11

ZOE

The days were beginning to have a rhythm. Martin, with his new beard and hair that seemed to have grown longer already, was like a cute English sheepdog at our heels in the morning. In the evenings, after we revived over a glass of wine or beer, he wandered around looking for things to fix. Friends back home clicked the heart emoji when I posted a picture.

From the burbs of Villefranche-sur-Saône, we crossed a bridge spanning the Saône river, and entered fields of corn and sunflowers with heads that had turned black and were too heavy to rise and greet the sun.

I’d thought that Camille and Gilbert wouldn’t last three days, yet on day six they were still walking. Gilbert was slow, sometimes coming in an hour after Sarah and Bernhard, sometimes with Martin, more often with Camille, but always coming in.

‘We seem to be working all right,’ Martin said, trying to be casual but watching my reaction.

‘Like the three years never happened.’

‘It’s a good test. Spending so much time in each other’s company.’

‘The Chemin will do that.’

It was fifteen minutes before Martin came back to it.

‘How do you feel about checking out Sheffield?’

‘How do you feel about checking out San Francisco?’

‘At least come and stay. Then we can decide.’

I felt my stomach flutter. Maybe this could work. Things had changed.

Except that all the change had been on my side. Three years on and the same elephant was in the room—a pretty, skinny elephant who, from everything I’d seen, was a regular twenty-year-old whose biggest problem was being too dependent on her father. And maybe vice versa.

I caught Sarah alone late morning.

‘How are you enjoying the walk?’ She was moving fast; maybe she’d sped up.

‘It’s fine.’

‘I want to just say…I’m sorry if this wasn’t the vacation you had in mind with your dad.’

‘He told me you’d be here.’

‘Are you enjoying pre-med?’

‘We don’t have pre-med in the UK. We do medicine from the start.’

‘I didn’t know that. You think it works better?’

‘Nothing to compare with.’ Her tone said, ‘Say what you came to say.’

‘Look, I think it’s great Martin has such a close relationship with his daughter. I’ve got two daughters too. I never stopped them seeing their dad.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I mean, I know you’ve got a great relationship with your dad…’

‘He said that?’

‘He didn’t need to.’ That was better. There was a tiny thaw before she iced up again.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I won’t get in your way.’

She picked up her pace, and I slowed and waited for Camille to catch me.

‘I don’t think she likes me,’ I said.

‘Of course not—she is protecting her father. Plenty of time. By the time you marry Marteen she will be begging to be bridesmaid.’

She started laughing. ‘She is young. More interested in Bernhard. But Bernhard is playing it cool. If I was younger… or maybe that is not necessary with Bernhard. What about you and Martin?’

‘We’re doing okay.’

‘Okay? He is here for only two more weeks, no? And after that?’

‘I don’t know if I can live in England. I guess that’s why I’m feeling unsure.’

‘Naturally. England’s weather is bad; the food is worse. You have visited?’

‘No, but—’

Camille waved her hand. ‘If he loves you, he will do whatever you want.’

‘Even if it means letting down his daughter?’

‘She is a woman. She has her own life.’

If only. Camille pointed to a signpost. ‘We are in Ars. The sarcophagus of St Jean-Marie is here. His body does not decay: a miracle.’

It was something of a Catholic mecca—probably the wrong word—and we were learning that Camille really did want to check off every church and crucifix on the Way. I guess that was what you were meant to do on a pilgrimage.

We toured the église and chapelles—but Camille seemed less moved by the ornate beauty and the history than I was. She did take a moment to hover in front of a statue of St Jean-Marie, then brushed his hand, paid her euro for a candle and lit it.

‘Do you say the same prayer each time?’

Camille shook her head. ‘Each day I light a candle for someone I have sinned against.’

A sin a day. I guess that kind of made sense. Better than praying for a miracle cure.

Camille took my hand. ‘Light one with me, Zoe.’

She put another euro in the slot and passed me a candle.

‘You don’t have to believe in God, just in penance. And redemption. Today, mine is for Bastien’s mother. I tried to keep her son from her. Out of love, but…’

It was my first moment of real connection with Camille. I lit my candle.

‘It’s for Keith,’ I said.

‘You are still feeling guilty about his suicide?’

‘I’ve resolved…’ That had been one of the outcomes of my first camino.

‘But you still light a candle.’

I nodded. And for the first time, anywhere, to anyone, I didn’t protest that the coroner and the insurance company had been unable to prove that his death was not an accident.

After Ars there were more cornfields, and then we got lost looking for our B&B, which was off the track.

‘The path is here,’ announced Bernhard, checking his phone. On one side was corn grown to above head height, on the other a ploughed field with clumps of earth a yard high. The ditch—which Bernhard’s app seemed to have mapped as a path—was choked with branches, bushes and blackberries.

‘It is only three hundred metres.’

‘And if we go around?’ asked Camille.

‘Two kilometres.’

Camille didn’t hesitate. Afterward, Gilbert produced spray-on antiseptic and Sarah played nurse for our minor cuts.

‘I have a surprise for everyone when we get to Pérouges,’ Camille said as she prepared ratatouille—our first self-cooked meal. ‘Old city. The musketeer movie, it was made there.’

Bernhard was checking his phone. ‘It was mostly shot in Austria.’

Camille waved her hand. ‘The French movie.’

‘Early start tomorrow,’ said Martin. ‘Going to be hot, and a bit longer than we’d like.’

‘How far?’ Camille asked.

‘It’s flat but close to thirty kilometres. No real choice, I’m afraid.’