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Warning...
This one's longer, possibly a bit confused, and probably not that believable. I'm going to put a comment section below it in case anyone wants to help me improve it. (Please, and thanks if you do!)
Oh and swearwords.
Oh and swearwords.
Crow Flying
Cliff bit into the purple turnip which was glassy, gritty, because it was fresh from the ground and unwashed. He chucked the remainder to his dog, who rejected it as not worthy of eating and continued walking in the direction Cliff had set: forwards.
Cliff followed. He’d cut across this field because he’d seen it: a portaloo for the builders doing the roadworks. He grabbed some leaves from the side of the road – they were that plant that helped when you got stung by stinging nettles, as paper was unlikely, and climbed up the edge. Blue plastic with sun shining across its body: a proclamatory gleam, it gleamed joy and righteousness, Cliff thought. It was, however, padlocked.
“Fuck!” he said, and threw the leaves down. His dog barked, and Cliff said, “Yeah, I know.” Oh well: onwards.
Cliff scanned the horizon with the sun rising over it, and found the nearest wood. There next. He hitched his bag containing Osborne’s Natural Eating Guide, a couple of I-Spy countryside things (with stickers), tent, some apples he’d found, pants, socks, etc., and they resumed walking.
Hollie was watching him from her window. She’d wheeled over to her black shelves and grabbed her telescope when she caught sight of him coming past her farm. She hadn’t heard him – hadn’t heard their dogs barking at him and his dog because this man had stayed well clear of the farm. But she’d seen him because she was watching the morning outside the window (much as later she would be watching the afternoon). He had a big rucksack – half the size of his body plus a bed roll on the top – and dust (she focussed the telescope) that was occasionally stained into rivulets because he must have been sweating a lot yesterday. He would be soon today too – the sun was rising.
It was very unusual to see someone up this early in the morning. Not even her dad was up – he hadn’t come up for his chat with the cup of tea and probably a treat he’d bought her yesterday (for it was Friday today, and her dad liked to celebrate the coming weekend with her). He would come up and say, “Now Hollie, here’s something for you, because I know you’re going to work hard today.” And so she would – he knew how to manipulate her, he did: with love. He would then ask if she needed anything, did she need the toilet, want a drink? And Hollie would say, “Nothing that can’t wait, Dad, you stop trying not to work and go get me some money for my degree.” But he wouldn’t be in for about half an hour. Maybe a little less. And yet this man was hiking, with his dog, across their fields. Just walking across them, not round them. He was lucky her dad wasn’t up yet.
This man got into the Buggery Field as her dad called it – because it was a bugger to till it – and bent over, somehow not being overturned by his massive rucksack. He dug up a turnip (that was what they grew in this field) and bit into it. He must be hungry. Hollie wondered about calling for her dad and telling him to bring the guy a sandwich. She turned her chair round and started for her door, so that she could quietly poke her head round and see if her dad was at least up, but then she turned back again, because the man had very obviously avoided their house: he may have wanted to avoid trespassing, been afraid of their dogs, but she thought that actually he wanted to be alone. Sometimes people wanted that.
His dog was rooting around in a bin. Cliff didn’t even know how he’d managed to find a bin out here – it was one of those big green bins, an industrial bin, and this place looked like it might soon be being terraformed into a golf course. Must be pretty hungry. But cash was short, and towns...he liked fields and woodland. Everything else was too close. Maybe he could give the dog to someone.
He didn’t really want it there: a reminder that followed him round. He called it the dog/that dog/this dog that just follows me and never by its name – its name not his name – because Cliff didn’t really want him there. But at the same time he couldn’t’ve just left it there in the flat. He could have left some food down and water and they’d’ve found him soon enough, but Roy was a dippy shitbag and would have killed himself/itself in no time somehow, so Cliff had had to take him/it with him. The dog.
Cliff walked over. The bin had been tipped over onto its side which was how the dog had managed to get into it.
“So,” said Cliff, “find anything?” The dog didn’t reply, so Cliff said, “Come on then,” and then whistled and said, “Oy!” and finally the dog obeyed and came after him. Cliff had already started walking away: the dog ran up to him and then took a strict heel position, head down, tail down. Cliff stopped and the dog stopped instantly, right next to Cliff’s right foot. “Ok,” said Cliff, “I’ll get you something next town we see, ok.” The dog risked a look into Cliff’s eyes, so Cliff bent down – he could now do that, big rucksack on his back, without tipping over – and grabbed its chin. “You’re alright,” he said soothingly. “Come on then.” And they walked on.
Cliff had seen needles in the bin, which was surprising, and broken bottles, which he supposed was not. Still, in the countryside with wheat and rape seed oil and poppies. Just keep walking forwards.
Cliff’s body froze still as his mind jumped. The zip was not actually being opened. It sounded like walking on gravel plus a creak plus a grate or a growl or a grasshopper maybe but pretty damn loud. He inched his hand out to find his torch – in the right hand pocket, always there. He edged the zip that wasn’t being opened open, and thought better of turning the torch on – didn’t want to alert whoever it was but then there is no way they wouldn’t have heard him, no matter how quiet he was trying to be. He looked out.
His eyes started adjusting and it was a starry night in an orchard by a field that had some ponies, so as he angled his head cautiously left (after right) he saw the impression made by what was definitely quite a small animal. But that sound? What the hell was it? Cliff shuffled further round, millimetre movements.
It was a hedgehog eating an apple.
Cliff watched it until it sensed him, and then it hitched its little body up, revealing its legs, and ran away. It was pretty cool seeing a hedgehog run. He’d seen it a few times now – the first time had been going out to see Jade – but the way the legs popped out was still awesome to him. Like a Transformer: suddenly they were there.
He went back in and settled down on his Thermarest.
“You’ve got to help me, he’s a fucking psycho. You’ve got to get here now.”
“Where are you?”
“47 Wellington Avenue.”
Into his car, he had known the place. Had slammed on his brakes: “Fucking thing!” Had almost crushed a hedgehog, but had stopped in time and then waited as it popped out its legs and ran the rest of the way across the road.
The Thermarest was a new addition. He’d decided to invest in it because several hikers – proper Fal-Da-Ri!, hikers with all the gear, had all waxed lyrical about it. Better than the yoga mat he had left over from an ex. He’d been walking along a path he’d found, one of those typically overgrown nettles and brambles (with berries on) paths, and the mat, which he had wrapped in a dog-eared bin bag (dog-eared because this kept happening), had got caught on, again, something, who knew what.
(It was raining.)
“Stupid fucking, fucking bloody fucking....” Cliff struggled to free himself, managed to tear free. He turned round, scratching the bag plus bin bag and mat that it contained, on a few million more things, to remove the big shred of black plastic and pink chunk of mat from the tree. He stuffed these in his jeans pocket, looked back down the path and saw some hikers – what appeared to be some mid-30s people, he reckoned suits and briefcase types who liked to rough it at the weekend, waiting to get by. They had macs on, those with the peaks to stop glasses and jutting foreheads from getting wet – rich, posh, breathable Teflon-coated waterproofs – and they all had walking poles. But did any of them have any kind of knee or hip or ankle problem? He doubted it. They all had proper walking boots. He had his DMs, which he’d bought years ago because they’d had steel toecaps and he’d wanted to look hard. They’d been useful for a while, and they were really useful now. He had stopped recently in a charity shop and bought a waterproof.
