Knowing Anna

by Sarah Meyrick

  ‘Thanks, Granny.’

  ‘Now then. Do you want to talk about it?’

  Sam sighed, a great shudder of a sigh. ‘Um . . . it’s just . . .’

  ‘Just . . . ?’

  ‘Granny . . . what do you think heaven’s like?’

  Ah. Heaven. At least he hadn’t asked her what she thought God was like. That would have been more challenging to answer with integrity.

  ‘That’s a tricky one, Sam,’ she said slowly. ‘Like you, I find it very hard indeed to believe that Mum’s . . . disappeared. It’s lovely to picture her surrounded by all the good and beautiful and happy things we can think of. She hasn’t gone. Besides, I can feel her.’

  ‘Can you? How?’

  Ruth considered – and rejected – the idea of trying to articulate her Maria moment on the hillside earlier that morning. ‘I can feel her in the air,’ she said instead. ‘Very nearby. I talk to her. And I see her – in you and Beth, especially. In the way you look, but also in the way you speak, the things you do, in your habits and abilities and gifts. She lives on in you.’

  ‘But that doesn’t help me,’ he said. ‘I need to be able to picture her. Wherever she is.’

  ‘Do you remember the poem I chose for her funeral? The one about the ship? Look. I’ve got a copy with me.’ Ruth fished in her handbag and pulled out a creased sheet of paper. It was dog-eared and grubby with use. She put on her glasses and began to read aloud.

  ‘A ship sails and I stand watching till she fades on the horizon

  and someone at my side says, “She is gone!”

  Gone where?

  Gone from my sight, that is all.

  She is just as large now as when I last saw her.

  Her diminished size and total loss from my sight is in me, not in her.

  And just at the moment when someone at my side says,

  “She is gone”, there are others who are watching her coming over their horizon,

  and other voices take up a glad shout,

  “There she comes!”

  That is what dying is.

  An horizon and just the limit of our sight.

  Lift us up, Oh Lord, that we may see further.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. ‘That . . . well, that helps me,’ said Ruth eventually. ‘A bit. It puts into words some of what I feel.’

  Sam thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I still need to know . . . about heaven . . .’

  ‘Well, I think we all have our own particular ways of describing what happens when someone dies. We can only use the images and pictures we have. And that’s bound to be limiting. It’s a bit like . . . well, I suppose it’s a bit like a piece of music. You and I could both go to a concert and listen to the same piece of music. Suppose Grandpa said, “Tell me about that symphony you heard tonight.” You might say one thing, and I’d say something else. And whatever words we used, even if we’d remembered it all perfectly in our heads, he’d still only have an impression.’

  ‘There’s another problem, Granny.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’d probably miss half of the symphony by dozing off . . .’

  ‘Oy! Enough of that, cheeky boy! That was once. Once. When I was very tired, mind you.’ She elbowed him playfully. ‘But what about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘How do you picture heaven?’

  ‘Well, it’s sunny. There’s lots of music. There’s obviously a whole orchestra on call so that Mum can play concertos, if she wants to. And she’s wearing her special green dress and everyone’s clapping and cheering, because she’s so brilliant. And there are bright colours . . . and flowers. People laughing. And cupcakes. But I honestly can’t see how she can be happy there because even if she’s got Josh to play with, I know she must be missing us all.’

  ‘That’s a hard one, isn’t it? You do know . . . you do realize, Sam, she wouldn’t have left us, if she’d had any choice in the matter. She couldn’t help getting sick. It was just the horrible cancer.’

  ‘But why? Why did it have to happen? Why couldn’t you make her better, Granny?’ He started crying again, huge racking sobs that shook his small frame. Ruth hugged him, and felt the silent tears course down her own face. If only. If only.

  ‘I get so . . . upset,’ said Sam eventually. ‘And angry. Sometimes I just want to hit someone. Everyone. And then I can’t stop crying and it’s totally rubbish . . .’

