13 miles

Beth

Beth woke early. The curtains in the hostel were thin, made from off-white cotton, and not quite wide enough to cover the window. All around her she could hear breathing. It was weird sharing a room with a load of other people. A dormitory, for God’s sake, like boarding school or something.

The last time she’d shared a bedroom was . . . at a sleepover when she was still in Year Eight? Or perhaps it was on that family holiday in Wales when she had to share a bunk bed with Sam? God, that was stressful. She’d lain awake half the night, listening to his noisy breathing. Every now and again it seemed to stop altogether, and just as she started to panic, there’d be a sudden snort, and she’d hear herself let out her own breath, a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. She’d relax for a moment, and then the exhausting cycle would start all over again. She could still conjure up the gritty-eyed tiredness of the days cooped up in the cottage, playing board games as the rain fell relentlessly outside. The first night home, she’d almost wept with relief to be back in her own bedroom.

The girls’ dormitory was in two sections. At least she’d managed to manoeuvre herself into the smaller area, with Tamsin and the other women. On balance it was better to be in with the grown-ups. She’d really had enough of pretending to be interested in Chloe’s cheerleading team (the girl was obsessed; it was tragic). As for Lucy and Ella – she’d admit they’d all been friends at primary school, but puh-lease. Their preppy-good-girl act made her want to scream. It was probably their inescapable destiny, having Mary Anne as a mother, but they were so pretty, so perf, so vanilla that she just couldn’t stand it. Both sisters would witter on at great length about anything and everything – none of it of even the slightest interest – and it was all who was wearing what to the Prom, what some boy at their stupid posh school had or hadn’t said to someone else she didn’t know . . . Boring. Then – worse still – one of them would suddenly remember about Anna and nudge the other and then they’d both put on their concerned voices and ask if she was OK, and remind her that as her oldest friends they were there for her.

She’d changed in one of the outdoor washrooms, flung a fleece on top of her PJs, padded upstairs in her socks and climbed quickly up into a top bunk without anyone batting an eyelid, let alone expecting a full-on pyjama party. Round the corner, Lucy and Ella and Chloe were gasping over non-existent spots, scooping up their hair into top-knots and sharing their armoury of cleansing products. They’d probably spend half the night whispering about how Beth was coping. Actually, now she thought about it, they had bossy-boots Mary Anne for company, so that would cramp their style a bit.

Beth rolled onto her back, and stretched out her legs under the covers. She could feel a slight ache in her calves from yesterday, and the beginnings of a blister on her left heel. Sliding her hands down her body, she found her pyjama trousers waistband comfortingly loose. Her hip-bones definitely jutted out a bit. One thing about all this walking: even at only two miles an hour, yesterday’s walk had used up 828 calories. She’d downloaded a handy app on her phone that kept a running total.

It was actually quite tiring. She really had been exhausted when she sloped away from the supper table early and said she was heading to bed. As soon as they’d arrived at the hostel, Mary Anne had made four big pots of tea and a jug of squash and magicked up several packets of biscuits. Then she pulled on her Cath Kidston apron (honestly, who carried one of those in their backpacks? only a bloody food tech teacher) and marshalled everyone into chopping and stirring to produce a giant spaghetti bolognese. Spotting her chance with the salad, Beth had busied herself washing the lettuce and tomatoes and slicing the cucumber, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the gleaming mountain of pasta and grated cheese.

Now she reached down the bed, feeling for her phone, which appeared to be trapped between the mattress and the side of the bunk. All she needed to do was check Instagram and she’d know if the worst had happened last night. Or not. After a moment’s indecision, she booted the phone awake and braced herself. Only to find that there was no update for the simple reason that there was no signal.

Bugger. She’d have to get up, then, and go in search of civilization. She reached to the end of the bed to the neat pile of clothes. Everyone else seemed to be safely asleep: Tamsin below her; Catherine in the single bed by the window; and Jackie and Celia, Mum’s music therapist friends, in the other set of bunks. She would risk getting dressed where she was. She quickly stripped off her pyjamas, and pulled on the layers of clothing, ending with her #walkforanna T-shirt.

Beth slid quietly down the ladder to the floor, and tiptoed to the door in her bare feet. As she did so, she heard Tamsin stir, and held her breath, afraid she’d woken her. But Tamsin merely turned over, and laughed gently in her sleep. How could she do that? God, it must be nice to have no worries! What was she dreaming about? A beach in Australia?

She made her way down the steep stairs, towards the kitchen. The boys were out of reach, up another narrow flight. Sam was Dad’s problem, for now. Let Dad worry about his breathing this time. She let herself into the kitchen and ran a long glass of water. Eight glasses a day, minimum, sometimes twelve. That was the regime. A nauseating smell of yesterday’s breakfast bacon lingered in the room. She picked an apple from the fruit bag and washed it. If she ate that, no one could argue. Everyone knew fruit was a healthy breakfast.

Outside the air was still heavy with dew and the promise of summer. The grass was cool and wet underfoot, and a low mist hung around the trees. You could see for miles over the fields below. It was rather magical. It made the hostel seem more than ever like something out of a fairy tale, Hansel and Gretel, maybe, or Little Red Riding Hood. She’d honestly wondered where they were going when Father Stephen strode off so confidently down the track into the woods last night, just at the point when it had started drizzling and everyone was getting really tired and fed up. Sam, Milo and George had looked fit to drop. She really wondered if Dad had thought this through. What planet was he on, for fuck’s sake?

