony’s availability.

  She smiled, pulling the images back into her head to encourage her dream-self to return to the same place. The snoring beneath her subsided and Claire exhaled.

  At least they won’t be up early.

  The sound of doom-laden rap over a bass beat dragged Claire from slumber. She lay in the pool of light seeping through the curtains, trying to figure out what Eminem was doing in her dream. He’s not romantic hero material, even if his lyrics are rather clever. What’s more intriguing is what he’s doing in my head. She lay considering the problem for several moments before a surge of activity beneath her drew her attention to the real source of the music.

  “Bugger. Sorry!”

  The hissing whisper was loud enough that Eminem probably heard it across the Atlantic. More fumbling was followed by the blissful cessation of noise, as the girl located her phone.

  Claire dropped her head into the pillow with a groan and tried to return to sleep.

  Strange time for a phone call. I hope she’s had the sense to turn that damn phone off now. The bunk beneath her began to pitch and rock, like a small boat in a choppy sea, and Claire felt a sigh escape before she could swallow it. She tensed, waiting for retaliation against her obvious displeasure, but it didn’t come. The girl in the bunk below continued to mutter in a strident whisper.

  With a shiver of fear, Claire wondered if the girl was entirely sane or sober. Then she realised the whispering was directed at the occupants of the other beds.

  “Come the heck on, girls. We’re going to miss the bloody bus.”

  The words were followed by a nerve-tingling sound that Claire identified as the rustling of a plastic bag. She lay motionless in the darkness, waiting for the awful sound to stop.

  It’s six in the morning. Surely you’re not packing now, if you’re leaving today? Apparently they were.

  One by one, the five women slid, climbed or fell from their beds and began rummaging in plastic bags until Claire thought she might scream. Her skin felt raw, like it had been scrubbed with wire wool.

  The harder the women tried to be quiet the louder they became. I should just tell them I’m awake. The thought revolved in Claire’s head, but somehow the words would not come out. Instead she lay in rigid silence, praying for the noise to stop so she could go back to sleep.

  When I have my own hostel I think I’ll ban plastic bags. Or introduce a curfew. Maybe I’ll have quiet rooms, like the quiet coaches on the train, where there can be no silly alarms, no packing before 9am and definitely no snoring. Well, maybe I can’t enforce the last one, but the free ear plugs will help.

  Trapped in the murky world between sleep and wakefulness, Claire wondered where the hostel ideas kept popping up from. When this assignment is over I’ll be perfectly happy if I never see a hostel again as long as I live.

  ***

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Bloody Hell!”

  Claire looked at the building stretching away from her through the drizzle. From the description of The Pavilion Gardens she’d figured it was just a greenhouse full of plants and a coffee shop perched on the edge of a park. She’d only come to visit the Tourist Information Centre, hoping to find exciting things to do in the area before Julia got there first.

  Those Victorians knew a thing or two about architecture. I can’t believe all this is free. I didn’t think anything was free any more. Claire stood gazing at the sight, until she felt the rain dripping down the gap between her collar and her neck. With a shiver she snapped a picture of the Pavilion for the blog and scurried inside.

  It took a few moments for her to get her bearings. This place feels like a maze. I don’t think I’ve got it in me to explore today, thanks to the bag ladies waking me at dawn. Claire read the sign: Art Gallery, Opera House, Restaurant, Conservatory, Tourist information office. Come on, there has to be a café. Caffeine, that’s what’s needed. A sudden stab of guilt made her pause. Why is it my first stop is always the café? There must be more to life than latte? Even the thought left her feeling panicked and shaky.

  She scanned the sign again and saw the welcome words ‘coffee shop’. Deciding that the need to warm up after the bitter walk from the car was sufficient excuse, Claire set off in pursuit.

  Warm and awake from her drink, Claire wandered through the Victorian conservatory, welcoming the humid atmosphere which snuggled round her like a duvet. Banana trees bobbed alongside vibrant blooms. Up ahead she could see a pond with what looked like metal dinosaurs dotted about. Sky would love this.

  “Look Mummy, there’s Boris!”