When he’d gone, on that day, into Cotswolds, with his night’s money plus maximum withdrawal from the bank, and two sportsbags of clothes – and he’d been thinking layers because he wasn’t stupid – he had asked about camping in every season (all-season) and about hiking too. He’d resisted walking boots because he had his DMs. He had said no to the fifty-plus pound waterproofs they’d thrust in front of him. He had bought the 4-season sleeping bag, the lightest one they had. He had bought the best/cheapest/lightest tent he could: the best combination of those things. He had said no to everything else: you know when you start saying no to everything without even listening. Cliff knew about link-selling.
He’d actually paid for that stuff on his card. But he didn’t think anybody would be after him. He was just aside, had stepped aside. Give me my arms out to my side and in front of and behind me and nothing in my way that I could even reach with my eyes. Enough space that I could push that space wider, such would be the weight of the air.
In the wood, in the rain, when the thirty year old Fal-Da-Ri-ers had mentioned the invention – when his mat had got stuck to the brambles –it had obviously been gold-dust. They had halted, and tilted their heads down so the rain fell of the peaks in their rainmacs, as they waited for Cliff to sort himself out.
Cliff had said, “Sorry,” meaning both about the swearing and being in their way. They’d all smiled, and one had said,
“Don’t worry.” – had broken the silence. Not the one in front, the one behind the frontman.
The silence now broken, another had said, “I hate those things, when I did DofE it got stuck on everything....”
“And they are not comfortable.”
“You need two, or three.”
The frontman had said, “I am so glad I have my Thermarest now, for when I go camping.”
The second, third and fourth had agreed. The second had said, “They’re great when you crash at a friend’s too.”
They had noticed Cliff’s look of interest, and had explained all of its virtues: 1. Comfort, 2. Small, 3. Light, 4. No fuss, 5. Not very expensive. You could get them from all good camping stores really these days. All decent ones anyway. So Cliff had walked on, taking turning after turning until they looked at their map (the frontman had) and then had gone into the centre of the next town that he had reached.
The guy had been walking anywhere, not walking to get somewhere. That had been obvious. Once they’d given him their information – and he’d only said that one word, sorry, not being willing to enter into a conversation which, truth be told, was the hiking way: you said Hello or Morning then went your way – just touching society briefly then keeping on walking – looking away till they mentioned the Thermarests then, once they’d told him the wonders (they were amazing things) he had nodded and started walking quickly, determinedly, ahead of them, pushing through the brambles that had grown over the path.
Paul had hung back a bit so that the brambles didn’t ping back into his face, then resumed walking, with the others behind him. They had all remained silent as the guy had walked ahead of them, and they had followed him for a while, Paul somnambulantly walking where the guy was going. Finally James had reached forwards and pulled on Paul’s arm. Paul had realised, and had stopped to look at his map. He’d looked up and seen the guy, with his shredded bin bagged bedroll on top of his rucksack, relax – his shoulders went down about an inch and he’d started striding out rather than scuttling, and Paul had pretended to look at the map some more.
James had said, “He really didn’t want company, did he.”
Paul had said, “No.”
James had said, “So where are we now?”
They had studied the map.
Cliff had decided that taking an interest was best: becoming a twitcher and a mushroom picker and a tree-identifier – he’d bought Osborne Guides and several I-Spies (the ones for children). He liked the flowers best: toadflax on the walls and vetch including stuff that an old man had told him was called eggs and bacon, and the scarlet pimpernel plus there was a yellow pimpernel which he always confused with cinquefoil unless he had the two together.
He sometimes thought about buying a sketchbook and coloured pencils, but for now he ticked in his books – or whichever one he had out with him that day (he rotated them) every time he saw one of his favourite things. And each night as he went to sleep he practised the plants and the animals he was learning, rehearsing the ones he had seen today – hauling them and wedging them into every space in his (dockleaves, lichen, elderberry, thrush – thrush the bird – blackbird, jay) brain. He had seen bats, he liked bats, but could never tell their types because they were always flying. He loved foxes. He wanted to see a pipistrelle. Of course he may have: bats at night just sped by you. And you couldn’t disturb them when they were sleeping, although maybe one day he would find a cave and creep in.
This shopkeeper eyed Cliff warily as he entered the shop. Ting! went the bell – it was one of those shops, a small shop. Ting! It said as the door closed. Cliff hadn’t bothered washing himself any more than usual – sometimes he made sure his face and legs were clean, but he didn’t bother this time. Instead he put a smile on and said to the man, “Sorry I look a bit scruffy – I’m doing this hike for charity.” The shopkeeper opened his mouth to say something to counteract his scowl, but Cliff just continued, “Is it ok if I get a few bits?”
The man said, “‘Course,” and he said it gruffly – possibly a little angered by Cliff’s overpoliteness because it highlighted the fact that he’d been thinking bad thoughts of this man who looked like a tramp but was actually, or so he said, doing a hike for charity. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“London,” said Cliff, because his accent gave him away. Well Hatfield, but London was good enough in wherever he was. Out in the sticks he was – in a place where there were fields and hills and forests between villages, rather than different names for segments of the urban sprawl and possibly a hedge to divide them. He moved round into another section of the shop to avoid other questions: there were signals that you could give. He put some bananas into the basket, and some cereal – that he could eat dry – and bought the cheapest lump of cheese he could find: his cash was getting low. He picked up Happy Shopper dog biscuits, and that was it.
The man said, “You got a dog?”
Cliff said, “He’s outside,” and handed over a £10 note.
The man said, “What is he?” as he counted the change.
Cliff said, “Staffordshire bull terrier,” took the change, and left.
The man figured that this boy or young man had been lying. But the money had been real, and he hadn’t looked to be on drugs, and his dog had been real quiet – hadn’t barked at all.
Cliff wasn’t on drugs because it was clever not to. There were some you didn’t take like smack; one hit of that and you were chained to that powder forever. There were those you could if you wanted your fun but still to be free, not one of those who smashed the first window they saw and took whatever they could reach, not one of his girls on the street. Well, it was a rope to walk, but he had walked it. (And made money, and taken £200, because that was the maximum withdrawal, out of a machine and run after he’d called the ambulance.) Gone to Watford, gone to Cotswold, taken the train, and then started walking.
He’d kept some cash in the flat too, but that he had left in the flat – within the smoke-covered vanilla walls. He had told Jade where it was (behind the mugs in the cupboard, loose panel) in his flat. He hadn’t gone to get it himself, but had told her, and left her his keys. He had talked to her as he packed because she was in shock. He knew the ambulance wouldn’t arrive for at least twenty minutes, he reckoned, he hoped. He hadn’t taken the money himself he wanted her to have it so he’d just rung 999, packed and left. Made her as comfortable as he could. Made her a fucking cup of tea and propped her up in the sofa saying, “It doesn’t matter,” because she was worried about the blood on his fucking sofa. He had told her where the money was. He’d said he wouldn’t give her a hit, not right now, because of the state she was in. She had gone between worrying about the blood and asking for a hit and cursing the bastard who’d done this to her. She’d, finally, asked, “Where are you going?”
He had said, “I have to get out of here,” and added, “I called an ambulance.”
She had said, “I know.”
He had said, “Would you like another cup of tea?”