But just when she thought they would never get there, they’d emerged through the woods into a clearing and discovered the hostel: a half-timbered green and white oldy-worldy house with low beamed ceilings and a big open fireplace. It was like an American tourist’s dream of Little Ol’ England. The boys had been captivated to the point that they suddenly seemed to forget their tiredness, and disappeared with Uncle Tom to collect sticks for firewood.

Beth sat on a garden bench. Still no signal. It was so lame. What next? She thought she’d head up the track, back up towards the road, try her luck there. She retraced the route to the car park (too early for the ice-cream van, thank God) and turned left along the common. Ahead she could see a church. Might there be a phone mast in the spire? She set out purposefully, and bingo – signal! But still nothing on Instagram. Or Snapchat. Was that a good sign? Was everyone who’d been at the party still asleep? It suddenly dawned on Beth that it was only seven o’clock and she was probably the only fifteen-year-old in Surrey awake and dressed and walking on a fucking hill. Deflated, she walked up the path and pushed open the church door.

Why was it so massive, for God’s sake? What was a great cathedral of a church doing in the middle of absolutely flipping nowhere? She entered quietly, breathing in the familiar old church smell, and slipped into a pew. Closing her eyes, she sat in silence for a few moments.

‘Hello, Mum. It’s me,’ she said aloud. ‘I’m doing my best. I’m looking after Sam, and keeping an eye on Dad. But it’s not much fun. I miss you! Wish you were here.’

‘Bethany?’

She jumped. ‘Sorry to startle you,’ said Father Stephen gently. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I didn’t think there was anyone here!’ Beth could feel the blood flooding her cheeks.

‘There isn’t really. Only me. I’m sorry I disturbed you . . . Were you praying?’

‘Talking to Mum. Keeping her posted.’

‘Ah. I see . . . Shall I leave you to it?’

‘Yes. I mean no. I don’t know. What are you doing here, anyway? It’s the crack of dawn.’

‘Probably much the same as you,’ he said. ‘Woke up early, thought I’d seek out some peace and quiet before the day begins. It’s a good time to pray, I find. It’s really rather splendid in here, don’t you think?’

‘If you like that kind of thing,’ said Beth. ‘Why’s it so flipping big? There are no, like, houses round here.’

‘I think it was built by some Victorian grandee. Probably had over-inflated ideas about leaving a legacy extravagant enough to show he’d made it in life. You know what men are like – mine’s bigger than yours, and all that.’

She smiled. ‘D’you think that was it?’

‘Well, a bit of that. To be fair, I imagine the population this place served probably moved away at some point. Happens a lot with country churches. Can be something as simple as a factory closing. Or a bit more dramatic, like the Black Death. Actually, now you’re here, perhaps you can give me a hand. We’re going to have a little service here today before we set off. I’m trying to choose between two hymns. You can tell me whether people will know them. I can’t decide between “Guide me, O thou great Jehovah” and “He who would valiant be”. What do you think?’

‘Is that the hobgoblin one?’ asked Beth.

‘Yes! Do you know it?’

‘It’s seriously weird. Very Lord of the Rings, all that stuff about giants and fiends. “Guide me, O thou great Jehovah” would be much better. If anyone feels awkward singing, they can just pretend they’re at the rugby or something.’

‘Good point!’ he smiled at her. ‘Glad I checked.’

‘Wish I had my sax here. I could give it some welly for you.’

‘You mean you didn’t fancy carrying it? Lightweight!’

She laughed. ‘Father Stephen, can I ask you something . . .’ she began, when suddenly there was a ping from her phone. A text! From Matt! ‘Um, excuse me, gotta go,’ she said, and made a dash for the door.

Revision = boring. Party = boring. Missed u. You ok? M x

Oh my God: M x! Surely that was the first time he’d signed off with M x. But what did x mean? Was it just Matt-the-good-friend or could it be Matt-the-maybe-boyfriend? Given that it was still so early, did it mean he hadn’t gone to Natasha’s party? Or that he went and left early?

But the main thing was – unless he was a total liar and that she could not, would not believe, at least not yet – that he hadn’t ended the evening hooking up with Molly O’Riordan. Because if there was one thing Beth knew, it was that Molly’s sights were absolutely set on Matt. But he’d texted her – Beth! – at ridiculous-o’-clock in the morning and that surely, surely, surely meant something? It had to, didn’t it? You so didn’t text someone at the crack of dawn to tell them how boring a party had been without them if you didn’t like them at least a bit. Unless – aargh! – he felt sorry for her and was trying to be nice because his mum had said he should be or something crap like that.

Though that was silly because there was no reason to suppose that Matt’s mum knew anything about Beth. In fact one of the reasons she liked Matt was because she’d only got to know him quite recently, and she didn’t have to talk about Mum unless she wanted to. Sometimes they just had a laugh together. To think she’d dismissed him as a geek! But Big Band had changed all that. She barely knew his name – didn’t even know that he played the tenor sax, let alone had lessons with Mr Shepherd – until that rehearsal when he’d turned up for the first time. And he was bloody brilliant.

She loved band practice. That made Wednesday the best day of the week by far. There was something so wonderfully freeing about playing swing: the way everyone had a go, when Mr Shepherd gave them a new arrangement, and it was all a bit random to begin with – let’s face it, it was a school band, not exactly Jools Holland – but once the players had the shape of the piece under their belts, and the rhythm section had worked out what needed doing – that was crucial – the whole thing could begin to fly.