  Claire searched around her, half expecting to see the London Mayor lurking amidst the foliage. Instead she saw a small child with pigtails jumping up and down while pointing into the pond.

  Claire chuckled. For some reason imagining Boris as a fish appealed to her sense of humour. She stood watching the girl’s excitement with a smile on her face, until she felt the mother’s stare. She must think I’m a nutter or a stalker. With a flush Claire turned away, eager to find the Tourist Information Centre and get on with her day.

  ***

  TWENTY-NINE

  Claire pulled the steering wheel down and negotiated the roundabout, trying to ignore the horns that accompanied her journey through rush-hour traffic. Oh do shut up. So I don’t have power steering, or turbo, or anything other than five gears and a steering wheel. You’re not going anywhere; the average speed is twenty miles an hour.

  She looked at the satnav and cursed as yet another roundabout appeared on the screen. You’ve got to be kidding. What’s that now? Five? Six? What is it with this town and roundabouts?

  Either side of the Skoda silver executive cars jostled for position, ushering her forward like a lamb being escorted to the altar. Claire cursed her impromptu decision to leave the Peak District and head south. The morning trip to the Tourist Information hadn’t revealed anything to rouse her interest and all the hostels in the area were either bunkhouses or ones she had already visited.

  It seemed strange, travelling south. It wasn’t as if she’d never been further than Leicester before. Work had involved visiting nearly every county in the UK and she’d spent more than her fair share of time in London.

  This is different, though. Whatever lies Carl is telling the rest of the office, I’m no longer Claire Carleton, Associate Director. Now I’m just plain Claire, backpacking round Britain. What does she know about being this far from home?

  A knot twisted Claire’s stomach as, at last, the satnav ran out of roundabouts and led her off the dual carriage way. The roads had been flat and uninteresting up until then, but familiar, with the ribbons of tarmac and the towering motorway lights. Now, she drove into what looked like a housing estate, only to drive past the houses onto a country lane.

  Goodness, Milton Keynes is a place of surprises. Oh look, another bloomin roundabout. At least this one is only tiny, even if there is a tree in the middle of it.

  Ahead, indigo and grey storm clouds built on the horizon, while the sun shone briefly behind her. The tree-lined lane was suddenly illuminated, as if God had turned on the studio lights. The contrast of storm and sun took Claire’s breath away.

  I didn’t expect to see anything beautiful in this concrete jungle. Isn’t Milton Keynes only famous for roundabouts and concrete cows?

  The road meandered past an old red-brick wall framing a white five-bar gate, then red-brick cottages, huddled by the road like old men on a bench watching the world go by. Claire drove past two village pubs, facing each other across the road, before the satnav finally announced, “You have reached your destination.”

  In front of her, overlooking
a green, was a charming old farmhouse surrounded by a smart black iron fence. Claire drove through the gateway and came to a halt on the gravel.

  “Well I never.” Looking up at the old building, Claire thought how little you could tell about a place from its reputation. If you’d have asked me whether I would rather stay in Milton Keynes or put pins in my eyes, I’d say ‘pass the pin’. How wrong can you be?

  With a broad smile, Claire pulled her rucksack from the back seat and headed into the hostel.

  ***

  THIRTY

  Claire looked up at the building and wondered which way to go. The dome dominated the skyline in front of her as if it was a true mountain rather than a monstrosity of steel filled with fake snow. Her nerves were already rattled from searching for a parking space: not that the car park was full, but the rainbow of coloured bays confused her.

  It’s too early and I haven’t had enough coffee. Was this a good idea? It’s not exactly Val d'Isère. How can it be anything like the real thing, here in Milton Keynes, as far from the mountains as it’s possible to be?

  Knowing she had little choice, Claire followed the signs into the building and to her check-in location. If I don’t do something spectacular, Julia’s going to be all over me like hives.

  She’d thought about cheating – pretending she had never skied and taking a skiing lesson. I’m pretty sure Carl will remember I went skiing with Michael last November. I don’t need that particular conversation. At least learning to snowboard will be fun and something useful for after I’ve finished this stupid assignment.