“Maggie. Pleased to meet you.” The woman nodded down at her iPad. “Will the music bother you, shall I turn it off?”
Claire’s eyes widened at the unexpected politeness. “No, it’s fine. I haven’t heard David Grey since I was a student. It’s rather nice.” She headed for the bunk tucked in the corner and kicked off her shoes. She needed to put something on her blog, even if just a paragraph, and knew she needed to get onto it before sleep dragged her down. Her eyes felt like a horde of partygoers were bouncing around inside them and prodding at the walls with their beer bottles.
Staring at the blank page Claire tried to remember what had happened that day. The kayak seemed a lifetime ago. All that resonated was the call from her sister and the implications. Without stopping to let her subconscious talk her out of it, Claire decided to write from the heart. Isn’t that what Josh told me to do. He’s a man of hidden depths. Maybe I should listen to him. David Grey’s voice swept through her, the words tugging at her stomach. “Life in slow motion somehow it don't feel real, Life in slow motion somehow it don't feel real.”
She began to type.
Life in Slow Motion
I am sitting in Grasmere hostel listening to David Grey. The lyrics Life in slow motion, somehow it don't feel real are resonating deep in my gut.
A hostelling life is a life lived in slow motion. Some days I don’t move more than ten miles from hostel to hostel. The highlight of my day is a smile from a stranger. I have left the speeding motorway of city life and I feel as giddy as if I’ve stepped too quickly off a travelator at the airport. I went kayaking this morning and watched, bemused, while larger-than-life girls splashed water at each other with their paddles. I found myself seeking a quiet corner of the lake to absorb the sound of bird song and admire the reflections of the hills broken apart by ripples.
Since starting this adventure I find I walk more slowly, breathe more deeply, sup my Earl Grey tea with appreciative pleasure. This blog is meant to record the excitement of a life lived outdoors; the thrill of hiking, biking, abseiling and rock climbing. What I hadn’t appreciated until today was the simple joy of silence. Having received some bad news I was grateful to climb into my basic little car, drive along quiet winding roads and let my mind be still.
Claire read through what she had written, unsure whether it made sense, fearful that it made her seem like a hippy. Her eyes itched with tiredness and unshed tears. The music had moved on from Life in slow motion to From here you can almost see the sea. The haunting melody took her back to university days - battling hangovers and fatigue to churn out essays so that she could go party with her friends. Back then she hadn’t appreciated David Grey, he sounded far too maudlin, but her flat mate had been a fan. Now, lying back on her hostel bed staring at the underside of the bunk above, she felt serene. A nagging thought that she was losing her mind whispered in her ear, but not loud enough to keep her from sleep.
***
TWENTY-SIX
“My sister’s having surgery today.”
Maggie looked up from her book and focussed on Claire as she spoke into the silent room.
“Oh my.”
Maggie paused as if unsure what else to say. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Claire sat motionless on her bunk considering the question. Did she? She wasn’t even sure why she’d blurted out the news to a stranger, except that Maggie seemed effused with warmth and kindness.
“No, not really. She’s having a brain tumour removed. I’d rather not think about it.”
Maggie snapped her book shut and pushed off the bed. “Well then, what you need is some fresh air and Grasmere Gingerbread.”
“What?” Claire reeled from the sudden movement, her sleep-deprived brain struggling to process the change of speed.
“Grasmere Gingerbread. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of it?”
Claire shook her head and swallowed the lump in her throat.
Maggie laughed gently and walked over to sit on the bunk next to Claire. She put her arm around her and squeezed, as if they’d known each other for years rather than hours.
“No need to look so crestfallen, it’s hardly a sin. We’re rather proud of our local shop, that’s all.”
“Oh are you from round here?” Claire considered Maggie’s Queens English. “You don’t sound, erm, Cumbrian?” She hesitated, hoping she hadn’t offended her new acquaintance.
“Haha no I don’t have the local dialect. My parents sent me to school in Leicestershire. So, how about it?”
Claire looked puzzled, trying to keep up. It felt like listening to the news from the bottom of a pond.
“The walk? To The Grasmere Gingerbread Shop?”
Claire nodded and let Maggie pull her up from the bed.
The air outside bit deep, cutting into Claire like a Sabatier knife. She huddled into her coat and tucked her chin into her collar. The landscape was flat and muted like a sepia photograph.
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
Maggie strode off, head high, arms swinging. Claire scurried after her and hoped it wasn’t a long walk. She felt like a small child trying to keep up with her mummy. Maggie seemed to realise she was walking alone and turned to see what had happened to Claire.
She laughed at the bundle of misery scuttling behind her. “Sorry Claire, I’m in hill-walking mode. I’ll slow down.”
“You walk across hills at that speed? Are you superhuman?”
“Just bred to it. My parents are avid hill-walkers.”
“My dad plays golf.”
The shop was dark and bustling with tourists browsing such delights as Kendal Mint Cake and Rum Butter. It felt like a sauna after the bitter wind outside. Claire soaked the heat into her bones and let the noise wash over her. She could imagine Sky in a place like this, jumping up and down to see over the counter and through the bodies of people queuing to buy their gingerbread.
