‘So, why?’
‘Why what?’ said Josie, shifting her rucksack on to her other shoulder.
‘Why are you doing the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage?’ asked Mark. ‘Everyone does it for a reason.’
Josie had promised herself she wouldn’t moan. She was determined to do it without help; she’d be a proper pilgrim. Three weeks – that’s all they’d give her off work. Three weeks to get back on track. For once in her life, she’d finish what she set out to do.
‘I’m doing it to get my head sorted.’
Mark nodded. ‘Ah, a head sorter. I won’t ask any more, then.’
Josie smiled at him. ‘Thanks. Why are you doing it?’
‘I did the walk when I was about the same age as you, twenty years ago now. I lost the love of my life and my dad died unexpectedly. I suddenly wasn’t sure what I was living for. I was in a well-paid job, but lived only to get out of my skull on a Friday night. So I gave it all up, came here, thought a bit, and went back and re-trained as a teacher. It’s not perfect, but better.’
‘So why are you doing it again?’
‘It gave me a different perspective on life.’ He smiled. ‘I think I need a refresher course in how to be human.’
They were interrupted by a middle-aged man bumping Josie’s rucksack as he barged past. His wife scurried behind.
‘Woah’ – Mark reached out to steady Josie – ‘someone’s in a hurry.’
They watched the bulbous man blunder ahead with no apology.
His wife struggled along, trying to keep up. Sorry, she mouthed to Josie.
‘What’s the rush?’ Mark muttered as the couple disappeared round the next corner.
Josie gave an empty laugh. ‘He’s the sort I want to get my head round. I seem to have become bitter and twisted towards my fellow man.’
‘Hmm.’ Mark winked. ‘Definitely in need of some head sorting. I’ll catch you later. I’m having a comfort break here.’
‘See you,’ she said, waving.
Josie walked. The weather was perfect, warm with a light breeze. She nodded to a couple she’d seen at breakfast and they nodded back; middle-aged and preoccupied. She watched them plodding, heads bowed, heavy-legged. They were carrying sadness. She wondered if they’d lost a child, or if someone in their family was ill. Everyone who did the Santiago de Compostela did it for a reason. There was comfort in that.
Josie tried to see herself through their eyes: a thirty-year-old woman walking alone. If it wasn’t their first guess, it’d be their second. Break-up of a relationship was fairly predictable. Maurice had done the I know we get on so well, but… as kindly as he could, while stabbing her through the heart. If she thought about it for too long, she couldn’t catch her breath. She went through the motions of work and friendships, but her broken heart was bleeding her dry.
It was strange that a priest had suggested the walk. He’d been visiting the gallery where she worked. He’d asked about a Spanish painting displayed. He’d said, ‘It reminds me of the scenery along the Santiago de Compostela walk.’
‘It’s in Spain. It’s a pilgrimage, but you don’t have to be religious to do it. It’s more of a spiritual journey’ – he’d smiled – ‘a renewal of self.’
She liked the way the lines danced round his eyes. Typical of her luck that he was a priest.
That evening she’d googled the walk and booked it. Her friends thought she was crazy. ‘Three weeks, Josie? You’ll only have two weeks’ annual leave left.’
‘You’re in danger of becoming a nun. I’m worried about you.’
‘Don’t be.’
Post-Maurice, people irritated her. On the commute home, people pushed and shoved. They scowled. They talked too loud or picked their noses. Couples argued, kids whined. Josie grieved for the happy-go-lucky self she used to be.
The first third of the Santiago de Compostela was a dream. She was immersed in a good world. No TV, no email, no computer, no having to have a conversation. Instead there was space, silence, rolling hills, gentle smiles. The hostels were run by kind people. They served stews and hotpots and casseroles. People chatted in different languages. She’d walk for an hour or two with one group, then another, sometimes with couples, sometimes with loners.
The angry walrus-man and his browbeaten wife seemed to pop up most days, taunting her. As soon as Josie saw them, her eyes narrowed and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Josie had seen the woman trying to engage him in conversation, but he ignored her, spending meal times on his laptop. She winced watching him dismiss his wife with a flick of his hand. The woman gave up and stared into space.
The second week was hell. The terrain was bleak and bare. The barren land stretched on and on. The wind blew, the skies were grey. People moaned and groaned. Blisters and food poisoning were common. It rained often. She felt damp and sticky and at night she was cold. The hostels were fewer and further between. The hostel owners were tight-lipped and unfriendly, the beds small and lumpy. The local accents were so guttural they were difficult to understand. The showers were cold, the food inadequate and bland.
‘This is the real pilgrimage,’ the man fog-horned one morning, masochistically grinning as he marched past Josie, again knocking her shoulder.
Josie talked to few people in the second week. She kept her head down, determined not to grumble. She was permanently tired, hungry and thirsty. She hoped she’d lost some weight.
Towards the third section, she met Mark again.
‘The third section is beautiful,’ he said. ‘It’s the best.’ He swallowed a hunk of bread and looked around the rolling countryside. ‘I like that the pilgrimage reaffirms what really matters in life. First, the basic requirements: food, warmth, shelter; and then somehow while walking, it makes you think of the bigger picture – what matters at a deeper level.’
Josie nodded. She’d learnt on the walk it was often better to say nothing.
‘And Josie. Young, beautiful Josie. What about you?’
‘My head is getting a bit sorted,’ she smiled.
‘Ahh.’
‘I’m still trying to pick myself up, brush myself down and re-adjust my attitude, but since I’ve split with my ex, it seems I have a problem’ – she shrugged – ‘I don’t like many people.’