  ‘Sam-I-Am, it is rubbish. But it’s also totally normal. Everyone feels like that when someone they love dies. I feel like that all the time.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At least you don’t cry in public. It sucks. What am I going to do when I go up to the Academy? It’s bad enough with my stupid foot.’

  Ruth thought for a moment. He was right, of course. Tears in the playground at primary school were one thing; secondary school would be much tougher. ‘Well, I think you need to bear in mind that September is still quite a long way off. I’m not suggesting you’ll suddenly stop missing Mum. Of course you won’t. But it’s not going to be quite so . . . raw by then. You need to take it from me that it won’t always feel this horrible. We’ll make sure that your form tutor knows the score, so that you can take time out when you need to. Have you talked to Beth about this?’

  ‘No! Why?’ Sam looked alarmed.

  ‘Why is that such a terrible idea?’

  ‘She might laugh at me. Or get upset.’

  ‘Sweetheart, she wouldn’t laugh, I’m sure about that. And if she gets upset . . . well, that’s a risk you have to take. We’re all going through this, and we need to keep talking to each other. Sharing the journey. I just thought she might have some ideas. She must be facing the same thing. You know, getting tearful at school. As for your foot . . .’ She pretended to look stern. ‘I’d ask you to be a bit more respectful. I’ve put a lot of hard work into looking after that foot of yours over the years, and I’d say it’s serving you pretty well.’

  ‘Will it really . . . get easier?’

  ‘Yes. It will. Over time. It’s not that the hurt disappears, exactly. More that we’ll get used to living with it. Eventually. It’s a bit like . . . well, like your toes, I suppose.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, they’re missing and they’ll always be missing. We both know they’re not going to grow back. And that’s a real shame. You could spend your life being cross about it. But actually, apart from the occasional blister – and lots of people who do long walks get blisters – everything’s all healed up beautifully. There’s scar tissue, for sure. But most of the time, you manage really well. You can ride your bike and play football. I bet there are times when you almost forget about it altogether. The human body is amazing at adapting. And so’s the human spirit.’

  Ruth took Sam to the café and ordered two large hot chocolates with marshmallows on top. In spite of the sunshine she was shivering, and judged they both needed a sugar boost. She steered Sam towards a table in the corner, got out the guidebook, her journal and the map, and asked Sam for his opinion on the most likely places to find wildflowers. Whether or not he spotted her distraction tactic, he obliged by searching out likely areas in easy reach. Ruth suggested they made a list of the flowers they might spot, with a points system for particular species according to rarity. Together they worked out a route that would enable them to visit the nature reserve and fulfil their shopping duties before meeting the rest of the party at the end point. Twenty minutes later, when they finally drained their mugs, the crisis appeared to have passed.

  By the time they made it home that evening, both William and Ruth were exhausted. Ruth found that she ached to her bones. Thank heavens they weren’t sleeping with the rest of the party on the floor of a church hall. She was almost – almost – too tired to pick the asparagus. The watering would certainly have to wait until the morning. After the quicke
st of suppers, Ruth let Smith out for a last run round the garden while William washed up. From the look of the sky, tomorrow would be fine as well.

  As she climbed the stairs, leaning heavily on the handrail, it occurred to Ruth with a stab of guilt that she’d been so caught up with Sam that day that she’d given Beth only the scarcest attention. And from what she’d seen over the last few days, she was very much afraid that Beth was hovering around the edges of an eating disorder. She must alert Theo. There was something else, too, she thought, in the moments before she surrendered to sleep. Something from today that was snagging in her memory, something that needed her attention. Well, if it was that important, she’d remember in the morning.

  12½ miles

  William

  William was rootling in the cupboard under the stairs. He was certain that the walking poles were in here somewhere, probably behind the suitcases. James had given the sticks to Ruth as a retirement present, in some fond vision of the two of them striding off into the sunset like a smiling couple in a Saga advert. Knowing James, he would have diligently researched the different brands, read all the reviews, and picked them out with care before having them gift-wrapped and shipped over the pond to Aston.