And just when you thought it had settled and they were beginning to make music, Mr Shepherd would casually point at someone for a solo. The first time he’d done that to her had been the most terrifying, exhilarating experience of her life. She stood up with her knees knocking, thinking OMG, this cannot be happening to me. But by the time she wrapped up her improv and sat down again, she was pink with excitement, and aching for another go. Mr Shepherd grinned and nodded at her in approval, and turned his attention to Kyle Jones, who was a show-off on the trombone, and after Kyle, had called on Matt. Who’d been totally awesome.

That night, when they were stacking the chairs and clearing away the music stands, Matt had come over to congratulate her and she’d returned the compliment and they’d had their first ever proper conversation. He’d only been at Farmleigh High – or Farmleigh Academy, you were supposed to call it now – since Year Twelve because he’d moved house after taking his GCSEs somewhere in London. But that had meant she’d lingered, and totally missed Dad’s text, so that the unexpected sight of his car at the school gate had taken her by surprise.

By the look on his face she assumed that she was in for a bollocking and racked her brains to think what she’d done. Or not done. But when she opened the car door and saw the tears streaming down his cheeks she found herself wishing and wishing that he would shout at her, ground her, dock her allowance. Any of that would have been better than hearing the news he had come specially to school to tell her.

Now Matt was in Farmleigh revising for A-levels while she was on this stupid walk. Her head spun suddenly: revision! Oh God, oh God, oh God. Her GCSEs were going to be a disaster. Ever since Mum died she’d found it impossible to concentrate. Couldn’t see the point really. Without Mum to chivvy her, it was hard to summon the energy. When she sat down to study, the words on the page seemed to swim before her eyes. Dad appeared oblivious. True, he’d turned up to parents’ evening, but he’d sat stiff and silent like a trapped animal while the teachers rabbited on, giving no sign that he had a clue about her coursework or mock results or the marks schemes for different subjects.

It had been so different when Mum was alive. She’d be gassing to the teachers – knew at least half of them by first names, probably through Mary Anne, really quite embarrassing – and asking really, like, specific questions about modules and stuff that meant Beth knew she was on her case, and the teachers did too. But since Mum had been sick it had all gone pear-shaped. It was going to be a train wreck.

For now, though, she had to reply to Matt. Wish u were here. B xxxx Even without the four kisses, was that too obvious? She tried again: 12 miles down, 92 to go. So far, so ok. Only one blister! Miss u 2. B x That was better. She pressed ‘send’.

Back at the hostel, people were beginning to emerge from their beds and search for breakfast. Beth could hear Dad persuading Sam in the direction of the shower. Oh God, she hoped he hadn’t wet the bed. It was a new . . . thing since Mum died and it was horrible. He’d be mortified. Lucy and Ella were laying up the tables in the dining room with bowls and plates and cutlery while Mary Anne was unpacking big boxes of cereal, sliced loaves and jam. She pulled cartons of milk and juice and packs of butter from the fridge and passed them to the girls to carry through.

‘Thank goodness for Ruth and her Volvo!’ she was telling Catherine, who was counting out non-matching spoons and knives. ‘It’s made catering so much easier. Imagine if we had to carry this lot from place to place.’

‘We’d be more like pilgrims, though,’ said Catherine.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know . . . Carrying only what’s sufficient unto the day. Anna said it was amazing how little you actually needed for the journey when she came back from Spain. When she started out, she said her bag was stuffed with a whole load of junk she’d brought along in case of emergency. But apparently you very quickly get rid of all the extras if you’ve actually got to carry them. She said a pilgrim spirit meant only thinking about a day at a time.’

‘Anna was on her own,’ said Mary Anne crisply. ‘She didn’t have a horde of hungry teenagers to feed. She only had herself to think about. If you ask me—’

She broke off as Beth came in. ‘Beth! We were wondering where you’d got to. Are you OK?’

‘Fine thanks. Just, like, been for a walk.’

‘A walk? I’m impressed you’ve got the energy,’ said Catherine. ‘I ache all over! Don’t know why, but even my shoulders hurt.’

‘So it was more of a stroll, really?’ Beth conceded. She liked Catherine. There was a deep-seated kindness about her. She didn’t intrude. What could she possibly have said to Dad yesterday to upset him? Beth had been well out of earshot, but one moment the pair of them seemed to be chatting quite easily, and the next minute you could see from his body language that he’d gone all rigid. She’d watched Catherine hover uncertainly for a moment, and then move away to join Jackie and some of the others. She seemed cheerful enough this morning.

‘Toast?’ Catherine offered now. ‘Cereal? Cup of tea?’

‘No thanks,’ said Beth, backing out of the kitchen. ‘Need to sort out my bed, get my things together. Laters.’

The formal part of the day began, as Father Stephen had indicated, with a short service at St Barnabas. It suddenly occurred to Beth that it was Sunday morning. Glancing around, a quick tot-up suggested that no one – except for Smith, who was waiting outside – had swerved it. Sam sat on her left, swinging his feet annoyingly. Dad was on his other side.

Father Stephen caught her eye and winked when he announced the hymn. Beth rewarded him by singing enthusiastically, enjoying the astonishment of Lucy sitting next to her. For once, it seemed, she was in a situation that put Miss Perfect Lucy at a disadvantage because she, Beth, knew how to behave in church. She crossed herself with an unnecessary flourish; and then, noticing that William had caught her in the act, closed her eyes and dropped to her knees, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.

