Beth rolled onto her back, and stretched out her legs under the covers. She could feel a slight ache in her calves from yesterday, and the beginnings of a blister on her left heel. Sliding her hands down her body, she found her pyjama trousers waistband comfortingly loose. Her hip-bones definitely jutted out a bit. One thing about all this walking: even at only two miles an hour, yesterday’s walk had used up 828 calories. She’d downloaded a handy app on her phone that kept a running total.
It was actually quite tiring. She really had been exhausted when she sloped away from the supper table early and said she was heading to bed. As soon as they’d arrived at the hostel, Mary Anne had made four big pots of tea and a jug of squash and magicked up several packets of biscuits. Then she pulled on her Cath Kidston apron (honestly, who carried one of those in their backpacks? only a bloody food tech teacher) and marshalled everyone into chopping and stirring to produce a giant spaghetti bolognese. Spotting her chance with the salad, Beth had busied herself washing the lettuce and tomatoes and slicing the cucumber, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the gleaming mountain of pasta and grated cheese.
Now she reached down the bed, feeling for her phone, which appeared to be trapped between the mattress and the side of the bunk. All she needed to do was check Instagram and she’d know if the worst had happened last night. Or not. After a moment’s indecision, she booted the phone awake and braced herself. Only to find that there was no update for the simple reason that there was no signal.
Bugger. She’d have to get up, then, and go in search of civilization. She reached to the end of the bed to the neat pile of clothes. Everyone else seemed to be safely asleep: Tamsin below her; Catherine in the single bed by the window; and Jackie and Celia, Mum’s music therapist friends, in the other set of bunks. She would risk getting dressed where she was. She quickly stripped off her pyjamas, and pulled on the layers of clothing, ending with her #walkforanna T-shirt.
Beth slid quietly down the ladder to the floor, and tiptoed to the door in her bare feet. As she did so, she heard Tamsin stir, and held her breath, afraid she’d woken her. But Tamsin merely turned over, and laughed gently in her sleep. How could she do that? God, it must be nice to have no worries! What was she dreaming about? A beach in Australia?
She made her way down the steep stairs, towards the kitchen. The boys were out of reach, up another narrow flight. Sam was Dad’s problem, for now. Let Dad worry about his breathing this time. She let herself into the kitchen and ran a long glass of water. Eight glasses a day, minimum, sometimes twelve. That was the regime. A nauseating smell of yesterday’s breakfast bacon lingered in the room. She picked an apple from the fruit bag and washed it. If she ate that, no one could argue. Everyone knew fruit was a healthy breakfast.
Outside the air was still heavy with dew and the promise of summer. The grass was cool and wet underfoot, and a low mist hung around the trees. You could see for miles over the fields below. It was rather magical. It made the hostel seem more than ever like something out of a fairy tale, Hansel and Gretel, maybe, or Little Red Riding Hood. She’d honestly wondered where they were going when Father Stephen strode off so confidently down the track into the woods last night, just at the point when it had started drizzling and everyone was getting really tired and fed up. Sam, Milo and George had looked fit to drop. She really wondered if Dad had thought this through. What planet was he on, for fuck’s sake?
But just when she thought they would never get there, they’d emerged through the woods into a clearing and discovered the hostel: a half-timbered green and white oldy-worldy house with low beamed ceilings and a big open fireplace. It was like an American tourist’s dream of Little Ol’ England. The boys had been captivated to the point that they suddenly seemed to forget their tiredness, and disappeared with Uncle Tom to collect sticks for firewood.
Beth sat on a garden bench. Still no signal. It was so lame. What next? She thought she’d head up the track, back up towards the road, try her luck there. She retraced the route to the car park (too early for the ice-cream van, thank God) and turned left along the common. Ahead she could see a church. Might there be a phone mast in the spire? She set out purposefully, and bingo – signal! But still nothing on Instagram. Or Snapchat. Was that a good sign? Was everyone who’d been at the party still asleep? It suddenly dawned on Beth that it was only seven o’clock and she was probably the only fifteen-year-old in Surrey awake and dressed and walking on a fucking hill. Deflated, she walked up the path and pushed open the church door.