She had said, “No. You’d better go.”
She had probably thought he was worried about jail.
Sometimes he thought about going back there, and sometimes he thought, like now, about what had happened, what she had looked like, the bruises and blood, and how she’d worried about it getting on the sofa and how he’d got her ice and tea-towels and tried to bandage her up but she only had one working hand to try to put pressure on shitloads of injuries and so he’d tried to tie things round her, all his tea-towels and then socks.
He knew that he shouldn’t have left her. He would remember that feeling when the blood started coming through yet another tea-towel he’d only just put the first one on and only just started looking at the next thing and he’d curse “For fuck’s sake.” And she’d say either, “Sorry,” or “Fucking bastard.”
The solution to all this was to be the twitcher or the flower-lover. Or the gatherer of food. Stinkhorns deserved their name. Puffballs were great. Field mushrooms you could eat. You had to be very careful because every innocent looking mushroom had a nearly identical do-no-eat variety. It wouldn’t kill you but it’d fuck you up for a couple of hours or a day. He’d had some of those.
Devon was walking country. Honeypots was what they called it. He’d remembered that by thinking of Winnie the Pooh. Childish but it had worked. The honeypots drew the people-bees and they brought money but wore down - eroded - all the nature. And never had anywhere to park. Still, it was nice, the tradition of walkers walking by each other, nodding, and saying “Morning,” or “Afternoon,” or “Evening.” The locals always said “Morning,” “Afternoon,” or “Evening”. The bees sometimes got it wrong and said “Hello,” or “Hi,” in response. But if they were walkers enough to know to greet people they usually got it right. It was the newbies – who just reacted to suddenly being talked to, or talked at, by a stranger – who got it wrong. Cliff stopped walking forwards and started walking repeats of routes. He wasn’t a newbie for long.
He started seeing the same people, too. Because he was circling, rather than just walking forwards. The dog walkers mainly, but also just people who liked walking who lived in the area and so walked in the same place. The bees always wanted new honey. The lifers wanted the air and a space for their minds to rest so it didn’t matter if it was the same old walk. When people saw him who’d seen him before they said “Morning,” – or whatever worked – a little louder and maybe flash a smile. The third or fourth time they would smile a bit longer, not just a flash, or even actually look at him a bit. One day a sixth-timer hesitated after his, “Morning.”
They were at Cliff’s favourite junction because:
Cliff half-asked/half-joked, “Is there a reason it just says path four times?”
The man was startled, and said, “Well I reckon they’s all paths,” (maybe not quite that much dialect), nodded curtly, repeated, “Morning,” and hurried off.
Cliff stood staring at the sign a bit longer. He liked doing this. Path, path, path, path. That’s what it said. He heard the footsteps of another walker and turned, smiling, but it was the man again.
He said, “Maybe round here the people who are walking are those who live here, mostly. So they already know. I don’t know though,” the man mused, “As there’s such as yourself, and a fair few others. And there’s Haytor fairly close....”
Cliff said, “I like it,” and smiled.
The man looked down at the dog, and asked, “What’s his name.”
Cliff paused, then said, “Roy.”
The man tipped his hat and said, “Well I’d best be on my way.”
Cliff nodded in response and bent down to pet Roy so the man could get his distance.
Jade had rung him from the bathroom. “You’ve got to help me, he’s a fucking psycho. You’ve got to get here now.” She was tough, she was toughened, and she was holding onto that with her fingernails.
“Where are you?”
“47 Wellington Avenue.”
He had pounded on the door, kicked it and punched it with the heel of his hand he could hear her screaming, but the man hadn’t come down – because he knew that this wasn’t an ordinary door knock (he must have known Jade could be heard. Although no-one was doing anything, or it didn’t seem so). The man had started shouting back at her, “Who’d you call? Who’d you fucking call? Your fucking pimp?”
Cliff grabbed his bag and smashed it through the window that was helpfully by the door and then wrapped his jacket round his hands and vaulted in, tearing his trousers and legs and hands because he didn’t properly clear the glass. He picked up the poker by the fire as he walked by. Cast iron. And ran up the stairs. The man was strong. Heavy set, bulky, Cliff was not.
Cliff lifted the poker and threw everything he could into, “Get the fuck out.”
The man paused a second but then he left.
“You ain’t getting any fucking money,” he hissed because he had backed down and was running. Walking but fleeing. Cliff now felt the blood starting to trail down his legs as the man went down the stairs. Thank fuck he’d bought it. If Cliff had actually had to –
And suddenly Cliff worried, “Jade, we’ve got to get out of here, I had to break the window, someone will’ve called the police.”
Jade opened the door. “Someone’d better call an ambulance too she said. And then she looked at him – he saw her eyes follow the blood also trailing down his arms, and he realised he still had the poker above his head. He put it down.
She said, “Somone’d better call one for you too.”
Cliff said, “I reckon we can share.” And they both started laughing, tears running down their faces.
But instead they jumped into his car and went back to his place. She was shouting and swearing random bravado. Tough phrases. Angry phrases. Keeping herself strong. Back in his place, Cliff went into his bathroom and checked himself over. Because they wouldn’t call the ambulance unless they had to. The cuts were not too bad, not too deep. More scratches because of his vaulting over. His jeans had taken the worst damage. His hands had been mainly protected by his jacket. He heard a crash and ran out: Jade was on the floor in the kitchen. He shook her, “Jade, Jade!” and she opened her eyes.
“I passed out?”
He nodded.
“Fucking bastard.”
She had hit her head as she fell, and now he saw the other cuts on her, cuts and bruises. Or the evidence of them. The blood that had come through her clothes and would be on his car seat obviously – he didn’t mind but he hadn’t seen it because it had been dark and he had been scared and they’d been running but he should have seen it because there was shitloads.
(Blood had come through the teatowels the minute he had tied one round her so he had kept having to go and get another one. He had kept cursing, “For fuck’s sake,” and she had kept saying either, “Sorry,” or “Fucking bastard.”)
Cliff asked Jade (keep on talking) “What did he do?”
She swayed.
Cliff said, louder, sharply, “What did the cunt do?”
Jade snapped into focus, and then struggled to maintain it. Cliff lifted her gently, and took her into the living room. He demanded, “Tell me, what did he do?”
Cliff kept her talking, shouting questions at her as he went and got teatowels and socks and bandages and all the plasters he could find, which he applied, or tried to apply. Some of the cuts were too deep and just threw off the plasters. And he didn’t know which to do first. He worked as quickly as he could, trying to put pressure on things, tie them up. The man had tried to tie her up. She had resisted. The blood kept soaking through the tea-towels so he kept having to get new ones. And then socks and then t-shirts.
Then Cliff said, “One second.”
Jade said, “What?”
Cliff said, “Look at me, keep looking at me. And count to a hundred.” As she did this he called the ambulance.
Cliff needed provisions. He got up and went to Aldebury’s. Local grocer. Sold vegetables and postcards and rumps of sheep. On the way he met Tom and Kate. They said hi. He stopped and chatted to them for a bit. They had a German Shepherd and walked him over the bridge every day and then down to Becky Falls most of the weekends. Then he saw Old Farmer Paul – who he had recently accidentally called ‘Old Paul’ to his face. But Old Paul didn’t seem to be holding this against him. Old Farmer Paul owned a field that was just bracken and gorse – people had the right to roam across it, and for all intents and purposes it was just moorland. Sometimes Paul put sheep on it. Paul was the person who had explained to Cliff about the sign. (Well, I reckon they’s all paths.)
