Two-Hundred Steps Home Volume Two Page 5

  “It’s not that. Well, I am terrified. More about how it’s going to affect Sky. No, it’s just you had everything. The flat, the job, the fit bloke. If it didn’t work for you, who does it work for? What is there to live for? Where’s the hope?”

  Claire’s heart pounded loudly, thrumming in her wind-frozen ears. A lump formed in her throat and she grasped for words. “You have Sky. She’s your hope, surely?” As she said the words Claire felt the falseness. She couldn’t imagine living her future for a child who would be ever ungrateful. At the same time it rang true and she knew it was the right thing to give Ruth hope.

  “You’re right. I’m being silly. It’s just, you and Michael, you clicked. He adored you. We all hoped he’d be the one.”

  We? Claire didn’t like the idea that her family had been discussing her love life in her absence. If she thought they talked about her at all she hoped it was to envy her new car or latest work achievement. Did Michael adore me? Images flashed through her brain like a movie on fast forward. They were good pictures, full of laughter and understanding. It made her ache with emptiness.

  She heard a loud noise coming from Ruth’s end of the phone and for once was relieved to have their conversation cut short by her niece.

  “You give Sky a hug from me, Ruth, and let me know how it goes tomorrow. I can be in Cambridge if you need me. Just call.”

  Her sister murmured her assent and hung up, leaving Claire motionless and alone on an unfamiliar high street.

  ***

  SIXTEEN

  Claire gazed out over the water and let her thoughts drift away with the wake flowing behind the launch. She had intended to leave Bowness after her coffee but her sister’s phone call had driven all rational thought from her mind.

  Besides, they have a Costa and I didn’t see it before I had that awful latte in the other place. I’m not leaving town until I’ve had a decent coffee.

  Claire smiled at the irrelevancy. Coffee has never featured so heavily in my life as it has on this ridiculous journey. It seemed to represent some notion of urban civilisation that was essential to her being. The boat trip was a way to kill an hour or two before she could have more caffeine.

  Turning her face into the wind Claire let the icy breeze drive out more important thoughts. She hoped the lap of the water would drown out the words echoing around her head but it only muted them and muddled them together.

  “If it didn’t work for you, who does it work for?” … “You and Michael, you clicked. He adored you.” … “Where’s the hope? Where’s the hope? Where’s the hope?”

  Was her sister right? Had she pushed away a man who adored her? Was a life without him a life without hope? Did her sister really envy her existence that much?

  Wasn’t that what I wanted her to do?

  The words, sharp and metallic, tore through the peace of the lake. Claire no longer saw muted shades of green and brown, glints of faint sunlight on the water, space and calm and beauty. No longer heard the lonely cry of the birds or the splash of the lake against the boat’s hull. Instead she saw the tones and hues of her pristine apartment. The sharp angles of her office. Heard the click-clack of her heels and the tip-tap of her keyboard. Her perfect world. What was there not to covet?

  Claire inhaled, filling her lungs with unpolluted air. Her brain felt foggy and full, like a hangover of the worst proportions. Wrenching her gaze away from a view that only seemed to drag her into a well of introspection, Claire looked around the boat at the other passengers. She had assumed it would be empty at this time of year but the seats were crammed with huddling people, snuggling together against the icy wind. A quick survey confirmed something Claire didn’t want to acknowledge.

  The people came in two by two, hurrah hurrah.

  With a sigh Claire turned her face back to the Lake and waited for the boat trip to end.

  ***

  SEVENTEEN

  Claire walked up to the building and felt the dark mood of the day soar away with the retreating birds. The structure in front of her reared magnificently, every inch a five-star hotel. The whitewashed walls stood proud behind an ornate veranda and when she turned to survey the view her gaze ran down verdant lawn, over woodland thicket and across rolling hills. The house nestled amidst a backdrop of trees: some still resplendent in their evergreen glory, some eagerly awaiting the dressmaker of spring.

  Hitching the rucksack further up her shoulder Claire entered the building hoping the interior lived up to first impressions.