Why was it so massive, for God’s sake? What was a great cathedral of a church doing in the middle of absolutely flipping nowhere? She entered quietly, breathing in the familiar old church smell, and slipped into a pew. Closing her eyes, she sat in silence for a few moments.
‘Hello, Mum. It’s me,’ she said aloud. ‘I’m doing my best. I’m looking after Sam, and keeping an eye on Dad. But it’s not much fun. I miss you! Wish you were here.’
‘Bethany?’
She jumped. ‘Sorry to startle you,’ said Father Stephen gently. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I didn’t think there was anyone here!’ Beth could feel the blood flooding her cheeks.
‘There isn’t really. Only me. I’m sorry I disturbed you . . . Were you praying?’
‘Talking to Mum. Keeping her posted.’
‘Ah. I see . . . Shall I leave you to it?’
‘Yes. I mean no. I don’t know. What are you doing here, anyway? It’s the crack of dawn.’
‘Probably much the same as you,’ he said. ‘Woke up early, thought I’d seek out some peace and quiet before the day begins. It’s a good time to pray, I find. It’s really rather splendid in here, don’t you think?’
‘If you like that kind of thing,’ said Beth. ‘Why’s it so flipping big? There are no, like, houses round here.’
‘I think it was built by some Victorian grandee. Probably had over-inflated ideas about leaving a legacy extravagant enough to show he’d made it in life. You know what men are like – mine’s bigger than yours, and all that.’
She smiled. ‘D’you think that was it?’
‘Well, a bit of that. To be fair, I imagine the population this place served probably moved away at some point. Happens a lot with country churches. Can be something as simple as a factory closing. Or a bit more dramatic, like the Black Death. Actually, now you’re here, perhaps you can give me a hand. We’re going to have a little service here today before we set off. I’m trying to choose between two hymns. You can tell me whether people will know them. I can’t decide between “Guide me, O thou great Jehovah” and “He who would valiant be”. What do you think?’
‘Is that the hobgoblin one?’ asked Beth.
‘Yes! Do you know it?’
‘It’s seriously weird. Very Lord of the Rings, all that stuff about giants and fiends. “Guide me, O thou great Jehovah” would be much better. If anyone feels awkward singing, they can just pretend they’re at the rugby or something.’
‘Good point!’ he smiled at her. ‘Glad I checked.’
‘Wish I had my sax here. I could give it some welly for you.’
‘You mean you didn’t fancy carrying it? Lightweight!’
She laughed. ‘Father Stephen, can I ask you something . . .’ she began, when suddenly there was a ping from her phone. A text! From Matt! ‘Um, excuse me, gotta go,’ she said, and made a dash for the door.
Revision = boring. Party = boring. Missed u. You ok? M x
Oh my God: M x! Surely that was the first time he’d signed off with M x. But what did x mean? Was it just Matt-the-good-friend or could it be Matt-the-maybe-boyfriend? Given that it was still so early, did it mean he hadn’t gone to Natasha’s party? Or that he went and left early?
But the main thing was – unless he was a total liar and that she could not, would not believe, at least not yet – that he hadn’t ended the evening hooking up with Molly O’Riordan. Because if there was one thing Beth knew, it was that Moll
y’s sights were absolutely set on Matt. But he’d texted her – Beth! – at ridiculous-o’-clock in the morning and that surely, surely, surely meant something? It had to, didn’t it? You so didn’t text someone at the crack of dawn to tell them how boring a party had been without them if you didn’t like them at least a bit. Unless – aargh! – he felt sorry for her and was trying to be nice because his mum had said he should be or something crap like that.
Though that was silly because there was no reason to suppose that Matt’s mum knew anything about Beth. In fact one of the reasons she liked Matt was because she’d only got to know him quite recently, and she didn’t have to talk about Mum unless she wanted to. Sometimes they just had a laugh together. To think she’d dismissed him as a geek! But Big Band had changed all that. She barely knew his name – didn’t even know that he played the tenor sax, let alone had lessons with Mr Shepherd – until that rehearsal when he’d turned up for the first time. And he was bloody brilliant.
