Stegosaur
Paths became bridleways, lanes became village streets, with tourist coaches parked in front of tea-rooms. He thought he might lose her to the gift shops selling gingerbread and postcards of daffodils but they decided to keep going. Too many tourists, they agreed, without being entirely sure of how they differed. Instead they saw a pub, whitewashed and quaint. ‘Thirsty,’ she croaked, rubbing her throat.
The bar was dark and cosy, and they chose between things like Goatherd’s Moone and Olde Thumb and Foggie Moss. ‘These beers need proofreading,’ she said, tapping the pumps, and they touched glasses and drank, then found a table near the fire. For a while they checked their phones and sipped their drinks – nothing from Natasha – until they caught each other’s eye. ‘Tell me about your work,’ he said.
‘Really? It’s very boring.’
‘I don’t think so. You proofread.’
‘Copy-edit. Though proofreading’s part of it.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Proofreading is “You misspelled ‘instantaneously’”, copy-editing is “Why not say ‘instantly’?” Other things too, tabs and paragraphing and consistency but mainly it’s making sure the writer’s saying what they mean to say.’
‘Like marking homework.’
‘I realise how dull it sounds.’
‘No, I like marking homework. Really. Hang on,’ he said, and got more drinks. When he returned, she’d produced her laptop.
‘Okay, I shouldn’t really show you this …’ She turned it towards him.
He scanned the document. The fire crackled. ‘Wow,’ he said.
‘I know!’
‘It’s not like marking homework at all.’
‘I should hope not.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘Hot stuff, isn’t it? But give it a go. Have you been to a Hollywood swingers’ club?’
‘Not for … ages.’
‘As a lay reader then, tell me what you see.’
He scanned the text. ‘Well, the commas—’
‘The commas are the least of my worries.’
‘I’ve never seen this spelt with two ts before.’
‘Yep.’
‘And I’m not sure of the logistics.’
‘Exactly, because she’s sitting down here but suddenly he’s behind her and—’
‘So how is he—’
‘Exactly.’
‘And I’m not sure this makes sense.’
‘It is quite startling. With adjectives, the conventional order is opinion, size, age, shape, colour. You don’t learn that, you just know – it’s “the lovely little old round red robin” – but she’s gone size, size, colour, size and it’s not even the right colour.’
‘Repetition of “thrashing”?’
‘Yep.’
‘I don’t think I’d do any of this in a hot tub.’
‘That’s a health-and-safety issue but I agree.’
‘And do you find, when you’re working on something like this, do you …’
‘Get involved? No, I’m like a surgeon, steely objectivity.’
‘I must admit,’ he said, ‘I am sort of gripped.’
‘As indeed is he,’ she said, and closed the lid. ‘Mr Bradshaw, you look like if you pulled at your collar steam would come out.’
‘Well, that’s the booze,’ he said, and looked into the bottom of his glass. Some of the worst times with Natasha had followed the second bottle of wine, the alcohol no longer loosening them into affection or silliness, but making them sullen and argumentative. After her departure, he’d caught himself stumbling on the stairs or waking, wretched and confused, on the sofa at three in the morning. But this felt like younger days, almost like being a student, and he realised he had accidentally been lulled into enjoying himself. The fire was warm, Marnie looked great in the orange light, eyes wide with mischief as she suggested they have one more. ‘Very refreshing,’ she said, finishing the third, and they both started to laugh.
After the twilight of the snug, even this overcast day made him squint, as if stepping out of a cinema into daytime. ‘It is very bright,’ he said, over-enunciating, and this made them laugh too. More than bright, the combination of fresh air, exertion and alcohol created an almost hallucinogenic effect and the Grisedale Pass now seemed primeval, as if a stegosaur might come trundling over the brow of Great Rigg. ‘I feel quite stoned,’ he said, and Marnie gripped his arm.
‘Me too! Let’s sweat it out. Race you!’ and she began to sprint, the rucksack flopping from side to side. ‘I’m auditioning for the SAS!’ she shouted.
‘I don’t think the SAS call it an audition,’ he said, and they had to stop because they were laughing so hard as she speculated on what an SAS audition might involve. ‘Night march with a forty-pound backpack, song from a show, then jungle training. Jazz-dance and then they beat the shit out of you.’
They played a game in which Michael called out the names of geographical features from the map and Marnie had to decide which were made-up, which were real. Nethermost Pike! Catbells! Hoghouse Platter! Cold Kaller! Dollywagon! Craggy Crag! Some walkers passed, a white-haired older couple outpacing them. ‘Hello, there,’ said the man, in a Scottish accent.