  Inside, the late evening light poured in through a cupola above the main staircase. Craning her neck to take in the detail Claire decided it wouldn’t look out of place in a Hello Magazine spread extolling the extravagant pads of the rich and famous.

  At last, some glamour.

  Claire smiled and sighed, releasing the tension that had built up over the long long day. I can’t believe it was only a few hours ago that I was swinging through the trees like some poorly trained circus ape. She felt as if she might have aged a decade since the morning.

  Claire followed directions to her private room: she had gone over her daily allowance to book it but, for once, it wasn’t because she wanted the privacy. After the rollercoaster day she would have welcomed the company of a dorm room but there hadn’t been any available. It seemed decadent to rattle round a three-bed room but, as her main intentions were food and sleep, it wasn’t like to be an issue for long.

  The grandeur ebbed slightly as she entered the depths of the main house. Unlike some of the places she had stayed in thus far, this hostel seemed faded and in need of some love. At last she inserted the key and opened the door to her room.

  “Blimey, what’s that awful smell?”

  Claire looked round the room. It seemed okay, wooden bunks, great view. The odd lingering smell was indefinable. A quick spritz of perfume will soon mask that. She looked round again. Where’s the bathroom? Her expectations of an en-suite had been set by previous experience. I have a private room and I still have to go in hunt of the shower? Great. I guess this is more the hostelling I expected when I started. Carl would grin from ear to ear if he could see it.

  Through the fading twilight Claire could make out a lake in the distance as she peered through the Georgian window. It’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. I’m too tired to see what delights Hawkshead has to offer. I’m not even sure I’m going to make it to the restaurant.

  Slinging her rucksack in the corner Claire bounced on the beds to find the most comfortable one, lay down and was almost instantly asleep.

  ***

  EIGHTEEN

  Clare woke to the sound of drums. The thudding noise filled every inch of space in the room around her. It was a few seconds before she associated the rapid rhythm with her own heartbeat. Slowly her senses fought the sound of the drumming. Her ears noted other noises: the rattle of water in old pipes, the swell of birdsong coming through the single-glass window. The pervasive odour of the room crept in her nostrils and reminded her of her location. Sticky eyes unglued and took in the dim glow of dawn seeping through the curtains. And still the drums pounded.

  What the hell?

  Claire tried to think what had forced her awake. The clatter of the pipes was loud but her earplugs were still half-in and she had become better at ignoring random noises in the night. The dawn light wasn’t bright enough to have dragged her out of sleep. Gradually the bass drum steadied into a regular beat and Claire was able to concentrate on her breathing.

  She tried to recall her dreams, assuming they must have caused the thumping heartbeat and clammy sweat that she could feel freezing on her forehead in the chilly room. She grabbed at the images in her mind but they slipped away as if she had tried to catch a reflection and found only water. And still the sensations persisted. She wanted to crawl out of herself, to shed an itchy and hated skin.

  The feeling of disquiet lingered like the bad smell still permeating the room. Claire plumped her pillow and fidgeted in the bed, t
rying to return to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes indefinable images swam in the dark and forced the lids open again.

  What is going on? I didn’t have cheese for dinner. In fact I didn’t have dinner. No alcohol, no coffee. No reason for bad dreams.

  Admitting defeat Claire rolled on her back and gazed at the underside of the top bunk, forcing herself to dredge the scattered emotions of her dream for meaning. She was conscious of fear and panic, as if she’d lost her phone or was late for a business meeting. No, worse than that. As if she’d lost her job.

  Well, haven’t I?

  Claire explored the thought to see if it was the cause of her unease. I haven’t lost my job, but maybe it is time to start looking for a new one, just in case. She rolled over onto her side, hoping the decision would calm her agitated brain and let her sleep. Still the jittering in her stomach continued. A bubbling sensation somewhere behind her belly button nagged at her. It felt like a scream building; a scream that would consume her if she let it free.