She loved band practice. That made Wednesday the best day of the week by far. There was something so wonderfully freeing about playing swing: the way everyone had a go, when Mr Shepherd gave them a new arrangement, and it was all a bit random to begin with – let’s face it, it was a school band, not exactly Jools Holland – but once the players had the shape of the piece under their belts, and the rhythm section had worked out what needed doing – that was crucial – the whole thing could begin to fly.
And just when you thought it had settled and they were beginning to make music, Mr Shepherd would casually point at someone for a solo. The first time he’d done that to her had been the most terrifying, exhilarating experience of her life. She stood up with her knees knocking, thinking OMG, this cannot be happening to me. But by the time she wrapped up her improv and sat down again, she was pink with excitement, and aching for another go. Mr Shepherd grinned and nodded at her in approval, and turned his attention to Kyle Jones, who was a show-off on the trombone, and after Kyle, had called on Matt. Who’d been totally awesome.
That night, when they were stacking the chairs and clearing away the music stands, Matt had come over to congratulate her and she’d returned the compliment and they’d had their first ever proper conversation. He’d only been at Farmleigh High – or Farmleigh Academy, you were supposed to call it now – since Year Twelve because he’d moved house after taking his GCSEs somewhere in London. But that had meant she’d lingered, and totally missed Dad’s text, so that the unexpected sight of his car at the school gate had taken her by surprise.
By the look on his face she assumed that she was in for a bollocking and racked her brains to think what she’d done. Or not done. But when she opened the car door and saw the tears streaming down his cheeks she found herself wishing and wishing that he would shout at her, ground her, dock her allowance. Any of that would have been better than hearing the news he had come specially to school to tell her.
Now Matt was in Farmleigh revising for A-levels while she was on this stupid walk. Her head spun suddenly: revision! Oh God, oh God, oh God. Her GCSEs were going to be a disaster. Ever since Mum died she’d found it impossible to concentrate. Couldn’t see the point really. Without Mum to chivvy her, it was hard to summon the energy. When she sat down to study, the words on the page seemed to swim before her eyes. Dad appeared oblivious. True, he’d turned up to parents’ evening, but he’d sat stiff and silent like a trapped animal while the teachers rabbited on, giving no sign that he had a clue about her coursework or mock results or the marks schemes for different subjects.
It had been so different when Mum was alive. She’d be gassing to the teachers – knew at least half of them by first names, probably through Mary Anne, really quite embarrassing – and asking really, like, specific questions about modules and stuff that meant Beth knew she was on her case, and the teachers did too. But since Mum had been sick it had all gone pear-shaped. It was going to be a train wreck.
For now, though, she had to reply to Matt. Wish u were here. B xxxx Even without the four kisses, was that too obvious? She tried again: 12 miles down, 92 to go. So far, so ok. Only one blister! Miss u 2. B x That was better. She pressed ‘send’.
Back at the hostel, people were beginning to emerge from their beds and search for breakfast. Beth could hear Dad persuading Sam in the direction of the shower. Oh God, she hoped he hadn’t wet the bed. It was a new . . . thing since Mum died and it was horrible. He’d be mortified. Lucy and Ella were laying up the tables in the dining room with bowls and plates and cutlery while Mary Anne was unpacking big boxes of cereal, sliced loaves and jam. She pulled cartons of milk and juice and packs of butter from the fridge and passed them to the girls to carry through.
‘Thank goodness for Ruth and her Volvo!’ she was telling Catherine, who was counting out non-matching spoons and knives. ‘It’s made catering so much easier. Imagine if we had to carry this lot from place to place.’
‘We’d be more like pilgrims, though,’ said Catherine.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you know . . . Carrying only what’s sufficient unto the day. Anna said it was amazing how little you actually needed for the journey when she came back from Spain. When she started out, she said her bag was stuffed with a whole load of junk she’d brought along in case of emergency. But apparently you very quickly get rid of all the extras if you’ve actually got to carry them. She said a pilgrim spirit meant only thinking about a day at a time.’