She felt comfortable here, she realized. For one thing, at least while they were in church she felt that God could keep an eye on Dad and Sam. That might not be entirely logical, if God was supposed to be everywhere, but surely this was his watch and she was allowed a bit of slack. For another, there was something about the rhythm of the words and the singing and the periods of quiet (shit! her phone! better put it on silent) that she found soothing, even if she didn’t always get the point of the readings.

Some of the Bible was in her opinion both bloodthirsty and brutal. But if she allowed herself to tune in and out, and let it all wash over her, she enjoyed the poetry and found it restful. Being in church made her think of her mother. Then again, what didn’t? Please, God, look after my mum, whatever you’ve gone and done with her, she prayed. And keep an eye on Sam for me? And stop Dad being quite so miserable? And please, please, please don’t let bloody Molly get her teeth into Matt while I’m away . . .

Even in a different building, it all felt reassuringly familiar. She had gone to church with Anna and Sam throughout her childhood, and until a couple of years ago – when the onset of hormones had dealt a killer blow to the appeal of Sunday mornings – she sang in the choir. Who was taking the service at All Saints this morning, she wondered? Singing the hymn now – hearing her clear voice fly up to the rafters, high above her head – released a flood of nostalgia. It dawned on her that she hadn’t been back to church since her mother’s funeral. It just seemed . . . too difficult, somehow. But perhaps she should. If playing the sax was the most fun you could have with your clothes on, singing came a pretty close second. Should she rejoin the choir?

‘Thank you for joining me this morning,’ Father Stephen was saying, and Beth realized the service was almost over.

‘I hope you’re all rested and ready for a new day. I should warn you that we’re facing some pretty steep climbs today. We’ll be walking right up Box Hill, and you’ll know how steep that is if you watched the Olympic cycling in 2012. It’s not for the faint-hearted! But the views will be breathtaking. Quite magnificent. And we’ve got the stepping stones over the River Mole to look forward to this morning. Plus another reward at the end of the day, in the shape of the Millennium Standing Stones. I think they’re rather special.

‘And now, before our final blessing, there’s another poem I’d like to share with you today. It’s by the American poet Walt Whitman, and I’m just going to read you an extract. It’s a poem that encourages us to press on with the journey:

‘Away, O soul! hoist instantly the anchor!

Cut the hawsers – haul out – shake out every sail!

Have we not stood here like trees in the ground long enough?

Have we not grovell’d here long enough, eating and drinking like mere brutes?

Have we not darken’d and dazed ourselves with books long enough?

Sail forth! steer for the deep waters only!

Reckless, O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me;

For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go,

And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all.

O my brave soul!

O farther, farther sail!

O daring joy, but safe! Are they not all the seas of God?

O farther, farther, farther sail!’

The church was quite literally on the path, so the group was soon on its way. Theo came over to find her. ‘Sleep all right?’ he asked.

‘’Kay,’ she said. ‘Did Sam . . . you know . . . ?’

‘No. All well there . . . Ah, now that’s what I wanted to show you.’

‘What?’

‘Over there. Can you see the vines?’

‘So are we in flipping France or something?’

Theo laughed. ‘Looks a bit like it, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s Denbies. The biggest vineyard in England. Something like three hundred thousand vines, covering an area of several hundred acres.’

‘So how did you end up a, like, world authority, Dad?’

‘Looked at a job there, once upon a time.’

‘Yeah?’ Beth couldn’t imagine her father job-hunting somehow. Greene Fingers had always been part of their life. Mum used to say that he was so entrenched in his work that taking even a week’s holiday meant digging his roots out of the soil.

‘Yes. After we sold the farm. I rather fancied winemaking. Thought it was rather romantic. Mind you, back then English wine had a fairly terrible reputation. It’s different now. Denbies pick up international awards, these days.’

‘So why didn’t you go for it?’

‘The garden centre seemed a safer bet, somehow,’ said Theo. ‘I could hear your grandfather’s voice telling me that there was no future in English wine. Shame, really.’

‘Well, you get to be your own boss, now Mike’s gone,’ said Beth, with a sudden surge of sympathy for her father. ‘Your name on the shop front. That’s pretty cool.’

At that moment a railway bridge came into sight. ‘That’s my cue to round up the boys,’ said Theo. ‘There’s a nasty bit of main road coming up. Better make sure everyone knows. But thank you.’ With the ghost of a smile, he took off, leaving Beth the choice between talking to Mary Anne (no thanks, who wanted to spend half-term with a teacher, for fuck’s sake?) and catching up with Lucy, Ella and Chloe. Oh well. Perhaps it was time to play happy teenagers for a bit. She’d probably outpace them on the steep hill anyway.

The sight of the stepping stones had her anxiously checking around for Sam. Where was he? Would he keep his balance if the stones were slippery? In the event, though, she saw him pick his way across carefully enough, safely sandwiched between Uncle Tom and Catherine. Perhaps he was beginning to learn his limits.

Milo, on the other hand, had no such brake on his exuberance and decided to jump from stone to stone. He was clearly showing off, trying to impress Sam and his friend George. Milo’s arms and legs were flying, windmill-like – he was shrieking with excitement – and then, almost in slow motion, it seemed, he overreached himself, misjudged the gap and slipped backwards into the river with a great splash. Luckily, Uncle Tom was just behind him and swiftly fished him out of the water, slung him over his shoulder, and fireman-style carried him over to the other side of the river.

‘Milo,’ said Tamsin, exasperated, when she caught up with him. ‘Why is it always you? Now you’ll have wet feet for the rest of the day.’