  Dear boy! He meant so well, but had a habit of just slightly misjudging things. The distance probably didn’t help, though William sensed he was probably making excuses for his first-born. In this instance, he feared that he and Ruth had let him down by failing to conform to James’s hopes. For one thing, Ruth’s retirement had come about so abruptly. She’d resigned without warning, and the Board had been very understanding, in the circumstances, and hadn’t insisted on her working out her notice. Perhaps if the two of them had had a little more time to adjust, to plan for retirement, there would have been more chance of booking in some walking expeditions. As it was, Ruth had been so caught up in looking after Sam – not to mention propping up Anna and Theo, and seeing to poor confused little Beth – that the idea that they might take themselves off walking seemed utterly ludicrous. By the time William retired four years later, Ruth’s knees were beginning to trouble her, and the moment passed.

  At his insistence, Anna took the walking poles to Spain and wore them in on the Camino. She’d pronounced herself extremely grateful, too: not just for the much-needed cushioning the poles offered the joints, but equally as handy defence against the wild dogs that occasionally plagued the route. Dogs were something William hadn’t anticipated; he’d been more fearful about . . . well, unsavoury characters. Ruffians. It didn’t seem right, a woman walking alone. Still. She’d had a life-changing experience, and came home safely. In much better shape than when she’d left a month earlier. Almost the old Anna again. Sam was still several inches shorter than his mother, obviously, but William was reasonably confident he could adjust them to fit.

  ‘Ah-hah!’ he said with satisfaction, emerging from the cupboard. ‘Got them! I’ll take these fellows out to the workshop and see what I can do. Might need the vice. You all set, dear heart?’

  ‘How long do you need?’

  ‘Five minutes? Ten max. Just thought these might help the little chap . . .’

  ‘Yes. Good idea. And he’ll enjoy . . . the connection. Have you noticed what Beth’s wearing on her feet?’

  ‘Yup. Sensible man, Theo. Always thought so. Back in a mo.’

  William and Ruth arrived at the church hall where the group had spent the night to find everyone somewhat subdued. Ella and Lucy were huddled in a corner, their backs firmly turned on the rest of the party. Beth leaned against a tired noticeboard, one knee bent, the flat of her foot on the wall behind. She was biting her nails and scowling. Mary Anne was organizing the clear-up in a bright, brittle voice. Chloe, George and Milo were wiping down tables in uncharacteristic silence. Of Sam there was no sign at all.

  ‘What on earth’s up?’ Ruth asked Theo.

  ‘Ah,’ said Theo. ‘Morning. I don’t think spending the night here was such a good idea. Thank God we’ll be in a proper guesthouse tonight.’

  ‘What went wrong?’ she pressed him.

  ‘What didn’t go wrong, more to the point.’ Theo looked around, frowning. ‘To start with, it took ages to get everyone off to bed because there’s only one shower and it’s not exactly powerful. The hot water ran out and half of us had cold showers. Then there were complaints that the floor was hard and uncomfortable. Which I have to agree, it was. So no one got much sleep. Then this morning there’s been a huge row because one of the girls – Chloe, I think – blew the electricity by overloading the system with her hair tongs. Just when everyone was desperate for a cup of tea and a piece of toast. Tears and recriminations all round. We finally worked out that the trip-switch is in a locked cupboard, and we had to call the caretaker out. Who wasn’t best pleased.’

  ‘Hair tongs?’ asked William blankly.

  ‘Straighteners,’ said Theo, leaving him none the wiser. ‘And Sam . . . well, Sam wet the bed,’ he added quietly. ‘So all in all, not our finest hour.’

  ‘Give me his sleeping bag, and I’ll find a laundrette,’ said Ruth. ‘How long’s this been going on?’

  ‘Only since . . . well, Anna. And to be fair, it’s the first time for weeks. I thought he was over it. He’s probably just tired. He’s desperate that no one finds out. I’ve had a word with Tamsin and she’ll stamp on the other boys if either of them says anything.’

  ‘Where is he? I’d better have a word,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Sure that’s a good idea?’ asked William.

  ‘Not about . . . that. I need to check on his foot.’