“You off to the shop?” asked Old Paul.
“Yeah, I reckon so,” said Cliff .
“Have a good one.” And they parted ways – Paul peeling off to the garage.
Cliff called, “You picking up the tractor?”
“Hope so.”
On the way back he saw Tom and Kate again, who were sitting chatting to Paul at the garage. Tom elbowed Kate, and Kate said, “Cliff, we were just thinking – it’ll be getting cold soon – have you got plans for a place to stay? We’d be happy to put you up – you could give us a hand at the B and B.”
Paul said, “Or you could stay with me – I’m getting on a bit, could do with a hand.”
Cliff stood for a second, then he said, “No, thanks, I’ll be moving on soon really. You’re too kind, thank you, but no, I’ll soon be going.” And ran away.
He had literally run away. He had been helping out, doing odd jobs to get cash. Sometimes Old Paul had asked him to help him carry – stuff – wood for fences, and then help put them up. Find a missing sheep. (Just if you see it.) (Don’t worry – I’ve nothing else to do, I’ll go look for it. What does it look like?) (A sheep.)
One time he had gone into Aldebury’s and been trying to work out what he could afford. He had been doing the maths under his breath, picking up different alternatives and making himself different shopping baskets: frozen peas are cheap I could just eat them all. Tinned baked beans plus frozen peas plus cornflakes. £4.08. No. Tinned baked beans plus two apples plus cornflakes. £3.50 maybe.... Janet had come up to him. She’d said, “If you need a bit more cash, I need a bit of help – I’ve loads of stock here I’ve got to put out, and it’s been mad busy today what with it being so sunny. There was a big queue, that she had left to get longer in coming up to him, because she hadn’t wanted to embarrass him by shouting across the store Do You Need Money? She had said, “You’d be doing me a favour.” Then, “Six pounds an hour.” He’d said, “Ok, thank you.” She’d said, “Ice-creams first – they’re out the back in the freezer. It’s on the right.” Sometimes Cliff had helped Old Paul find his chicken’s eggs because they loved to hide them.
So he’d run away, gone walking forward, again, rather than in a circle, or lots of circles. Gone walking forwards again. But then he’d come back, because he wanted to say a proper goodbye – a proper thank you and goodbye – to the villagepeople of Lustleigh, before going up to Scotland, or somewhere like that. He got back to them in scrumping season: apples. He walked across the orchard, and Maisie and Sam (Kate’s sister’s children) were swinging on the swing, and Kate’s sister was there.
Maisie and Sam shouted, “Cliff!” and then, “He’s back.”
Kate’s sister said, “Go see Paul, he wants to see you.”
Cliff nodded, and turned round, because that was the quickest way. He got to the farm gate and Rolo and Peaches came yapping out. Old Paul came out of the kitchen.
He said, “Come with me, I’ve got something to show you.”
Cliff followed Old Paul up to the field, which was full of gorse and bracken and the occasional sheep, where Old Paul had cut a big circle clear for Paul’s tent. This circle was now occupied by a:
It was now occupied by quite a few members of the village – most of them. Who was manning the grocers and the pub and the post office?
And a
“It’s a yurt,” said Old Paul.
Kate stepped forward from the throng of people. She said, “We found them on the internet – you can move them around if you want to-”
“Although we’d like it if you stayed here,” said Tom.
“He couldn’t carry it,” said Old Paul scornfully.
“-And we made it ourselves!” said Kate.
Old Paul said, “You can use my place for the bathroom. Here, here’s a key.”
Kate said, “Come on, look inside.” She opened the door.
There was a small wooden (double, which seemed...amazing) bed (low-lying). The yurt had two windows with blinds. It had a mini gas oven. Old Paul pointed out that it was gas, as they hadn’t thought an open fire would be a good idea, although they were thinking about clearing some more space so he could make himself a big fire in the winter.
Martin, who owned the Queen’s Head, said, “And there’s a windup radio so you can hear some stuff – my son never uses it. Solar powered too.”
Cliff had fallen into a hole. He felt his eyes and mind pulling backwards, and he could feel this black hole pulling in their kind words and gradually extinguishing their excitement. He had to explain to them, to apologise. He said, wondering what he should be saying, what he could say, “Thank you everybody. But I can’t accept this.”
“What is it?” asked Old Paul. He said, “You need to tell us, lad.”
Cliff had not taken his rucksack off, so it was easy to run away again. He snapped his fingers and Roy came right to heel. Cliff looked straight down at the path that he was on.
Cliff and Roy resumed walking. Walking anywhere. He found a massive puffball in a farmer’s field. In one day he tallied 28 nuthatches. He saw a nest of swan eggs hatching. He went North and saw more thistles and massive rhododendrons which were amongst Douglas Firs. He learned what Monkey Puzzle trees were and kept a tally of them. He liked Monkey Puzzle trees. He started to collect the leaves of every different tree he found, and identify them, but then he threw them all away.
In his rucksack he had a sketchbook and pencils – he’d bought them from the Post Office when he’d spent a good day stacking shelves in the Grocer’s and Janet had given him a bonus for making everything look so neat and for checking all of the dates (Cliff had got any food that was out of date, as long as he didn’t tell no-one). Whenever he drew a picture he posted it to Old Paul, saying, “With love, Cliff.” It seemed stupid, a stupid thing to say, but he couldn’t say anything more, or anything less, and he actually couldn’t leave Old Paul wondering if he was alive. He sent his 6th picture to his mum – to her address which may by now have been her old address, saying, “With love, Cliff.”
In February – the third week of February – he and Roy ended up back in the Devonshire end of England. He walked over to Newton Abbot. And then to Lustleigh. He got there in March, early in the morning, with the dew moving through a hole that had finally appeared in his right Doc Martin and soaking into his sock. He walked in by the road, not the orchard, and smiled slightly at the memory – smiled painfully at the memory – of Maisie and Sam showing him how you could crawl through tunnel which the river went through and he had barely been able to slither through.
But he turned back at the tunnel. They would ask him questions. They would demand answers. And they would have moved on.
He walked up over Haytor, keeping his hood up and scarf wrapped round his face even though it was hot doing that. He stopped for an apple and a tin of cold spaghetti hoops (he gave Roy some biscuits and some water from his bottle). He licked out the tin carefully and put it back in his bag. There’d be a bin or recycling soon. He knew where one was, one recycling centre. By the garage. By the orchard. There was glass and tins and paper there now. Apparently a fairly new addition when he’d first arrived there, but not that new.
Cliff continued walking. He circled round. He turned the turns till he got to the 4-way sign: Path, Path, Path, Path. The light was almost gone. He chose the third of these paths and then a few more, and he got to the moor of bracken and gorse. The path to the circle that had been cut out in the gorse was still worn. Cliff stopped, still. Roy stopped next to him. By Cliff’s heel. He heard voices coming from the yurt. He walked up to it, and saw a sign, saying “Welcome.” Whoever it was had heard him coming. They opened their door and saw him staring at the sign. They – a girl and a boy – smiled at him. The boy said, “Are you Cliff?”
Cliff said, “Yes.”
The girl said, “Come in, we’ll make you some tea.”