‘Anna was on her own,’ said Mary Anne crisply. ‘She didn’t have a horde of hungry teenagers to feed. She only had herself to think about. If you ask me—’
She broke off as Beth came in. ‘Beth! We were wondering where you’d got to. Are you OK?’
‘Fine thanks. Just, like, been for a walk.’
‘A walk? I’m impressed you’ve got the energy,’ said Catherine. ‘I ache all over! Don’t know why, but even my shoulders hurt.’
‘So it was more of a stroll, really?’ Beth conceded. She liked Catherine. There was a deep-seated kindness about her. She didn’t intrude. What could she possibly have said to Dad yesterday to upset him? Beth had been well out of earshot, but one moment the pair of them seemed to be chatting quite easily, and the next minute you could see from his body language that he’d gone all rigid. She’d watched Catherine hover uncertainly for a moment, and then move away to join Jackie and some of the others. She seemed cheerful enough this morning.
‘Toast?’ Catherine offered now. ‘Cereal? Cup of tea?’
‘No thanks,’ said Beth, backing out of the kitchen. ‘Need to sort out my bed, get my things together. Laters.’
The formal part of the day began, as Father Stephen had indicated, with a short service at St Barnabas. It suddenly occurred to Beth that it was Sunday morning. Glancing around, a quick tot-up suggested that no one – except for Smith, who was waiting outside – had swerved it. Sam sat on her left, swinging his feet annoyingly. Dad was on his other side.
Father Stephen caught her eye and winked when he announced the hymn. Beth rewarded him by singing enthusiastically, enjoying the astonishment of Lucy sitting next to her. For once, it seemed, she was in a situation that put Miss Perfect Lucy at a disadvantage because she, Beth, knew how to behave in church. She crossed herself with an unnecessary flourish; and then, noticing that William had caught her in the act, closed her eyes and dropped to her knees, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.
She felt comfortable here, she realized. For one thing, at least while they were in church she felt that God could keep an eye on Dad and Sam. That might not be entirely logical, if God was supposed to be everywhere, but surely this was his watch and she was allowed a bit of slack. For another, there was something about the rhythm of the words and the singing and the periods of quiet (shit! her phone! better put it on silent) that she found soothing, even if she didn’t always get the point of the readings.
Some of the Bible was in her opinion both bloodthirsty and brutal. But if she allowed herself to tune
in and out, and let it all wash over her, she enjoyed the poetry and found it restful. Being in church made her think of her mother. Then again, what didn’t? Please, God, look after my mum, whatever you’ve gone and done with her, she prayed. And keep an eye on Sam for me? And stop Dad being quite so miserable? And please, please, please don’t let bloody Molly get her teeth into Matt while I’m away . . .
Even in a different building, it all felt reassuringly familiar. She had gone to church with Anna and Sam throughout her childhood, and until a couple of years ago – when the onset of hormones had dealt a killer blow to the appeal of Sunday mornings – she sang in the choir. Who was taking the service at All Saints this morning, she wondered? Singing the hymn now – hearing her clear voice fly up to the rafters, high above her head – released a flood of nostalgia. It dawned on her that she hadn’t been back to church since her mother’s funeral. It just seemed . . . too difficult, somehow. But perhaps she should. If playing the sax was the most fun you could have with your clothes on, singing came a pretty close second. Should she rejoin the choir?
‘Thank you for joining me this morning,’ Father Stephen was saying, and Beth realized the service was almost over.
‘I hope you’re all rested and ready for a new day. I should warn you that we’re facing some pretty steep climbs today. We’ll be walking right up Box Hill, and you’ll know how steep that is if you watched the Olympic cycling in 2012. It’s not for the faint-hearted! But the views will be breathtaking. Quite magnificent. And we’ve got the stepping stones over the River Mole to look forward to this morning. Plus another reward at the end of the day, in the shape of the Millennium Standing Stones. I think they’re rather special.
‘And now, before our final blessing, there’s another poem I’d like to share with you today. It’s by the American poet Walt Whitman, and I’m just going to read you an extract. It’s a poem that encourages us to press on with the journey:
Knowing Anna Page 4