Maybe I could bring her hostelling with me. At least she’d be company.
Maggie was explaining the history of the shop, how it was set up in the 1850s by Sarah Wilson a local lady. How she lost both her daughters to tuberculosis and her husband shortly after. Although said in a matter-of-fact tone, the words sank into Claire like lead-weights.
What if I lose Ruth? I barely know her. How much time have we spent together since we left home? Hardly any.
She felt the guilt surge up her throat and lodge in the back of her mouth. The heat of the room pressed in until she had to get out. She shouldered her way through the mingling people and pushed through the door. The winter air slapped her in the face, numbing her senses and causing her eyes to water.
Standing outside the tiny cottage Claire pulled freezing air into her lungs and stared around without seeing. She heard the click of the door behind her and felt an arm around her shoulders.
“Sorry, that was insensitive of me. I was so caught up in the history I forgot about your sister. You must be very worried. There’s a garden centre just down the road. Let’s go for a cup of coffee and you can tell me about it.”
Claire let herself be comforted. Let herself be led away like a lost child.
***
TWENTY-SEVEN
“How come you're staying in a hostel then if you come from Cumbria?” Claire cupped her hands round her mug and inhaled the scent of freshly-ground coffee. She watched Maggie through the rising steam.
“Oh I don't live here now. I met my husband at school and we moved south. I come back while the kids are away, to indulge in nostalgia and stock up on gingerbread.”
“By yourself?” Claire didn't mean to be inquisitive but the words were out before she could swallow them.
Maggie just smiled and brushed a stray hair away from her face. “Oh yes. Steve hates it up here in the spring. Too soggy. He says it takes him a month to dry out. I like the weather. Sometimes it's nice to walk with the mizzling rain on your face keeping you cool. There are fewer tourists at this time of year too. You saw ho
w busy the shop was today: imagine what it’s like in August.”
“Did you actually live here in Grasmere?”
“No, our place was out on the hills. I liked to come here as a child and wander through the graveyard. You know Wordsworth is buried near the Gingerbread Shop? The place is flooded with daffodils at this time of year. It’s beautiful, we should go there.” Maggie moved in her seat as if ready to flee the café and wander amidst wild daffodils for the rest of the day.
Please, God, no. I think I had my fill of Wandering Lonely as a Cloud during A Level English. She didn’t want to offend Maggie so she nodded absently as if the suggestion had been rhetorical.
“Has the place changed much?” Claire decided distraction was the best way to take Maggie’s mind off a tramp over the heads of a load of dead people.
“Well the Gingerbread Shop hasn’t changed but then it’s been the same for 150 years. As for the rest of Grasmere, it’s all got a bit posh to be honest. Not the place I knew when I was young, that’s for sure.”
Maggie chatted about growing up in Cumbria, about other local landmarks and famous people; Beatrix Potter and John Ruskin.
“I went to Brantwood,” Claire chipped in, feeling the same gratification she did when a question came up on University Challenge that she knew the answer to. “I bumped into an old school friend.” A frown pulled her face down before she felt it and forced her skin smooth.
“That’s the thing about staying in hostels, travelling around. You always bump into people you know in the most random places. I stayed in a hostel in New Zealand once and met a lad I knew from University. The hostel was out in the sticks, only ten beds in the place. We had to shoo sheep out the kitchen. You wouldn’t believe it if you read it in a novel.”
Claire nodded and was about to comment when her phone buzzed. The half-eaten scone from earlier dropped to the bottom of her stomach and her ears rang with rushing blood.
“Are you okay, you look pale?” Maggie reached a hand across the table and Claire jumped at her touch. “Was that your phone? Don’t mind me, you answer it.” Maggie sat back in her chair and gazed away as if giving Claire as much privacy as the busy café afforded.
She nearly dropped the phone as she picked it off the table and unlocked it. The buzz wasn’t a text message as she’d hoped but notification of an email. Claire was about to put the phone back next to her coffee cup when she noticed who the email was from.
What does he want?
Glancing up at Maggie she could see she was absorbed with her own thoughts. Claire quickly loaded her email and clicked open.
Claire, I need to see you. Are you still at Grasmere? Can you stay another night? J
“The cheek of him!” Claire only realised how loud she had spoken when the couple at the next table turned round. Her face flushed oven-hot and she dropped her head so her hair would shield her.
“I take it that wasn’t about your sister?” Maggie looked amused at Claire’s outburst.
“No, just some annoying bloke I met in Kielder. Being all cryptic and commanding.”
“Oh?” Maggie raised an eyebrow and dimples appeared in her cheeks.
Claire felt herself bristling at the expression, then she laughed. It felt good, like a spin class after a tricky board meeting. “It’s not romantic, if that’s what you mean. He’s a friend, as much as anyone is when you’ve known them a week or two. But he’s the most mysterious bloke. I wonder what he wants? Probably to cadge a lift somewhere. I’m pretty certain that’s the only reason he befriended me in the first place.”
“People make friends on the road for all sorts of reasons. The same as there are all sorts of reasons why people are on the road.” Her face grew distant and Claire wondered for the first time if Maggie had told her the truth about why she was travelling alone.