Mark laughed. ‘Life – it’s not what you see, it’s the way you see it.’
‘I want to re-discover my sunshine smile. I still wake up frowning, in a bad mood.’
‘That’s a shame, because you have a lovely smile. It’s a mistake to rely on one person for your happiness, it’s a big ask.’
‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘Too big.’
Mark nodded to a small café. ‘I’m stopping for a bite to eat, care to join me?’
‘No thanks, I had lunch half an hour ago.’
‘Okay, bye for now.’
She watched him walk off, wishing he was twenty years younger and didn’t smell of cheese.
The walk became lushly green and peaceful. Other walkers smiled and she smiled back, they were nearly there. Josie’s pace was brisk. She felt a flutter of excitement; she’d done it, and she’d done it alone.
At the next hostel, the bulldog-man was there. He was on his laptop while his wife stared. She seemed to have become completely mute. Josie wondered what thoughts went on behind those vacant eyes. She caught the wife’s eye. The woman gave a quick smile and glanced across the table – as if she might get reprimanded.
Josie played with the sugar in her cup before pushing it away and setting off. She walked and walked and tried not to think. She was done with thinking. She breathed deeply. Enough. It’s time to move on.
Mark caught up with her. ‘This section is gorgeous, isn’t it?’
‘It really is.’ They fell in to walking together and came to a stream. The sun danced through the trees. The water was clear and bright. She bent and cupped the cold mountain water in her hands, drank and drank again. She wiped her mouth and was ready to set off when the stone caught her eyes. It shone under the water, bright lights bouncing from it. She bent and lifted it. It was different shades of blue and orange, shot with sparkling silver and green. She turned it over. The more she looked at it, the more colours she saw; a glint of a fish eye, a flash of slippery scales. It seemed alive.
She lifted it in both hands to show Mark. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ She looked down at the swirling colours. ‘I’d love to keep it, but it should stay here – so all walkers passing through can enjoy its beauty.’
‘Josie, keep it,’ Mark smiled. ‘You don’t have to beat yourself up about everything.’
‘No, I’ll put it back, that’s the right thing to do. It might give me luck.’
‘If it makes you feel better,’ he said, shrugging.
She kissed the stone and whispered, ‘To the future,’ and dropped it into a cold, deep pool. The ripples moved as if the stone was waving.
That night, she lay awake for a long time. She got up and sat at the window; she felt better and stronger and happily watched clouds skit across the moon.
The next day, she walked with Mark again. He rubbed his feet. ‘Nearly there now.’
‘Yeah, it’s been a long journey.’
He nodded. ‘It’s not been as easy as the first time, I feel knackered.’
Josie sighed. ‘I think that’s like love. First time is easy, isn’t it? Second time will be harder.’
‘Atta girl, but there will be a second time.’
They stopped for a coffee and the browbeaten wife and bulldog-man sat at a table nearby. He clicked his fingers impatiently for her to pass the salt.
‘See, that’s the trouble,’ said Josie. ‘Back in the real world there are so many selfish gits like him around. They bring out the worst in me.’
‘Ah, give him some slack. He was maybe bullied as a kid, and it’s the only way he knows.’
‘Maybe, and maybe I’ll never be as generous-hearted as you.’
They sipped their coffee, enjoying the sun.
The man’s voice boomed across the café: ‘…and I got this little beauty in one of the creeks.’
Josie’s heart missed a beat. She leant forward. ‘The stone, he’s got the stone,’ she hissed.
‘Josie, it’s a stone,’ shrugged Mark. ‘Look on the bright side, it’s heavy and he has to carry it.’
‘But I put it back for everyone to enjoy, not him…’
The wife saw Josie watching and looked down into her lap.
‘It was my stone,’ Josie fumed.
‘Josie, it wasn’t anyone’s stone.’ Mark patted her hand.
‘Mark, don’t you ever think human nature sucks?’
‘All the time,’ he smiled.
‘Don’t you ever feel like hitting out at all the ignorant bastards like him who push themselves forward’ – she slapped the table – ‘trampling on everyone else?’
‘Not anymore.’
At the city of Santiago, a wave of pilgrims hobbled towards St James’s cathedral. It was the end of the pilgrimage. Josie wasn’t religious but wished she could be more spiritual. She shook her head; no more wishing.
Inside the cathedral, it was opulently ornate, heavy with gold and jewels, polished marble and mosaics. She sat on a cool, wooden bench and tried to pray. Help me be more tolerant, more accepting, more forgiving. To see people in a better light. To give them the benefit of doubt.
Josie’s prayers were interrupted by the pompous man stomping noisily up to the front. He took photos, rudely blocking the view of people trying to pray at the altar. Josie felt her body stiffen with outrage. A monk approached the man and asked him quietly to stop taking photographs. The man barked and ignored the monk, continuing to snap his camera. Eventually, he sat in the front bench and snorted loudly. A few minutes later his wife crept apologetically up the aisle.
Instead of going in next to her husband, she slipped into the bench behind him. The woman bowed her head low, and then lifted her face to the crucifix. Josie wondered if she was praying for the strength to put up with her husband. The woman stared transfixed at the cross, her lips moving with prayer. After blessing herself, the woman bent to rummage in her bag.
Josie saw the colours dancing. The woman held the stone reverently in both hands, as if it was sacred. Josie watched the woman raise her eyes upward with the stone, high above her head – an offering to the all-forgiving God – before whispering, ‘God help me.’ After thirty years of marriage, the woman smashed the weight down on her husband’s head, cracking his skull wide open.