Milo, tipping the water out of his boots and tugging off two wet socks, was chuckling, lapping up the attention. Then Smith emerged from the river and shook himself over Milo, setting him off into new peals of laughter.

‘Piggyback needed?’ asked Theo, who had turned back to see what the commotion was all about.

‘No, really . . .’ said Tamsin. ‘It’s his own fault entirely. He’ll have to put up with squelching for a bit.’

‘I’ve got spare socks,’ said Mary Anne. ‘Why not let Theo carry him for a bit while his boots dry out?’

‘Well . . . if you really don’t mind,’ said Tamsin. ‘Thank you. Don’t suppose you’ve got a carrier bag for the wet pair, Mary Anne?’

‘Of course.’

‘And I’ll take over when you need a break, Theo,’ added Uncle Tom, smiling at Tamsin.

‘We’ll manage,’ said Theo firmly.

Beth could feel Tamsin’s discomfort as Theo began the steep climb with Milo on his back. ‘I don’t think Dad, like, minds,’ she told her.

‘He’s being very kind,’ said Tamsin with an effort. Why do you mind? wondered Beth, watching Tamsin stealing anxious glances in Milo’s direction. Fortunately, the novelty of carrying – and being carried – soon wore off and before very long Milo had wriggled down off Theo’s back, put on the dry socks and reclaimed his soggy boots from Uncle Tom.

‘Silly joey,’ said Tamsin, and hugged him. ‘He’s always been a ding-bat,’ she told Beth, as Milo went to reclaim charge of Smith from George. ‘I lost him once in Melbourne when he was little. It was the worst half-hour of my life.’

‘What happened?’

‘We were in the Botanic Gardens. We used to go there a lot. It’s a wonderful place – full of trees and plants, a beautiful lake and great bird life. There’s always something new to see. And it’s cool in the heat because of all the vegetation. One really hot day, I was buying icy-poles at the little café, and when I turned round he’d vanished. Of course I was frantic – he was only four – and I ran around like a mad woman. I thought maybe he’d gone after the flying-foxes.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A kind of fruit bat. They hang upside down out of trees. They were Milo’s favourite thing in the gardens. But in the end we found him inside one of the glasshouses. He said it was a scientific experiment. He wanted to know how long he could stay inside on a forty-degree day without passing out.’

‘God, I’d have melted,’ said Beth. ‘I can’t do heat!’

‘That’s because you’ve got your Mum’s lovely colouring. You’re even worse than I am in the sun,’ said Tamsin, who was a Nordic blonde. ‘At least Milo’s olive-skinned. But he still looked like boiled beetroot by the time I found him. I forced him under a sprinkler till he’d cooled down. We were both crying our eyes out by that stage.’

‘D’you miss Australia, Tamsin? Doesn’t Milo, like, miss his dad?’

‘Well . . . it’s complicated. Yes, there are things I miss . . . and people, I guess . . . but this is home. I was born here, you know.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Yeah. My parents emigrated when I was a baby. So I’m a British citizen, even if I don’t sound like one. Reckon this is where I belong. Where we both belong now.’

They were nearing the top of the hill. Beth was pleased to see that she and Tamsin had outpaced most of the others. She could feel her heart racing against her ribcage and forced herself onwards, upwards, faster until she was quite light-headed with the effort. And then – right on cue as she made it to the viewing platform, the perfect prize for effort – ping! A text! Blister? Need air ambulance? M x

Beth grinned from ear to ear. Keep u posted. Emma x

Seconds later, ping! Emma? wtf??? Someone kidnapped Beth?

Hmm. She replied: ‘Emma’. At Box Hill, btw

A pause, when she could practically hear the cogs in Matt’s brain turning, all those miles away in Farmleigh. Then, a minute or two later, ping! Miss Wodehouse, I presume? x

Oh my God, he’d got her reference to Jane Austen! How cool was that? Cultured as well as hot! He was doing English A-level, after all. Think its Woodhouse but clever boy ;) 2 early 4 picnic x

Thank God. It wasn’t long since breakfast, so most people were content with their water bottles, for now at any rate.

My mum helped . . . Don’t spose other Emma walkd up, tho! Matt x came the reply. OMG! So Matt’s mum did know about Beth. Was that good – that he cared enough to mention her to his mum? Or bad – that she wasn’t important enough to be kept a secret? Mind you, if Anna had been alive, Beth would have been telling her all about Matt, she was pretty sure. So perhaps it was OK.

At that moment Milo arrived and threw himself down on the ground in a dramatic flourish. Sam appeared just behind him, out of breath but cheerful. Beth turned to her phone: Gotta go. Keep in touch. ‘E’ x She pressed ‘send’, and slipped her phone into her pocket. Mustn’t seem too keen. A bit of self-discipline (and let’s face it, she had plenty of that) only added to the anticipation.

After the dramatic climb of the morning, the group settled into a more even rhythm again. The sun was bright, now, and most of group – apart from Beth who was always cold these days – had stripped down to T-shirts. Having made sure that Sam had a good drink of water at the viewing platform, Beth left him to it, and edged her way to the front of the line of walkers where her grandfather was leading the way.

It really was amazing: he had to be the oldest here by some distance but there was no question that Grandpa William was one of the fittest walkers. While other people were quite honestly huffing and puffing (you’d have thought all that bloody cheerleading would have kept Chloe fit, for one, and Jackie looked as if she might have a heart attack at any moment), Grandpa William was striding ahead, clearly wanting to go rather faster than the group pace allowed. He was deep in discussion with Uncle Tom, quizzing him about his latest work project. Dull as ditch. But with a bit of luck she could hover alongside them, and anyone who happened to be looking in her direction would assume she was part of their conversation and leave her alone.