Honestly, I thought this was a simple work assignment. It’s starting to feel like an episode of Days of Our Lives.
She inhaled the scent of fresh coffee and banana bread and sat back in her chair. The sound of happy chattering and the splash of cars driving on rain-drenched roads outside the window wrapped around her like strands of pulsing life.
Still, it beats working for a living.
***
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Josh, what's going on?” Claire had been watching the door to the lounge for two hours and the words launched themselves across the room without her volition. In her head the words had sounded hard-hitting but out in the open they whined like a nagging-wife. She inhaled through her nose and watched silently while Josh crossed towards her without making eye contact.
An aroma of smoke, cheap aftershave and sweat came with him, making Clare feel lightheaded, as if she’d been working late on an assignment for weeks on too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
“How's your sister.”
“Okay, thanks. The surgery went well and she came round from the anaesthetic demanding tea and toast.”
“That's good.” Josh nodded and looked around the room.
“Where are Beth and Chloe?” Claire winced at the sarcastic tone in her voice.
“I left them at Coniston. It's complicated enough without them.”
“What is?” Claire wanted to stamp her foot. “What's it all about Josh. You send me a cryptic email; expect me to stay on here just because you wish it, with no explanation. What gives?”
“I need... help.”
Claire felt as if she'd stepped off a curb. It took a moment for her to answer and when she did her voice was sceptical. “Help with what? I haven't discovered anything you're scared of. Certainly nothing I could assist you with.”
“I need you to help me tell a story. You're good with words.” He let out a sigh and his shoulders slumped. He dug his hands into his pockets then pulled them out again. “Can I sit down?”
“It's not like you to ask.” Claire patted the sofa next to her but Josh chose the one on an angle. He perched on the edge of the seat, leaned forwards and rested his elbows on his knees. He was close enough that Claire could feel his breath on her face. She guessed his lunch to have been spicy pot noodle and wondered if she could sit back without offending him.
His eyes were dark with worry and something else. Fear. A strong desire to hold him and shush him began to build in Claire's chest. She ignored it, settling for loosely clasping his hands, mirroring his posture. She waited while he sat, head low. His hair flopped forwards and she would have pushed it back except it was too greasy to touch.
“You're the closest thing to a friend I have.” Josh’s voice came, muffled, through the tangle of hair. Claire's eyes opened wide but she kept her lips closed. He raised his head and pinned Claire with an intense look, as if urging her to listen without judgement.
“I've been running. Hiding. And now there is nowhere else to run. My family…” He swallowed and looked down again. When he raised his eyes they were red. “My family think I've been working. In a hospital in Manchester. Christies. I needed a fresh start and they think that's it.”
“The haircut? The shirt?”
“Yes. I Skype when I’m in a city and can scrub up, but mostly I tell them I’m too busy.” He caught his lip between his teeth and looked over Claire’s shoulder.
“How long have you been here?”
“Since Christmas.”
“Oh.” Claire wasn't sure what to say. She tried to imagine how she would feel if a family member disappeared for three months. Then she realised she’d only spoken to Robert once since Christmas and came to the conclusion she probably wouldn’t notice.
“So, you’ve been lying to your family and hiding overseas. I’m sure we’d all like to do that from time to time. Why the sudden urgency and where do I come in?”
“I need to tell the truth, or at least some of it.”
Claire wanted to say, which bit? The fact you’ve been living like Stig of the Dump trying to bed every woman you meet or the bit where you only shower and shave to convince your Mum yo
u really are a hot-shot doctor in an English hospital. She remembered his advice when Ruth had called with her news. He really is a hot-shot doctor. Why the pretence? Forget Days of Our Lives, I’m turning into Miss Marple. She caught his anxious gaze and realised he was waiting for her to respond.
“Why now? Did you suddenly wake up with a conscience?”
Josh reeled from the words, his head snapping back as if from a physical blow. He dropped Claire’s clasp and ran a hand through his hair.
Claire’s eyes narrowed at his reaction, wondering if her words had been too harsh. She had only meant his lying to his Mum but now she wondered if he had more troubling his peace of mind than he had let on.
Josh cleared his throat and sat back in his chair. He folded his arms and looked over to the window although the dark skies outside meant all that could be seen were reflections of the hostel lounge.
He cleared his throat again, freeing the words. “Fiona is flying over with the children. She's going to be at Manchester Airport in 48 hours.”
“Who is Fiona?” Claire felt a flutter in her gut but ignored it. She didn’t want to be Miss Marple anymore.
“She's my wife.”
###
This story is continued on Amanda Martin’s daily blog at https://writermummy.wordpress.com
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About the Author
Amanda Martin was born in Hertfordshire in 1976. After graduating with first class honours from Leeds University she wandered around the world trying to find her place in it. She tried various roles, in England and New Zealand, including Bar Manager, Marketing Manager, Consultant and Artist, before deciding that Writer/Mummy best summed her up. She lives in Northamptonshire with her husband, two children and labradoodle Kara and can mostly be found at https://writermummy.wordpress.com or on Twitter or Facebook.