The road twists along between the hills, with orchards climbing up the slopes on one side, all bare and brown and trimmed and lined up like the bristles on a brush. The sign says, Canterbury, 3 miles. There’s a little river on the other side, then a railway line, and the road and the river and the railway line wiggle along the valley as if they’re competing. Then we come out by some houses and some playing fields, and Vince says suddenly, ‘There’s the cathedral.’ But I don’t see no cathedral. I see the gas-holder in front of it, and I see the cars zipping along the A2, just ahead, Dover one way, London the other. If we’d approached by a different route, down them hills where the A2 comes, we’d’ve seen it like you’re supposed to, all spread out before you with the cathedral sticking up in the middle. We cross the A2 and a sign says ‘City of Canterbury—Twinned with Rheims’. Then as we get closer in I still can’t see no cathedral but there are big old stone walls in front of us, city walls, and it starts to look like a town you’re meant to arrive at, at your journey’s end. Except it’s not our journey’s end, we’re going on to Margate, by the sea. Jack never specified Canterbury Cathedral.
Vince follows the signs to ‘City Centre’. We haven’t hardly said a word since we last got back in the car, since Lenny came up with his idea, like we’ve all been thinking it was a stupid idea in the first place and maybe we don’t have to go through with it. But now we’re here, with the cathedral just a few streets away hiding somewhere, like it’s seen us if we aint seen it, it’s too late to back out.
Besides, Vic suddenly says, all eager and cheery, as if he’s remembering how it was him who got us hiking up to that memorial, that he’s never seen Canterbury Cathedral, he’s never stepped inside it. Vince says, ‘Me neither, Vic.’ His voice sounds all sweet and mild, like you wouldn’t think that half an hour ago he nearly punched Lenny’s face in. Lenny says he’s never been anywhere near the place. I say, ‘Nor me.’ Vince says, ‘Aint no racetrack in Canterbury, is there?’ But no one laughs, and it’s like we’re all thinking we might have lived all our lives and never seen Canterbury Cathedral, it’s something Jack’s put right.
We get a glimpse of it suddenly, the cathedral tower, popping up over the tops of buildings, and Vince aims as best he can for it, as if he thinks we can drive right up to the front door, in a car like this. But it ducks out of sight, like it’s playing tricks with us, and the streets take you this way and that, so Vince says, ‘I reckon we could walk it,’ and pulls into a car park.
We get out of the car. I’m still holding the jar and I look at Vincey like it’s for him to take, it’s his by right now, his trophy won in a fight, but he says, ‘You hang on to it, Raysy.’ So I bend down and find the plastic bag that’s still lying by my feet under the dash, and put the jar in it, and I think, I’m the one who’s going to carry Jack into Canterbury Cathedral.
We must look a strange bunch. Me and Vic aren’t much the worse for wear but Vince is all scuffed and mud-stained. He puts on his coat, which hides most of it except the bottoms of his trousers, where it’s worst. Lenny looks like he’s been pulled through a hedge. He’s hobbling slightly but he’s trying not to show it. It’s like we aren’t the same people who left Bermondsey this morning, four blokes on a special delivery. It’s like somewhere along the line we just became travellers.
Vince straightens his tie and gets out his comb.
We follow the signs, ‘To the Cathedral’. The streets are narrow and the buildings crooked, like that street in Rochester, as if they’ve come out of the same picture book. There’s whole bits where cars can’t go and people are walking in that same haphazard way. Tourists. The pavements are all wet though it’s not raining. But now and then the wind suddenly gusts up and, judging from the sky, it looks as though there’s more rain coming, more than just a shower.
We turn another corner and there’s an old arch and we go through it and suddenly there’s nothing in front of us except the cathedral itself, and a few bits of chained-off lawn and cobbles and people walking. It’s a big building, long and tall, but it’s like it hasn’t stretched up yet to its full height, it’s still growing. It makes the cathedral at Rochester look like any old church and it makes you feel sort of cheap and titchy. Like it’s looking down at you, saying, I’m Canterbury Cathedral, who the hell are you?
I reckon I wouldn’t mind if it was just me, passing through in the camper, taking a look, seeing the sights. But I feel all keyed up, with the others, and holding Jack. There’s an entrance through a big arch, where people are milling around and lining up to go through some smaller door inside. We head towards it and it’s as if, because I’m carrying Jack, I have to go first and they make way for me, and I look up at the arch and the walls and the carvings and the funny knobs and pinnacles and I feel like I felt at the Home when Amy said yes I could go in with her.