Cliff came in and painted on the wall in rainbow colours were the words, “This is Cliff’s place, but you can stay here till he comes.”
The boy said, “They’re a really nice community, aren’t they.”
Cliff said, “Yes.”
Cliff followed. He’d cut across this field because he’d seen it: a portaloo for the builders doing the roadworks. He grabbed some leaves from the side of the road – they were that plant that helped when you got stung by stinging nettles, as paper was unlikely, and climbed up the edge. Blue plastic with sun shining across its body: a proclamatory gleam, it gleamed joy and righteousness, Cliff thought. It was, however, padlocked.
“Fuck!” he said, and threw the leaves down. His dog barked, and Cliff said, “Yeah, I know.” Oh well: onwards.
Cliff scanned the horizon with the sun rising over it, and found the nearest wood. There next. He hitched his bag containing Osborne’s Natural Eating Guide, a couple of I-Spy countryside things (with stickers), tent, some apples he’d found, pants, socks, etc., and they resumed walking.
Hollie was watching him from her window. She’d wheeled over to her black shelves and grabbed her telescope when she caught sight of him coming past her farm. She hadn’t heard him – hadn’t heard their dogs barking at him and his dog because this man had stayed well clear of the farm. But she’d seen him because she was watching the morning outside the window (much as later she would be watching the afternoon). He had a big rucksack – half the size of his body plus a bed roll on the top – and dust (she focussed the telescope) that was occasionally stained into rivulets because he must have been sweating a lot yesterday. He would be soon today too – the sun was rising.
It was very unusual to see someone up this early in the morning. Not even her dad was up – he hadn’t come up for his chat with the cup of tea and probably a treat he’d bought her yesterday (for it was Friday today, and her dad liked to celebrate the coming weekend with her). He would come up and say, “Now Hollie, here’s something for you, because I know you’re going to work hard today.” And so she would – he knew how to manipulate her, he did: with love. He would then ask if she needed anything, did she need the toilet, want a drink? And Hollie would say, “Nothing that can’t wait, Dad, you stop trying not to work and go get me some money for my degree.” But he wouldn’t be in for about half an hour. Maybe a little less. And yet this man was hiking, with his dog, across their fields. Just walking across them, not round them. He was lucky her dad wasn’t up yet.
This man got into the Buggery Field as her dad called it – because it was a bugger to till it – and bent over, somehow not being overturned by his massive rucksack. He dug up a turnip (that was what they grew in this field) and bit into it. He must be hungry. Hollie wondered about calling for her dad and telling him to bring the guy a sandwich. She turned her chair round and started for her door, so that she could quietly poke her head round and see if her dad was at least up, but then she turned back again, because the man had very obviously avoided their house: he may have wanted to avoid trespassing, been afraid of their dogs, but she thought that actually he wanted to be alone. Sometimes people wanted that.
His dog was rooting around in a bin. Cliff didn’t even know how he’d managed to find a bin out here – it was one of those big green bins, an industrial bin, and this place looked like it might soon be being terraformed into a golf course. Must be pretty hungry. But cash was short, and towns...he liked fields and woodland. Everything else was too close. Maybe he could give the dog to someone.
He didn’t really want it there: a reminder that followed him round. He called it the dog/that dog/this dog that just follows me and never by its name – its name not his name – because Cliff didn’t really want him there. But at the same time he couldn’t’ve just left it there in the flat. He could have left some food down and water and they’d’ve found him soon enough, but Roy was a dippy shitbag and would have killed himself/itself in no time somehow, so Cliff had had to take him/it with him. The dog.
Cliff walked over. The bin had been tipped over onto its side which was how the dog had managed to get into it.
“So,” said Cliff, “find anything?” The dog didn’t reply, so Cliff said, “Come on then,” and then whistled and said, “Oy!” and finally the dog obeyed and came after him. Cliff had already started walking away: the dog ran up to him and then took a strict heel position, head down, tail down. Cliff stopped and the dog stopped instantly, right next to Cliff’s right foot. “Ok,” said Cliff, “I’ll get you something next town we see, ok.” The dog risked a look into Cliff’s eyes, so Cliff bent down – he could now do that, big rucksack on his back, without tipping over – and grabbed its chin. “You’re alright,” he said soothingly. “Come on then.” And they walked on.
Cliff had seen needles in the bin, which was surprising, and broken bottles, which he supposed was not. Still, in the countryside with wheat and rape seed oil and poppies. Just keep walking forwards.
Cliff’s body froze still as his mind jumped. The zip was not actually being opened. It sounded like walking on gravel plus a creak plus a grate or a growl or a grasshopper maybe but pretty damn loud. He inched his hand out to find his torch – in the right hand pocket, always there. He edged the zip that wasn’t being opened open, and thought better of turning the torch on – didn’t want to alert whoever it was but then there is no way they wouldn’t have heard him, no matter how quiet he was trying to be. He looked out.
His eyes started adjusting and it was a starry night in an orchard by a field that had some ponies, so as he angled his head cautiously left (after right) he saw the impression made by what was definitely quite a small animal. But that sound? What the hell was it? Cliff shuffled further round, millimetre movements.
It was a hedgehog eating an apple.
Cliff watched it until it sensed him, and then it hitched its little body up, revealing its legs, and ran away. It was pretty cool seeing a hedgehog run. He’d seen it a few times now – the first time had been going out to see Jade – but the way the legs popped out was still awesome to him. Like a Transformer: suddenly they were there.
He went back in and settled down on his Thermarest.
“You’ve got to help me, he’s a fucking psycho. You’ve got to get here now.”
“Where are you?”
“47 Wellington Avenue.”
Into his car, he had known the place. Had slammed on his brakes: “Fucking thing!” Had almost crushed a hedgehog, but had stopped in time and then waited as it popped out its legs and ran the rest of the way across the road.
The Thermarest was a new addition. He’d decided to invest in it because several hikers – proper Fal-Da-Ri!, hikers with all the gear, had all waxed lyrical about it. Better than the yoga mat he had left over from an ex. He’d been walking along a path he’d found, one of those typically overgrown nettles and brambles (with berries on) paths, and the mat, which he had wrapped in a dog-eared bin bag (dog-eared because this kept happening), had got caught on, again, something, who knew what.
(It was raining.)
“Stupid fucking, fucking bloody fucking....” Cliff struggled to free himself, managed to tear free. He turned round, scratching the bag plus bin bag and mat that it contained, on a few million more things, to remove the big shred of black plastic and pink chunk of mat from the tree. He stuffed these in his jeans pocket, looked back down the path and saw some hikers – what appeared to be some mid-30s people, he reckoned suits and briefcase types who liked to rough it at the weekend, waiting to get by. They had macs on, those with the peaks to stop glasses and jutting foreheads from getting wet – rich, posh, breathable Teflon-coated waterproofs – and they all had walking poles. But did any of them have any kind of knee or hip or ankle problem? He doubted it. They all had proper walking boots. He had his DMs, which he’d bought years ago because they’d had steel toecaps and he’d wanted to look hard. They’d been useful for a while, and they were really useful now. He had stopped recently in a charity shop and bought a waterproof.