Because she needed some headspace, she really did. For a start she wanted to take her encounters with Matt out of their special place in her mental library, examine them one by one, polish as needed, and stow them carefully back again for future reference.

And then she had to think about what she was going to do when her GCSEs went pear-shaped, which they sure as shit were going to. Back in the old days, she’d had a plan. How naive that seemed now! She was going to do her A-levels and then go to uni to study Physiotherapy. She wasn’t sure where yet, but Cardiff was supposed to be really good for Physio, although she’d wondered if London would be a better bet because then she could still live at home. But now – since she was bound to have to do retakes – she needed to be absolutely certain that she could face all those science A-levels.

Added to which, ever since she’d joined Big Band she’d started thinking more and more about pursuing her music. Which was ironic, when you came to think about it, because she knew, she just knew, that that was what Mum would have wanted her to do, though she would never have tried to push her in that direction, and Beth had always resisted any such suggestion. But what were the options anyway? Could you go to college to play swing band music and jazz or did you have to start with all that hyper-formal classical stuff (like Mum, of course) before you were allowed to have fun? She supposed she could ask Mr Shepherd, but otherwise she didn’t really know where to start.

Father Stephen had asked the front walkers to stop for lunch at Colley Hill, where another lookout point offered open views of the landscape after a morning largely spent in woodland. Spotting what looked like a temple ahead, Beth went in search of a bench to sit on while she checked on her blister. As she unlaced her boots she was joined by William.

‘Legs surviving?’ he asked.

‘Fine, thanks, Grandpa. Just one little blister on my heel. You OK?’

‘Tickety-boo, thank you very much. There’s life in these old bones yet.’

‘I’ve noticed. You want to push us on a bit, don’t you?’

William grunted. ‘Having to exercise patience, yes. This group pace. Doesn’t sit naturally, I’m afraid. But pro bono publico, and all that. Doing my best, for the common good. But while we’re here, have you looked overhead?’

Beth leaned backwards, and tipped her head. The ceiling of the folly was painted cobalt blue, spangled with gold stars. ‘Oh my God, what’s that about?’ she said.

‘Rather lovely, isn’t it? It’s an astronomer’s view of the heavens.’

‘Stars always make me feel so, like, insignificant,’ she said.

‘Like the psalmist?’ said William. ‘“When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?”’

‘How do you know this stuff, Grandpa?’

‘Misspent youth. Your great-grandfather prescribed a Bible verse a day and a psalm a week. This one’s Psalm 8. It goes on: “For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet: all sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field; the fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas. O Lord our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!”’

‘I can’t even!’

‘Can’t even what?’

She laughed. ‘No, it’s an expression. I’m, like, not sure there’s anything to say to that.’

‘Ah, but there is,’ came Father Stephen’s voice. ‘How about Psalm 147? There’s another lovely bit about the stars: “He telleth the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their names.” Now I come to think about it, the verse before is lovely, too: “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.”’

Beth stared at them both in disbelief. ‘This is so random! If you’re on about wounds, I’m off to find a plaster before this blister gets any worse.’

Not eating took concentration. As long as Beth was prepared, and nothing unexpected came at her sideways, it was fine. The trouble was that other people seemed to eat constantly – honestly, even the thought of the amount most people ate made her feel quite sick – and appeared to think that you should, too. The plus of being part of a crowd was that with a bit of skill and a bottle of water in your hand, you could flit from group to group and give the impression that you were grazing as you went.

On this occasion Beth had a rock-solid excuse to wander, as William had asked her to look out for her grandmother, who had the tricky task of joining the walkers wherever they fetched up at break times. This sounded simple enough in theory – Father Stephen had the whole thing planned out on a series of Ordnance Survey maps – but it was proving harder in practice. It only took someone to fall in a river (mentioning no names, Milo Carter) or for the road Granny was supposed to take to turn out to be impassable to motor vehicles (yesterday, for example) and it could all go majorly wrong. It was just possible that Granny Ruth might miss a turning, but if so Beth didn’t think she’d ever admit to it, any more than Father Stephen would admit to having given her crap directions in the first place.

On this occasion, since they were ten minutes ahead of the agreed meeting time, Beth thought she’d better walk down the path in the direction of the appointed car park. She saw her grandmother coming slowly up the steps, leaning heavily on the wooden handrail as she walked, unaware that she was being watched. As soon as she saw Beth, she straightened up, smiled and waved cheerfully.

‘Am I in time for lunch?’ she called up.

‘Yeah, you’re fine. We’ve only just arrived. You’re in time for silence, too!’

‘I suppose there’s no avoiding that,’ said Ruth, smiling conspiratorially. ‘How are you getting on with it?’

‘So . . . actually . . . I kind of liked it?’ said Beth. ‘It’s like . . . restful. Walking and not having to talk. You get into a swing, if that makes sense.’

Ruth appeared to consider for a moment. ‘Well. Let’s see what he’s got in store for us this afternoon, shall we?’

‘I was reminded of one of my favourite psalms at lunchtime,’ said Father Stephen as the group gathered round. Beth rolled her eyes in William’s direction.