  That’s enough now body. Get a grip. You are Claire Carleton, Melanie and Gerald’s daughter, Robert and Ruth’s sister. You don’t have nightmares or flights of fancy, they’re not allowed.

  A word snagged at her mind as she gave herself a talking-to. Ruth. Suddenly a flood of images washed over her eyes. Ruth going to hospital, Ruth strapped to a white bed, Ruth watching terrified as a giant needle came towards her, her eyes wide and wild as she saw it approach.

  Claire jerked upright, crashed her head against the top bunk and collapsed back to the mattress with a groan, tears stabbing her eyes.

  My poor sister. I’ve been such a cow. All I was concerned with was what she said about Michael, about how she envied me my perfect life. I should have been worried about her, facing this all alone, having to care for Sky and having no one care for her.

  She rolled over and fumbled on the floor for her phone. 5.38am. It was too early to call. Claire tapped at the screen and wrote a text message, hoping it wouldn’t wake her sister but needing to connect.

  Hey sis. Hope everything goes okay today. Text or call to let me know you’re alright. Thinking of you.

  Claire looked at the screen and felt the thudding resume in her chest. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t enough. She tapped at the screen again and typed out two more words before hitting send.

  Love you.

  ***

  NINETEEN

  Claire swallowed a yawn and commanded her eyelids not to close. The words washed over her, refusing to enter either ears or brain. If the smiling volunteer in front of her had requested one single fact from the short video Claire would have had to admit defeat.

  Besides, who cares? I learned enough about Ruskin at Uni to last a lifetime.

  She glanced round at the other avid viewers wondering if they, too, were just waiting for the moving pictures to finish. Her fellow tourists included a retired couple and a gaggle of students with their Tutor.

  I wonder if they're Art, Science or Architecture boffs? She looked at them with a mixture of sympathy and envy. As long as they're not in front of me when it comes to queuing for coffee I don't especially care.

  Claire gazed surreptitiously out the window, not wanting to be berated for her lack of attention but in dire need of something to stave off sleep. The restless night, coupled with an early start, was taking its toll. Maybe this wasn't such a smart plan. At least if I'd been dangling by a rope 18m up I'd be wide awake.

  Her early-morning internet trawl for ideas had thrown up only three options: kayaking around Coniston, Go-Ape, and a wander through John Ruskin's pad. She'd decided to risk a short kayak on the morrow, when the forecast was for warmer weather. Go-Ape had been immediately dismissed. I’ve done enough monkeying around for this week. Maybe I’ll swing by later in my Lakes tour. She sniggered at her own puns and then decided she should stop before she went completely bananas

  At last the video ended. Claire was free to meander round the old house and lose herself in the splendour of an earlier era. A soporific calm descended as she settled into the slow tread of the gallery viewer. It reminded her of college field trips and lazy Sundays.

  This isn’t particularly thrilling blog copy but who cares. I’ll write something lyrical about the view. She glanced out the window at the lake, pewter-dark beneath cloudy skies. Hmm maybe not. She smiled. Despite the overcast day she felt at peace.

  “Claire? Claire Carleton?”

  Her tranquillity was shattered by the screech of estuary vowels.

  “ Blinkin ’ell it is you. What're you doing up ’ere in the arse-end of nowhere?”

  Claire turned, heat radiating from her face. Please, no. I'll do anything. Let it not be her. She raised her eyes slowly, as if allowing the universe ample opportunity to correct this terrible mistake. Her gaze took in sensible black shoes, tights, black skirt, and her heart lurched optimistically. Cherie would never wear such normal attire. Her head lifted to face the owner of the dreaded voice and hope died. Grinning cheerfully from atop a steward's shirt and jacket was the face she knew and loathed.

  “Hello Cherie, how lovely to see you. I hardly expected to see anyone I knew working here in the back of beyond or however it was you so eloquently put it.”

  “I'm just helping out me ma for a week, she was left stranded by one of her staff.”

  “Your mother works here?”

  Claire had never met Cherie's mother and had always assumed they were cut from the same cloth.