When he’d gone, on that day, into Cotswolds, with his night’s money plus maximum withdrawal from the bank, and two sportsbags of clothes – and he’d been thinking layers because he wasn’t stupid – he had asked about camping in every season (all-season) and about hiking too. He’d resisted walking boots because he had his DMs. He had said no to the fifty-plus pound waterproofs they’d thrust in front of him. He had bought the 4-season sleeping bag, the lightest one they had. He had bought the best/cheapest/lightest tent he could: the best combination of those things. He had said no to everything else: you know when you start saying no to everything without even listening. Cliff knew about link-selling.
He’d actually paid for that stuff on his card. But he didn’t think anybody would be after him. He was just aside, had stepped aside. Give me my arms out to my side and in front of and behind me and nothing in my way that I could even reach with my eyes. Enough space that I could push that space wider, such would be the weight of the air.
In the wood, in the rain, when the thirty year old Fal-Da-Ri-ers had mentioned the invention – when his mat had got stuck to the brambles –it had obviously been gold-dust. They had halted, and tilted their heads down so the rain fell of the peaks in their rainmacs, as they waited for Cliff to sort himself out.
Cliff had said, “Sorry,” meaning both about the swearing and being in their way. They’d all smiled, and one had said,
“Don’t worry.” – had broken the silence. Not the one in front, the one behind the frontman.
The silence now broken, another had said, “I hate those things, when I did DofE it got stuck on everything....”
“And they are not comfortable.”
“You need two, or three.”
The frontman had said, “I am so glad I have my Thermarest now, for when I go camping.”
The second, third and fourth had agreed. The second had said, “They’re great when you crash at a friend’s too.”
They had noticed Cliff’s look of interest, and had explained all of its virtues: 1. Comfort, 2. Small, 3. Light, 4. No fuss, 5. Not very expensive. You could get them from all good camping stores really these days. All decent ones anyway. So Cliff had walked on, taking turning after turning until they looked at their map (the frontman had) and then had gone into the centre of the next town that he had reached.
The guy had been walking anywhere, not walking to get somewhere. That had been obvious. Once they’d given him their information – and he’d only said that one word, sorry, not being willing to enter into a conversation which, truth be told, was the hiking way: you said Hello or Morning then went your way – just touching society briefly then keeping on walking – looking away till they mentioned the Thermarests then, once they’d told him the wonders (they were amazing things) he had nodded and started walking quickly, determinedly, ahead of them, pushing through the brambles that had grown over the path.
Paul had hung back a bit so that the brambles didn’t ping back into his face, then resumed walking, with the others behind him. They had all remained silent as the guy had walked ahead of them, and they had followed him for a while, Paul somnambulantly walking where the guy was going. Finally James had reached forwards and pulled on Paul’s arm. Paul had realised, and had stopped to look at his map. He’d looked up and seen the guy, with his shredded bin bagged bedroll on top of his rucksack, relax – his shoulders went down about an inch and he’d started striding out rather than scuttling, and Paul had pretended to look at the map some more.
James had said, “He really didn’t want company, did he.”
Paul had said, “No.”
James had said, “So where are we now?”
They had studied the map.
Cliff had decided that taking an interest was best: becoming a twitcher and a mushroom picker and a tree-identifier – he’d bought Osborne Guides and several I-Spies (the ones for children). He liked the flowers best: toadflax on the walls and vetch including stuff that an old man had told him was called eggs and bacon, and the scarlet pimpernel plus there was a yellow pimpernel which he always confused with cinquefoil unless he had the two together.
He sometimes thought about buying a sketchbook and coloured pencils, but for now he ticked in his books – or whichever one he had out with him that day (he rotated them) every time he saw one of his favourite things. And each night as he went to sleep he practised the plants and the animals he was learning, rehearsing the ones he had seen today – hauling them and wedging them into every space in his (dockleaves, lichen, elderberry, thrush – thrush the bird – blackbird, jay) brain. He had seen bats, he liked bats, but could never tell their types because they were always flying. He loved foxes. He wanted to see a pipistrelle. Of course he may have: bats at night just sped by you. And you couldn’t disturb them when they were sleeping, although maybe one day he would find a cave and creep in.
This shopkeeper eyed Cliff warily as he entered the shop. Ting! went the bell – it was one of those shops, a small shop. Ting! It said as the door closed. Cliff hadn’t bothered washing himself any more than usual – sometimes he made sure his face and legs were clean, but he didn’t bother this time. Instead he put a smile on and said to the man, “Sorry I look a bit scruffy – I’m doing this hike for charity.” The shopkeeper opened his mouth to say something to counteract his scowl, but Cliff just continued, “Is it ok if I get a few bits?”
The man said, “‘Course,” and he said it gruffly – possibly a little angered by Cliff’s overpoliteness because it highlighted the fact that he’d been thinking bad thoughts of this man who looked like a tramp but was actually, or so he said, doing a hike for charity. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“London,” said Cliff, because his accent gave him away. Well Hatfield, but London was good enough in wherever he was. Out in the sticks he was – in a place where there were fields and hills and forests between villages, rather than different names for segments of the urban sprawl and possibly a hedge to divide them. He moved round into another section of the shop to avoid other questions: there were signals that you could give. He put some bananas into the basket, and some cereal – that he could eat dry – and bought the cheapest lump of cheese he could find: his cash was getting low. He picked up Happy Shopper dog biscuits, and that was it.
The man said, “You got a dog?”
Cliff said, “He’s outside,” and handed over a £10 note.
The man said, “What is he?” as he counted the change.
Cliff said, “Staffordshire bull terrier,” took the change, and left.
The man figured that this boy or young man had been lying. But the money had been real, and he hadn’t looked to be on drugs, and his dog had been real quiet – hadn’t barked at all.
Cliff wasn’t on drugs because it was clever not to. There were some you didn’t take like smack; one hit of that and you were chained to that powder forever. There were those you could if you wanted your fun but still to be free, not one of those who smashed the first window they saw and took whatever they could reach, not one of his girls on the street. Well, it was a rope to walk, but he had walked it. (And made money, and taken £200, because that was the maximum withdrawal, out of a machine and run after he’d called the ambulance.) Gone to Watford, gone to Cotswold, taken the train, and then started walking.
He’d kept some cash in the flat too, but that he had left in the flat – within the smoke-covered vanilla walls. He had told Jade where it was (behind the mugs in the cupboard, loose panel) in his flat. He hadn’t gone to get it himself, but had told her, and left her his keys. He had talked to her as he packed because she was in shock. He knew the ambulance wouldn’t arrive for at least twenty minutes, he reckoned, he hoped. He hadn’t taken the money himself he wanted her to have it so he’d just rung 999, packed and left. Made her as comfortable as he could. Made her a fucking cup of tea and propped her up in the sofa saying, “It doesn’t matter,” because she was worried about the blood on his fucking sofa. He had told her where the money was. He’d said he wouldn’t give her a hit, not right now, because of the state she was in. She had gone between worrying about the blood and asking for a hit and cursing the bastard who’d done this to her. She’d, finally, asked, “Where are you going?”
He had said, “I have to get out of here,” and added, “I called an ambulance.”
She had said, “I know.”
He had said, “Would you like another cup of tea?”
She had said, “No. You’d better go.”
She had probably thought he was worried about jail.