‘Psalm 147 has some lovely lines about God wanting to bind our wounds, and healing the heartbroken. It’s such a vivid metaphor, the idea of a broken heart. I know that everyone here is experiencing different degrees of heartbreak. But even broken hearts mend, over time, however impossible that seems right now.

‘Now. About our period of silence this afternoon. Let’s see if we can extend it a bit – let’s try and manage forty-five minutes today. It’s going to be different from yesterday, because even if we’re quiet, there’s going to be a certain amount of background noise, I’m afraid.’ He gesticulated in the direction of the motorway, audible though screened behind the trees.

‘But we’ll just have to live with that. There’s something very real about life carrying on all around us, even when we’re in the middle of personal tragedy. Maybe we’ll even be able to incorporate the noise into our reflections. Because today’s word is “remembering”. I want us to try dwelling in our memories – the precious memories, the painful ones. Memories of Anna, of course, but other memories that are important to us. How have they formed us? Do they need laying down? Can we offer them up to God?’

Remembering was exactly what she’d been so desperate to do this morning, thought Beth. Now she wasn’t quite sure. At one level, it was ridiculous. She never stopped remembering her mum, and missing her. She thought about her constantly. But just occasionally, recently, she found the hours between her morning glass of water and, say, lunchtime had passed without thinking of Anna, and then she’d feel simultaneously relieved and hideously guilty. Panicked, even, that if she didn’t think about her enough, the memories would fade altogether and she’d one day stop being able to conjure her to her side.

Thank God she had lots and lots of pictures – Anna had loved taking photos of them all, to the point that it was really embarrassing – and the day before the funeral Beth had put a whole load onto a memory stick and taken them down to Boots so that she could make a giant collage, because the electronic versions suddenly seemed too insubstantial.

She had her voice, too, safely stored in her phone, because she was dead lazy about deleting voicemails, and even if it was just Mum sounding rather cross (‘Where are you, Beth, we said quarter past and it’s after half past already and you know I’ve got to get Sam’), or just plain ordinary (‘Mum here, lovey, you forgot your music case, I’ll drop it off at Reception on my way past’), well, that was better than nothing.

The smell of Mum – that was still in her clothes, especially her chunky South American cardigan (which was a fashion mare, but still), because it was difficult to wash. Beth had raided it from Mum’s wardrobe the day she had died and had slept with it until Sam’s sobbing one night had worn her down and she’d passed it on in desperation.

The feel of Mum . . . well, that was harder. Could she summon up the memory of a hug? She thought she could just about remember how it felt in those last few days, when she lay on the bed next to Anna after school and moaned about her GCSE Physics mock which had been unutterably crap and told her about horrible Mrs Jones who had threatened her with detention which was seriously harsh, when it had quite obviously not been her fault that some stupid Year Sevens had been pushed out of the practice rooms because she and Charlotte had to record their GCSE compositions.

By then Mum hadn’t wanted to be hugged, or touched at all really, although she’d tolerated Sam wiping her forehead with a flannel while Beth painted her nails, because she obviously didn’t want him feeling left out. But Beth could tell she was making a major effort. And actually the smell of the sickroom permeated everything. Not that she would ever admit it, but that was one reason she’d done Mum’s nails, because the pear-drop smell of nail varnish remover was sufficiently powerful to cover up all the other smells. Beth shuddered. Even now if she went into her parents’ bedroom she had to fight between sadness that her mother was no longer lying there and relief that at least the room felt like a bedroom again, not a bloody hospital ward.

Shit. She could feel her guts twisting. She needed to remember other, better times. Before Mum was sick, when things were just boringly normal. With a massive act of will, she summoned a memory of Mum cooking tea. Mum’s macaroni cheese with the crispy top that she loved. Peas (her favourite, Sam’s worst). She could practically taste it. But no; not food, for fuck’s sake! That didn’t help at all. What else? Mum playing the cello. That was safer. Going over and over and over a single bar of Bach to make sure it was exactly right, not just technically but musically, too. How she’d explained this to Beth, shushing Sam when he tried to interrupt, showing her the different ways you could play the bar, and why it mattered. Her patience when they were practising their scales, however hideous the noise they produced. Her impatience – to the point of fury – with technology, with their broadband when it crashed (which was all the fucking time).

The way she made birthdays so special. Oh God, how was she going to cope when Anna wasn’t there for her sixteenth next month? Would it be like that other awful birthday, her seventh? When Mum wasn’t even there because she’d been delayed by heavy rain in Spain and Dad forgot until the absolutely last possible moment and only got his act together then because Granny Ruth had phoned? And Dad had given her a gross Barbie – which to be fair she would probably have loved even the Christmas before but by then what she really wanted more than anything was a Bratz doll. Which Mum would have known if she’d only been around, instead of in stupid Spain. Tamsin was staying with them then, of course, but she was away that week, something to do with work. And Beth had waited and waited for Mum to phone – and ended up being late for school, so terrified was she that Anna would get the time difference wrong and call when Beth was out, which made Dad cross with her because he had to take Sam to the hospital for a check-up.

After school, it was almost all right, because Grandpa William and Granny Ruth collected her as a surprise, but when they said they were taking her home to their house for tea she burst into tears. So Grandpa William dropped them at home, after all, and drove to Aston to collect her cake and present. And she’d been right: almost the moment she walked in the door, the phone rang and it was Mum. Mum saying how sorry she was not to be there for her birthday and asking all about her day and telling her that her present was hidden under their bed. And the present was a set of multicoloured fairy lights to hang round her bedroom and was so exactly what Beth didn’t know she wanted that she couldn’t stop herself sobbing down the phone.