‘Hello there,’ Michael replied, in the same voice, and after another ten metres they started to laugh again. Is this what the punks had felt like? ‘We’re bad hikers!’ said Michael.
‘So bad,’ said Marnie, and he thought how much he liked her, how pleased he was that their paths had crossed, literally crossed! If they’d had another drink, perhaps he might even have told her this.
He was simultaneously drunk and acting drunk, a kid reeling after a sip of ginger ale, with the particular sensation of being both inside and outside himself, finding everything silly and joyful and hilarious, and at the same time thinking, You idiot, stop this now. Could he ever have the first without the second, stop watching over himself? I’ll pretend I didn’t see that, put it out, big day tomorrow. Perhaps another drink would quieten that voice. Perhaps when they got to the hotel they should go straight to the bar. They were on holiday after all. Perhaps she might even stay on for a day or two.
Ridiculous idea. At Grisedale Tarn they walked to the shore. ‘Maybe we should swim,’ he said, ‘to sober up,’ and they tested the icy black water with fingertips.
‘I think that would kill me,’ she said.
‘Or make you stronger,’ he said.
‘No, it would just kill me. But you go, knock yourself out.’
‘Not today. But we are going to swim before the walk’s over,’ he said, except that she was going home tomorrow, so how could that be?
They walked on. If he’d been alone and sober, he’d have climbed a fell, St Sunday Crag or even Helvellyn, with its tourist horde, the Madame Tussaud’s of mountains but Marnie was visibly wilting. ‘I can’t see any hotels.’
‘Two hours,’ he said, and she groaned. ‘Okay, I’m going to let you into a secret. I think I know you well enough now.’
‘Ooh, this sounds juicy,’ she said, poking him with a finger.
‘It is juicy, but we need to be sitting down.’ They found two boulders, facing each other across the narrow path and he opened his rucksack. ‘This will help your energy.’
‘Is it methamphetamine?’
‘No, it’s better than that,’ he said, and began to dig into the top layer until he found … ‘Fresh socks.’
‘Oh. I’m not sure that is better.’
‘Trust me, just change your socks. It’s like getting a new pair of feet.’
She blew air up at her forehead and reached for her rucksack. ‘I can’t pretend I don’t feel a bit let down.’
‘Try it. I think you’ll like it.’
They began to undo their boots, as if getting ready for bed, and it felt vaguely provocative, feet exposed to daylight. ‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘A glimpse behind the curtain. Men’s feet are bizarre, aren’t they? Massive great things.’
‘They’re perfectly normal feet.’
‘No wonder foot fetishists are all straight men. Look at you with your flapping great yeti feet, look at the hair on your toes.’
‘Hey. You can talk.’
‘Oh, I know, they’re gross,’ and she stretched out her legs, bridging the path and resting her bare feet, one, two, on his knees. ‘The guy in the shop made me swear to cut my nails but look at this one. Look at this hairy toe, Rasputin here.’
He looked. They were pale and damp, sore on the knuckle of the toes, with just the remnants of chipped red nail varnish still visible. ‘Like vacuum-packed trotters,’ she said, though he found he very much wanted to take one in each hand and hold on to them, his thumbs pressed into the arches. A moment passed. She took her feet back and they began to pull on fresh socks.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ she said. ‘If you’re walking for ten days, how come you’re travelling so light?’
‘I’m scared to tell you.’
‘I’m unshockable.’
‘Okay. Three pairs of pants, three pairs of socks, and I wash them every night in the hand-basin. In rotation.’
She shook her head thoughtfully. ‘Okay. Okay.’
‘Have I shocked you?’
‘No, I’m just … Why does that make me feel so sad? Just this deep and elemental sadness.’
He laughed. ‘It is a little bleak.’
‘It’s the phrase “wash them in rotation”.’
‘Hey, life on the road.’
‘Bit like Jack Reacher.’
‘He does that too?’
‘But for different reasons. He’s an ex-military vigilante, you’re a member of the Ramblers Association.’
‘Ex-member.’
‘Because you killed a man?’
‘You’re funny, but I’m the one with the lighter rucksack so who’s laughing?’
‘That is true. I’ve got twelve pairs of pants in here, for three nights.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I worried I might shit myself four times a day.’
‘Has that ever happened?’
‘Not since my honeymoon.’ Their boots were back on now. She stood and bent her knees, bouncing experimentally on her feet, trying them out. ‘It’s a miracle!’
They set off, and as they descended into the next valley the cloud began to break up into smaller floes, revealing the first blue for days, and it began to feel as if they were their own procession, as if there might be crowds waiting for them at the end, cheering.