  Of course, thought William. The blister. Poor lad. No fun. As for the other . . . miserable business. There was a boy at school . . . well, probably best forgotten. William thought he’d hold back a bit, get the car loaded up, before proffering the poles. They might provide a welcome distraction later. Meanwhile, he thought perhaps his granddaughter could do with a kind word. It was all too easy to overlook Beth. He was rather afraid they’d all been doing that for the best part of a decade.

  It was going to be a day of contrasts, William reflected half an hour later. The first mile or so took them past the nature reserve that Ruth had visited the afternoon before. And now there was this long – and utterly vertiginous – stretch across the vast Medway bridges, where they walked on a service road, right alongside both the M2 motorway and the railway line that bore Eurostar trains hurtling between London and the Channel Tunnel. Boats beneath them, a long way down. Once an important trade route, but now mostly pleasure craft.

  What was that poem? Quinquireme of Nineveh . . . Ah yes, John Masefield. ‘Cargoes’. He’d learned it at school. Recited it in a house competition, if memory served. All about the contrast between the exotic treasures coming in from foreign parts and English vessels, their holds loaded with coal and iron. What was the line? Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack . . . How evocative that was! Rather wonderful to be able to call upon his own treasure chest of poetry all these years later. Would Beth know that poem, he wondered? Or any poetry by heart? Almost certainly not. Probably not part of the blasted National Curriculum. A change for the worse, in his eyes.

  As for change, what about the transformation of Kent since Chaucer’s day? The contrasts were unimaginable. What would Chaucer’s pilgrims have made of the landscape they would see today, scarred as it was by roads, railways and dormitory housing? Not to mention oast houses, and the vestiges of paper mills, quarries and coal mines. And what about their twenty-first-century walking boots, their waterproofs and other high-tech kit? Surely their party would seem as alien to Chaucer’s pilgrims as visitors from Mars.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Theo.

  ‘I was thinking about Chaucer. His pilgrims. Different world.’

  ‘Are we on the same route as the Canterbury Tales?’

  ‘Not really,’ said William. ‘I don’t think there’s any overlap to speak of. Until the very end, anyway. Just musing.’


  ‘There’s a whole lot of myth around the Pilgrims’ Way,’ said Father Stephen, coming alongside them. ‘There are some people who claim it’s an ancient route that was walked by hordes of medieval pilgrims. And there’s another school of thought that says that’s wishful thinking, a fantasy, cooked up by a couple of Victorian writers with an overly romantic imagination. But there’s certainly evidence of prehistoric trackways along the ridge. They date back to well before the Christian era.’

  ‘But I thought you said pilgrims had visited Canterbury and Winchester for centuries?’ said Theo.

  ‘True enough,’ said William. ‘Canterbury for St Augustine. Winchester for St Swithun.’

  ‘It was the murder of Thomas Becket in the twelfth century that really put Canterbury on the map,’ added Father Stephen. ‘But you’re quite right. There was traffic in both directions. And places like Rochester Cathedral and some of the other pilgrim churches we’ve passed provided hospitality. It was a hazardous business, being a medieval pilgrim, so safe havens along the way were very necessary. It’s whether there was one single route that’s in doubt. And no one’s quite sure of the scale, the numbers of pilgrims. Could many people really afford to take off for months on end? On the other hand, if the practice of pilgrimage wasn’t widespread, why did Henry VIII feel the need to put the boot in and ban it altogether?’

  ‘I’ve always been rather taken by the idea of pilgrimage as punishment,’ said William.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Theo.

  ‘The medieval courts sometimes sent miscreants off on a penitential pilgrimage. Often to Canterbury. They had to bring back a declaration, a certificate, I suppose, proving they’d made it to the shrine. Had the double advantage of removing a felon from the community for a decent period while also enforcing him to contemplate the error of his ways. Rather a clever idea, I’d say. Think I might write to the Home Secretary.’

  As the morning passed, William sensed the members of the group regaining their cheer. There was a slight breeze and the sun shone again, providing almost perfect walking conditions.