52

MARTIN

The rain had disappeared for the time being, and we were becoming accustomed to the more spartan conditions and demanding walking, much of it on the Alta Via. Despite both it and the Chemin d’Assise being listed as major European trails, in the comfortable walking month of September the only hikers we saw were just out for the day.

We’d got into the habit of walking in pairs, regrouping every hour or so to make sure nobody had got lost. The phone signal was patchy at best, the markings variable and, as we descended through rocky forest, the path was often hard to discern.

Sarah and Bernhard had stopped to let the rest of us catch up, and, when we did, it was Sarah who called for silence.

‘What can you hear?’ she said after a minute or so.

‘I can’t hear anything,’ said Camille.

‘That’s the point. What can’t you hear?’

‘Birds,’ I said, beating Zoe to it. Maybe she wasn’t used to the sound of birds in San Francisco, but here we were, miles from any habitation, in quite dense forest, and…not a bird to be heard.

‘They said Silent Spring would never happen,’ said Zoe. ‘But…wow. You’re right, Sarah.’ It was possibly the first time I’d sensed a connection between them.

We sat and listened for a while. I was thinking not so much about our neglect of the planet as the more local sense of loss that Zoe had obviously been feeling, and that I’d been deflecting with my determination to enjoy the trail and hospitality for what they were. Except that in a few years, when the old hotels followed the birds into oblivion, the only pilgrims would be those hardy adventurers prepared to tote tents and stoves.

Bernhard broke the silence. ‘It’s not spring. It’s autumn. Fall. Some will have migrated. The rest are not mating—they’re hiding from predators. Birds don’t sing without a reason.’

Maybe. I couldn’t remember being in woods and not hearing birds.

Sarah and I walked on together, after letting Camille and Gilbert get a head start.

‘So, how’s it going with you and Zoe?’ she said.

‘Pass. I think that’s the right reply, isn’t it?’ Then, because I didn’t want to convey a negative impression, I added, ‘All good.’

‘Seriously, you don’t have to answer, but…I don’t want you—anyone—to get hurt.’

‘You don’t need to worry about us.’ Was I being defensive? Too right I was. I wasn’t accountable to my daughter.

And then, a few minutes on, ‘Have you read her stuff? I mean the stories that go with the drawings?’

I hadn’t. I was surprised Zoe had shared them with Sarah and not me.

‘Just the cartoons. I haven’t asked. Why?’

‘Well, it’s in the cartoons too if you look. She seems to have issues. Not about you.’

‘What do you think they’re about, then?’

‘I think, Camille. But more than just feeling bad about the MS.’

‘Makes us confront our own mortality. Before you know it, you’ll be thirty.’ I said it with my tongue deep in my cheek but it landed anyway. As it would have for me at that age.

‘I know. Graduation from medicine always seemed like forever away. If I want to specialise, I’ll be that old when I qualify. And now I’ve lost a year.’ Bugger. I hadn’t meant to provoke that.

We had caught up with Camille and Gilbert faster than I’d expected, and Sarah put her arm in front of me to slow me down. ‘Look at Camille. Watch her walk.’

She was right. We were climbing again, and Camille was using one of her sticks, heavily, to support her left leg whenever she pushed off on it.

We caught up, and Sarah asked, ‘Strained a muscle?’

‘It’s just tired,’ said Camille.

Sarah shook her head. I knew what she meant. Individual muscles didn’t get ‘tired’, not normally. Injured, yes, sore, yes, but tiredness was usually more general, and not one-sided.

‘I think we should give it a rest for today. Let’s get the accommodation guide out.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Camille, but without any conviction, and she was happy to make the phone call. No answer.

‘About five kilometres, most of it on the road,’ I said. ‘Shall we try to get a taxi to meet us?’

‘It’s only the climbing,’ said Camille, and this time I was prepared to believe her. And indeed, a few hundred metres on, we joined the road, and she seemed to be coping okay.

The hotel was in the small town of Passo del Bocco, and the car park was full of vehicles. We dumped our packs outside and spruced ourselves up a bit before entering.

The restaurant was bustling—hunters and collectors lunching. Likely they hadn’t even heard the phone.

I managed to intercept one of the staff, flat out serving tables.

‘No. No rooms,’ she said, backing it up with a hand gesture.

‘Full? Completo?’

Her hand swept across the room. It said, clearly enough, ‘We’ve got enough on our plates with this lot without worrying about walk-ins for rooms.’

I pointed to Camille, indicating an injury. Shrug.

‘Pellegrini,’ said Bernhard, and the server’s face changed instantly—why didn’t you say so in the first place?

‘Wait. Drink.’ And we were installed at the bar until the lunch crowd subsided and a middle-aged man took us upstairs to our rooms. Camille was still struggling, using her right leg to lead up each step, even without carrying her pack.

If this was a progression of her MS to a new stage, her walk was over.