  “Yeah she came up ’ere when pop died, couldn't wait to leave Essex. Always said she'd made a mistake marrying ’im.” Claire looked over her shoulder as Cherie's strident voice echoed around the room.

  “Is she here? Won't she be upset to hear you talking about her?”

  “Nah she'll be in the office. Besides we're always ribbing her for her la-di-da ways.”

  This from the girl who spent ten years at a public school and still can’t pronounce the letter H?

  Cherie looked Claire up and down and her grin widened. “You’re looking a bit rough. Times ’ard is they?”

  Claire gritted her teeth and then forced them to relax into a smile. “I’m on a special assignment for Happy Cola. I’m an Advertising Director.” She squared her shoulders before swearing silently. Damn, she did it again. How does she do that to me? She could see by Cherie’s sparkling eyes that the woman had achieved her intention of winding Claire up.

  She hasn’t seen me for, what, a decade and her first aim is to antagonise me? Silly cow.

  Unwelcome flashbacks from school filled the space between them. Claire looked around for a neutral topic, not wanting to get into a fight and ruin her serenity. Her eyes alighted on a poster with a Ruskin quote on it.

  “Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces up, snow is exhilarating; there is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.”

  The appropriateness of it made her laugh out loud, remembering her trudge across the snowy Pennines and the scramble through hail to reach the top of Skiddaw. No such thing as bad weather? Right.

  “Still larfing at me then, Claire? You always did fink you were better than me; lording it over us when your folks are nah better than mine.”

  Claire flushed with shock at the bitter words hurled from frost-pink lips that no longer smiled.

  “Me laugh at you? I spent my whole school life trying to stay away from your vicious tongue. I’m surprised you can stand upright with that chip balanced on your shoulder. Not that it’s any business of yours but I was laughing at the Ruskin quote.” Claire indicated the poster to her right.

  “Still trying to get one over on me aren’t yer? Laugh at this dry old trout’s stuff? Now I know yer talking bollocks. I’ve never read such a steamin’ pile of poo in me life.” Cherie shook her head as if Claire’s words had merely confirmed her dislike. She threw one more spiked look at her erstwhile school companion and stomped from the room.

  Claire stood motionless as th
e footsteps receded, unsure whether to laugh or weep. She became aware of shakes coursing through her body and a loud hammering in her chest. She nodded an apologetic farewell to Ruskin’s room and headed for the café.

  I need caffeine.

  ***

  TWENTY

  Claire looked round towards the door at the sound of voices approaching the hostel. She knew that no one she wanted to see was likely to walk in and still she looked. Just because I’m still in the Lakes doesn’t mean he’s going to turn up. There must be at least twenty hostels in Cumbria and, besides, this isn’t Casablanca.

  She turned back to the iPad and concentrated on finding something interesting to say about John Ruskin her trip to Brantwood

  I can’t really put ‘bumped into catty old school friend in the most random place today and it turns out she hated me as much as I hated her. Isn’t life funny?’

  What else to write though? It was hardly a high-adrenalin activity wandering round a museum or supping a latte in the café.

  If I’m going to keep my job I need blog traffic. I can’t give Carl an excuse to call this venture a failure. She thought about making up an adventure but knew she’d get found out in a heartbeat. There might be only ten people following my blog but if I say I walked Striding Edge this morning and I didn’t you can bet they’ll know someone who was up there or I’ll get the weather wrong.

  Claire gazed around the hostel lounge, taking in the stylish fireplace and soothing décor, and felt pleased with herself for stumbling across it in the guide book. She’d been flicking through trying to find a hostel that wasn’t a bunkhouse and her eye had stopped at what she thought was the Holy Cow hostel. Smiling she had thumbed back through the pages and was disappointed that it actually said Holly How. I prefer my version.

  Claire heard voices outside the lounge door and the hairs on her arm rose. Just because it’s an Australian accent doesn’t mean anything. You’re worse than a teenager at a school disco. Give it up and write your damn blog.