Sometimes he thought about going back there, and sometimes he thought, like now, about what had happened, what she had looked like, the bruises and blood, and how she’d worried about it getting on the sofa and how he’d got her ice and tea-towels and tried to bandage her up but she only had one working hand to try to put pressure on shitloads of injuries and so he’d tried to tie things round her, all his tea-towels and then socks.
He knew that he shouldn’t have left her. He would remember that feeling when the blood started coming through yet another tea-towel he’d only just put the first one on and only just started looking at the next thing and he’d curse “For fuck’s sake.” And she’d say either, “Sorry,” or “Fucking bastard.”
The solution to all this was to be the twitcher or the flower-lover. Or the gatherer of food. Stinkhorns deserved their name. Puffballs were great. Field mushrooms you could eat. You had to be very careful because every innocent looking mushroom had a nearly identical do-no-eat variety. It wouldn’t kill you but it’d fuck you up for a couple of hours or a day. He’d had some of those.
Devon was walking country. Honeypots was what they called it. He’d remembered that by thinking of Winnie the Pooh. Childish but it had worked. The honeypots drew the people-bees and they brought money but wore down - eroded - all the nature. And never had anywhere to park. Still, it was nice, the tradition of walkers walking by each other, nodding, and saying “Morning,” or “Afternoon,” or “Evening.” The locals always said “Morning,” “Afternoon,” or “Evening”. The bees sometimes got it wrong and said “Hello,” or “Hi,” in response. But if they were walkers enough to know to greet people they usually got it right. It was the newbies – who just reacted to suddenly being talked to, or talked at, by a stranger – who got it wrong. Cliff stopped walking forwards and started walking repeats of routes. He wasn’t a newbie for long.
He started seeing the same people, too. Because he was circling, rather than just walking forwards. The dog walkers mainly, but also just people who liked walking who lived in the area and so walked in the same place. The bees always wanted new honey. The lifers wanted the air and a space for their minds to rest so it didn’t matter if it was the same old walk. When people saw him who’d seen him before they said “Morning,” – or whatever worked – a little louder and maybe flash a smile. The third or fourth time they would smile a bit longer, not just a flash, or even actually look at him a bit. One day a sixth-timer hesitated after his, “Morning.”
They were at Cliff’s favourite junction because:
Cliff half-asked/half-joked, “Is there a reason it just says path four times?”
The man was startled, and said, “Well I reckon they’s all paths,” (maybe not quite that much dialect), nodded curtly, repeated, “Morning,” and hurried off.
Cliff stood staring at the sign a bit longer. He liked doing this. Path, path, path, path. That’s what it said. He heard the footsteps of another walker and turned, smiling, but it was the man again.
He said, “Maybe round here the people who are walking are those who live here, mostly. So they already know. I don’t know though,” the man mused, “As there’s such as yourself, and a fair few others. And there’s Haytor fairly close....”
Cliff said, “I like it,” and smiled.
The man looked down at the dog, and asked, “What’s his name.”
Cliff paused, then said, “Roy.”
The man tipped his hat and said, “Well I’d best be on my way.”
Cliff nodded in response and bent down to pet Roy so the man could get his distance.
Jade had rung him from the bathroom. “You’ve got to help me, he’s a fucking psycho. You’ve got to get here now.” She was tough, she was toughened, and she was holding onto that with her fingernails.
“Where are you?”
“47 Wellington Avenue.”
He had pounded on the door, kicked it and punched it with the heel of his hand he could hear her screaming, but the man hadn’t come down – because he knew that this wasn’t an ordinary door knock (he must have known Jade could be heard. Although no-one was doing anything, or it didn’t seem so). The man had started shouting back at her, “Who’d you call? Who’d you fucking call? Your fucking pimp?”
Cliff grabbed his bag and smashed it through the window that was helpfully by the door and then wrapped his jacket round his hands and vaulted in, tearing his trousers and legs and hands because he didn’t properly clear the glass. He picked up the poker by the fire as he walked by. Cast iron. And ran up the stairs. The man was strong. Heavy set, bulky, Cliff was not.
Cliff lifted the poker and threw everything he could into, “Get the fuck out.”
The man paused a second but then he left.
“You ain’t getting any fucking money,” he hissed because he had backed down and was running. Walking but fleeing. Cliff now felt the blood starting to trail down his legs as the man went down the stairs. Thank fuck he’d bought it. If Cliff had actually had to –
And suddenly Cliff worried, “Jade, we’ve got to get out of here, I had to break the window, someone will’ve called the police.”
Jade opened the door. “Someone’d better call an ambulance too she said. And then she looked at him – he saw her eyes follow the blood also trailing down his arms, and he realised he still had the poker above his head. He put it down.
She said, “Somone’d better call one for you too.”
Cliff said, “I reckon we can share.” And they both started laughing, tears running down their faces.
But instead they jumped into his car and went back to his place. She was shouting and swearing random bravado. Tough phrases. Angry phrases. Keeping herself strong. Back in his place, Cliff went into his bathroom and checked himself over. Because they wouldn’t call the ambulance unless they had to. The cuts were not too bad, not too deep. More scratches because of his vaulting over. His jeans had taken the worst damage. His hands had been mainly protected by his jacket. He heard a crash and ran out: Jade was on the floor in the kitchen. He shook her, “Jade, Jade!” and she opened her eyes.
“I passed out?”
He nodded.
“Fucking bastard.”
She had hit her head as she fell, and now he saw the other cuts on her, cuts and bruises. Or the evidence of them. The blood that had come through her clothes and would be on his car seat obviously – he didn’t mind but he hadn’t seen it because it had been dark and he had been scared and they’d been running but he should have seen it because there was shitloads.
(Blood had come through the teatowels the minute he had tied one round her so he had kept having to go and get another one. He had kept cursing, “For fuck’s sake,” and she had kept saying either, “Sorry,” or “Fucking bastard.”)
Cliff asked Jade (keep on talking) “What did he do?”
She swayed.
Cliff said, louder, sharply, “What did the cunt do?”
Jade snapped into focus, and then struggled to maintain it. Cliff lifted her gently, and took her into the living room. He demanded, “Tell me, what did he do?”
Cliff kept her talking, shouting questions at her as he went and got teatowels and socks and bandages and all the plasters he could find, which he applied, or tried to apply. Some of the cuts were too deep and just threw off the plasters. And he didn’t know which to do first. He worked as quickly as he could, trying to put pressure on things, tie them up. The man had tried to tie her up. She had resisted. The blood kept soaking through the tea-towels so he kept having to get new ones. And then socks and then t-shirts.
Then Cliff said, “One second.”
Jade said, “What?”
Cliff said, “Look at me, keep looking at me. And count to a hundred.” As she did this he called the ambulance.
Cliff needed provisions. He got up and went to Aldebury’s. Local grocer. Sold vegetables and postcards and rumps of sheep. On the way he met Tom and Kate. They said hi. He stopped and chatted to them for a bit. They had a German Shepherd and walked him over the bridge every day and then down to Becky Falls most of the weekends. Then he saw Old Farmer Paul – who he had recently accidentally called ‘Old Paul’ to his face. But Old Paul didn’t seem to be holding this against him. Old Farmer Paul owned a field that was just bracken and gorse – people had the right to roam across it, and for all intents and purposes it was just moorland. Sometimes Paul put sheep on it. Paul was the person who had explained to Cliff about the sign. (Well, I reckon they’s all paths.)
“You off to the shop?” asked Old Paul.
