50

MARTIN

Zoe had filled us in on our unwitting use of our host’s precious memories to stuff our boots. Rather than leave the newspaper to be found, I’d shovelled it into my pack and pockets. I unloaded at the first public bin.

‘Shit,’ said Zoe, ‘I put mine in her trash. I’m the one who tried to do the right thing, and it’s my paper she’s going to find.’

‘How will she know it’s yours?’

‘I’ve got to go back.’

We waited, eating a warm pastry from the panetteria, while Zoe returned for her wet newspaper. I was feeling pretty good, considering. I’d slept in my thermals and been warm enough. A break from drinking had done me no harm, either. The wine had opened with a hiss, and Gilbert had initially announced a secondary fermentation, then, on examination of the label, explained that it was deliberate. Frizzante, lightly sparkling red. I guess you could get used to it, if you had to. We each tried a small glass and left the rest to Gilbert.

In the morning, the moka pot had delivered good strong coffee and the pastries were a big step up from the day-old bread at the previous night’s albergo.

Zoe returned, not in a great mood. She’d had to make up a story of leaving something behind to get back in, and our host had hovered over her suspiciously while she failed to find it. The wet newspapers were still in the wastepaper basket.

‘Do you want me to get you a pastry?’ I asked.

‘You’ve finished yours?’

‘I would have saved you some but…’

‘You didn’t.’

‘Sorry—it was rather good. I said, I’ll get you another one.’

‘Don’t bother. Tell me where we’re staying tonight. So I can get used to the idea.’

‘Last night wasn’t so bad. You were warm enough, weren’t you?’

‘After I got to bed. The kitchen was freezing.’

‘Toughen you up for Yorkshire.’ Probably shouldn’t have said that. ‘What about you, Camille? You want to buy that one?’

Gilbert flashed me a look that was undeserved. I was giving Camille a dose of reality to balance her fantasies of rural bonhomie.

‘It would need repairs, but…’ Christ, she was thinking about it.

Zoe interrupted. ‘No. Just no.’

‘You okay?’ I asked her when we were clear of the others.

‘Not particularly. That place was dismal. And you guys have all got dry boots. I’ve got cold feet.’

It was another tough day in the mountains. But there were rewards: moments of sunshine illuminating our path; the remarkable black-and-yellow lizard we nearly stood on, so good was its camouflage; purple mountain flowers; huge spider webs with tiny water droplets and orange inhabitants.

Zoe and Camille did an extra climb, to the church in Barbagelata, while the rest of us waited.

‘Extraordinary! It was très moderne,’ said Camille.

‘Locked,’ added Zoe.

‘Technically, our hardest day since the Alps. In kilojoules expended,’ Bernhard said, consulting his smart watch when we arrived at our accommodation.

‘Is this it?’ said Zoe, and I guessed that the answer she was hoping for was, ‘No, this is just a derelict pub on the way to the Hilton around the corner.’

‘Only option. And usually closed on Mondays. They’re only opening for us because Camille told them we were pellegrini.’

‘Where are we eating?’

‘Right here,’ I said with a flourish, as a rough-looking chap in torn jeans and boots opened the door to reveal a bar, albeit one with only a couple of bottles on display.

It had been drizzly again and we were all a bit damp. Zoe’s mood, which had lifted for a while, was now flat again. I was just praying for a functioning heater.

Our man led us upstairs, and my prayer was answered: a wood-burning stove that must have been going for a while, as the entire level—a bedroom, bathroom and bunk room—was warm. Not tidy—I had the feeling that the bedroom had become a storeroom through lack of guests and the bathroom wasn’t exactly pristine—but definitely warm.

‘This is better,’ said Camille, again casting a buyer’s eye over the property. ‘You and Zoe can have the bedroom.’

‘It’s fine,’ I began to say, then thought better of it. ‘Thanks—we owe you one.’

‘Vino?’ Gilbert asked as we sat to dinner, and it didn’t occur to either of us that the previous night’s fizz had been anything but an anomaly until we heard the tell-tale pop.

‘Do you have anything flat?’ said Gilbert, making hand signals, then attempting some Italian. ‘Non gazzo?’

‘No.’

‘It’s like the Wild West,’ said Sarah, and she’d nailed it: the combination of our hirsute Levi-ed host, the basic saloon bar and his attractive but solid partner in her peasant dress making occasional appearances from the kitchen. And we were indeed in the west of Italy. Gilbert might have done better to order whiskey.

‘More like the Appalachians,’ said Zoe. ‘How much longer are we in Liguria?’

‘Through to Aulla,’ I said. ‘Just another week or so.’

Dinner was good rustic Italian food. Better than good after a tough day. The downstairs fire was burning too, and we had the place to ourselves. But in the narrow bar, there was none of the sense of emptiness that we’d had in the old hotels.

‘Like a pub in Yorkshire,’ I told Zoe, and, based on her reaction, decided I’d go easy on references to our future home for a while.

We began with a huge platter of antipasto—admittedly not exactly vegetarian-friendly—then porcini pasta (fully vegetarian and enough for Zoe to eat as main course as well), wild-boar alla cacciatora, green salad, cake.

By the end, I was beginning to develop a taste, or at least a tolerance, for the fizzy red. Gilbert, Camille and I finished with a glass of firewater grappa.

The others had preceded us upstairs and Gilbert paused at the top, raising a finger to his lips. The lights were off, and Sarah and Bernhard were lying in front of the fire, illuminated by its light, Sarah’s head on Bernhard’s chest.

The door handle on the fire had come off, and after they went to bed, I made it my evening repair project. It took longer than I’d expected, but I used the time to reflect. I didn’t know how handy Gilbert was, but I could see him behind a bar, lighting a fire, even serving the meals as our host had tonight.

In his position, I’d have probably seen Camille’s suggestion as pretty attractive—something to do in the difficult years ahead beyond being a live-in nurse. I was almost envious. Maybe I was just craving a clearer plan for Zoe and me.

She was asleep when I went to bed.