‘Cheer up, chicken!’ said Mum. ‘If Dad’s still out, why not ask Granny or Grandpa to rig them up for you? And then, can you draw me a lovely picture to show me how they look and email it to me? Make sure Granny takes lots of photos of you blowing out your candles, and you can send them over too. And I'll see you very, very soon.’

Even then, through her distress and inarticulate longing for her mother, Beth could remember thinking there was something, something different about Anna, that she sounded more like the old Mum, the pre-hospital Mum. She barely asked after Sam, so that in the end it was Beth who found herself telling her, unprompted, that he was fine and running about and hardly cried at all now when Dad dropped him off at nursery.

And Mum said that was good news, and asked her what sort of cake she had. Which was perfect timing as Grandpa William arrived at that moment and carried it in, in a big white cardboard box, and it was beautiful, a mermaid cake, made and iced by Granny Ruth especially for her. Beth started crying all over again and handed the phone wordlessly to Grandpa, before seeking comfort from her Granny.

‘Beth? You OK?’ Tamsin was all concern. Beth hadn’t realized she was crying. Shit, she thought, bet everyone’s watching. She diverted off the route, down a small footpath to her left, heading blindly for the cover of the wood. Tamsin followed her, took her in her arms and rocked her like a baby. They stood there, swaying together for a moment, until Beth had her emotions in check. She threw herself down under a tree.

‘It just hurts so much!’ The words came out in a tangle. ‘It’s so unfair. Why the fuck did she have to die? I don’t even know who I am yet.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Tamsin, sitting down beside her. ‘Let it out. Just let it out. I’m here.’

‘Where were you? When Mum was in Spain and it was my birthday? You were away all week.’

‘God, Beth-ster, that’s a few years ago, now.’

‘It was always so much better when you were there. When Mum wasn’t, I mean.’

‘It was a course,’ said Tamsin. ‘Yeah. Definitely. Manchester. But she came back just after your birthday, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. On the Sunday. But she won’t be here for my sixteenth. Or seventeenth. Or eighteenth. How am I going to bear it, Tamsin?’

‘I don’t know, doll. But I think we just have to take it a day at a time, put one foot in front of the other. Remember the good times, and be thankful for them. But can we spend your birthday together? Or is it a school day?’

‘It’s a Tuesday.’

‘OK, well, how about I park Milo with George, and we have a day out shopping the weekend before? In London? Unless you’ve got other plans?’

‘No plans. That would be . . . great.’

‘Look, I know it won’t be the same, doll. But we’ll have some fun. Max out my credit card? Take stupid selfies? Now look, are you OK to catch up with the others now?’

Beth got to her feet, brushed a few twigs from her trousers, and offered her hand to Tamsin. ‘Think so. Let’s pretend it was a pee break.’

By the time they caught up with the others, the walkers had reached a field of granite standing stones.

‘Take your time,’ Father Stephen was saying. ‘These standing stones have been erected here especially for people like us.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Theo.

‘Well, they were created to commemorate the Millennium, by demonstrating the spiritual power of words through the centuries. You’ll see there are ten of them, each one representing two hundred years of history. On each stone you’ll find a quotation appropriate to the period. Look, here’s a handout that explains. To start with, this was a travelling exhibition, hard though that might be to believe of something that looks so permanent. But now they’re here for ever. The site was chosen because it lies on the Pilgrims’ Way. The idea is that this is a place for people to rest and reflect. Have a wander and read the inscriptions.’

Intrigued, Beth moved in for a closer look. Each was a different shape, and the quotations were carved in a range of calligraphic styles. In the beginning the word was. And the Word was with God. That was familiar from carol services at Christmas, even if she didn’t entirely understand it. St Augustine she’d heard of. But Boethius? John Scotus Erigena, however you pronounced that?

She liked The soul is known by its acts, carved in a tall, thin font. St Thomas Aquinas was onto something there. You could say all the right things and pretend to be squeaky clean but in the end what mattered was how you actually behaved. St Anselm was interesting, too: For I do not seek to understand in order to believe, but I believe in order to understand. For I believe this; unless I believe, I will not understand. The quotation was carved in a spiral, onto a stone with a hammer-like head. God, you always assumed the saints had life sorted, didn’t you? But perhaps faith was as hard for them as it was for normal people?

And here was There is a tide in the affairs of men . . . in sort of flowing italics. Shakespeare, of course; that was probably, like, compulsory or something if you were a sculptor and British. And T. S. Eliot was here. From Four Quartets. The words still point appeared twice, carved extra big, drawing your eyes to them. Matt would like this. He loved poetry. He’d be able to explain the text to her. She took a picture of the Shakespeare stone on her phone, and messaged it over to him. Guess where now? ‘E’ x

‘Beth – over here!’ said Tamsin. ‘Here’s one for you, I reckon. Do not wish to be anything but what you are, and try and be that perfectly. St Francis of Sales, whoever he was, according to Father Steve’s sheet. Spot on, I’d say.’

‘I like that,’ she said, suddenly cheered. Ping! Standing Stones. Been there, done that! Mr K xx Beth smiled. Two kisses! But Mr K? Matt’s surname was Walker. Oh. My. God! Did he mean . . . Mr Knightley? Was he saying what she thought he was? She couldn’t keep the grin off her face.

‘Everything all right, Beth?’ asked Theo, coming up to her, Sam in tow.

‘Yeah, Dad. Like, cool.’