“Yeah, I reckon so,” said Cliff .
“Have a good one.” And they parted ways – Paul peeling off to the garage.
Cliff called, “You picking up the tractor?”
“Hope so.”
On the way back he saw Tom and Kate again, who were sitting chatting to Paul at the garage. Tom elbowed Kate, and Kate said, “Cliff, we were just thinking – it’ll be getting cold soon – have you got plans for a place to stay? We’d be happy to put you up – you could give us a hand at the B and B.”
Paul said, “Or you could stay with me – I’m getting on a bit, could do with a hand.”
Cliff stood for a second, then he said, “No, thanks, I’ll be moving on soon really. You’re too kind, thank you, but no, I’ll soon be going.” And ran away.
He had literally run away. He had been helping out, doing odd jobs to get cash. Sometimes Old Paul had asked him to help him carry – stuff – wood for fences, and then help put them up. Find a missing sheep. (Just if you see it.) (Don’t worry – I’ve nothing else to do, I’ll go look for it. What does it look like?) (A sheep.)
One time he had gone into Aldebury’s and been trying to work out what he could afford. He had been doing the maths under his breath, picking up different alternatives and making himself different shopping baskets: frozen peas are cheap I could just eat them all. Tinned baked beans plus frozen peas plus cornflakes. £4.08. No. Tinned baked beans plus two apples plus cornflakes. £3.50 maybe.... Janet had come up to him. She’d said, “If you need a bit more cash, I need a bit of help – I’ve loads of stock here I’ve got to put out, and it’s been mad busy today what with it being so sunny. There was a big queue, that she had left to get longer in coming up to him, because she hadn’t wanted to embarrass him by shouting across the store Do You Need Money? She had said, “You’d be doing me a favour.” Then, “Six pounds an hour.” He’d said, “Ok, thank you.” She’d said, “Ice-creams first – they’re out the back in the freezer. It’s on the right.” Sometimes Cliff had helped Old Paul find his chicken’s eggs because they loved to hide them.
So he’d run away, gone walking forward, again, rather than in a circle, or lots of circles. Gone walking forwards again. But then he’d come back, because he wanted to say a proper goodbye – a proper thank you and goodbye – to the villagepeople of Lustleigh, before going up to Scotland, or somewhere like that. He got back to them in scrumping season: apples. He walked across the orchard, and Maisie and Sam (Kate’s sister’s children) were swinging on the swing, and Kate’s sister was there.
Maisie and Sam shouted, “Cliff!” and then, “He’s back.”
Kate’s sister said, “Go see Paul, he wants to see you.”
Cliff nodded, and turned round, because that was the quickest way. He got to the farm gate and Rolo and Peaches came yapping out. Old Paul came out of the kitchen.
He said, “Come with me, I’ve got something to show you.”
Cliff followed Old Paul up to the field, which was full of gorse and bracken and the occasional sheep, where Old Paul had cut a big circle clear for Paul’s tent. This circle was now occupied by a:
It was now occupied by quite a few members of the village – most of them. Who was manning the grocers and the pub and the post office?
And a
“It’s a yurt,” said Old Paul.
Kate stepped forward from the throng of people. She said, “We found them on the internet – you can move them around if you want to-”
“Although we’d like it if you stayed here,” said Tom.
“He couldn’t carry it,” said Old Paul scornfully.
“-And we made it ourselves!” said Kate.
Old Paul said, “You can use my place for the bathroom. Here, here’s a key.”
Kate said, “Come on, look inside.” She opened the door.
There was a small wooden (double, which seemed...amazing) bed (low-lying). The yurt had two windows with blinds. It had a mini gas oven. Old Paul pointed out that it was gas, as they hadn’t thought an open fire would be a good idea, although they were thinking about clearing some more space so he could make himself a big fire in the winter.
Martin, who owned the Queen’s Head, said, “And there’s a windup radio so you can hear some stuff – my son never uses it. Solar powered too.”
Cliff had fallen into a hole. He felt his eyes and mind pulling backwards, and he could feel this black hole pulling in their kind words and gradually extinguishing their excitement. He had to explain to them, to apologise. He said, wondering what he should be saying, what he could say, “Thank you everybody. But I can’t accept this.”
“What is it?” asked Old Paul. He said, “You need to tell us, lad.”
Cliff had not taken his rucksack off, so it was easy to run away again. He snapped his fingers and Roy came right to heel. Cliff looked straight down at the path that he was on.
Cliff and Roy resumed walking. Walking anywhere. He found a massive puffball in a farmer’s field. In one day he tallied 28 nuthatches. He saw a nest of swan eggs hatching. He went North and saw more thistles and massive rhododendrons which were amongst Douglas Firs. He learned what Monkey Puzzle trees were and kept a tally of them. He liked Monkey Puzzle trees. He started to collect the leaves of every different tree he found, and identify them, but then he threw them all away.
In his rucksack he had a sketchbook and pencils – he’d bought them from the Post Office when he’d spent a good day stacking shelves in the Grocer’s and Janet had given him a bonus for making everything look so neat and for checking all of the dates (Cliff had got any food that was out of date, as long as he didn’t tell no-one). Whenever he drew a picture he posted it to Old Paul, saying, “With love, Cliff.” It seemed stupid, a stupid thing to say, but he couldn’t say anything more, or anything less, and he actually couldn’t leave Old Paul wondering if he was alive. He sent his 6th picture to his mum – to her address which may by now have been her old address, saying, “With love, Cliff.”
In February – the third week of February – he and Roy ended up back in the Devonshire end of England. He walked over to Newton Abbot. And then to Lustleigh. He got there in March, early in the morning, with the dew moving through a hole that had finally appeared in his right Doc Martin and soaking into his sock. He walked in by the road, not the orchard, and smiled slightly at the memory – smiled painfully at the memory – of Maisie and Sam showing him how you could crawl through tunnel which the river went through and he had barely been able to slither through.
But he turned back at the tunnel. They would ask him questions. They would demand answers. And they would have moved on.
He walked up over Haytor, keeping his hood up and scarf wrapped round his face even though it was hot doing that. He stopped for an apple and a tin of cold spaghetti hoops (he gave Roy some biscuits and some water from his bottle). He licked out the tin carefully and put it back in his bag. There’d be a bin or recycling soon. He knew where one was, one recycling centre. By the garage. By the orchard. There was glass and tins and paper there now. Apparently a fairly new addition when he’d first arrived there, but not that new.
Cliff continued walking. He circled round. He turned the turns till he got to the 4-way sign: Path, Path, Path, Path. The light was almost gone. He chose the third of these paths and then a few more, and he got to the moor of bracken and gorse. The path to the circle that had been cut out in the gorse was still worn. Cliff stopped, still. Roy stopped next to him. By Cliff’s heel. He heard voices coming from the yurt. He walked up to it, and saw a sign, saying “Welcome.” Whoever it was had heard him coming. They opened their door and saw him staring at the sign. They – a girl and a boy – smiled at him. The boy said, “Are you Cliff?”
Cliff said, “Yes.”
The girl said, “Come in, we’ll make you some tea.”
Cliff came in and painted on the wall in rainbow colours were the words, “This is Cliff’s place, but you can stay here till he comes.”
The boy said, “They’re a really nice community, aren’t they.”
Cliff said, “Yes.”
