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The Salt Path Page 8


  ‘They’re in the van. We could get them posted somewhere. To Clovelly maybe.’

  ‘No, Jan’s on holiday until late August. Like you say, it’s just sunstroke. Let’s make some tea and eat something. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to just stop taking them. This could be withdrawal; it could make you worse.’ What had the doctor said? ‘Whatever you do, don’t just stop taking the Pregabalin.’ The immense list of withdrawal symptoms could begin with headaches, nausea, diarrhoea and sweating, and lead to insomnia, anxiety, depression and suicide. That’s if you’re lucky.

  He couldn’t eat, but after heaving up a few spoons of rice, he drank and drank. The shakes became more pronounced as we erected the tent on a flat patch behind the hedge. He put on the clean T-shirt he’d kept at the bottom of his pack while I washed sick into a rock pool.

  In the pitch black of the night I could see nothing in the tent; there was no moon to give even a faint outline to anything. Every moan and whimper made me switch the torch on, checking on what I’m not sure; it wasn’t as if I could do anything anyway.

  ‘Water, need some water.’

  There was no phone reception and by four o’clock the battery had died in the cold. To get help I’d have to leave him there and try to find a house. I didn’t want to leave him. I switched the torch on, recklessly wasting the batteries.

  ‘Smell, that smell, sickly shit smell, what is it?’

  ‘I can’t smell anything.’

  ‘It smells.’

  All I could smell was washing powder on the only clean T-shirt.

  ‘Lotus flower and melon. Try to sleep.’

  ‘Stinks.’

  I ran the torch around the tent, checking everything was in its place, familiarity soothing the panic. Over the days on the path, the green dome of the tent had become our home. Every evening we began a ritual of filling our home with our possessions. The self-inflating mattresses first, then a small fleece blanket over them, then the sleeping bags, then us, then the rucksacks by our feet at the entrance. Then we unpacked the rucksacks, putting cooking equipment in the porch, then clothes spread across the remaining uncovered groundsheet to block the cold, before attaching the torch to a karabiner hanging from a loop above the entrance zip. Finally, I made tea while Moth read from the tiny slim volume of Beowulf, the only book we carried. Is it human nature to crave ritual? Is it instinctive to construct a safe environment before we allow ourselves to sleep? Can we ever truly rest without that security? It was all I could cling to in that tent, somewhere on the coast, with a dying man falling into withdrawal from a central nervous system depressant, a Class 5 controlled substance in America but still uncategorized in the UK.

  I lay close to Moth to stop him shivering and passed the night flicking the torch on and off, imagining myself two hundred years ago attracting smugglers to the shore. I gave up on sleep when a faint light crept into the green. He was finally peaceful and breathing deeply. I quietly got out of the sleeping bag and unzipped the door but managed to fall out of the tent, breaking the leg off the stove support as I went. My torch-flashing had done no good: never a crate of rum when you really need one.

  Moth eventually woke at nine, as I was sticking the stove leg together with a roll of micropore plaster. He’d stopped shaking but had a crushing headache, his joints ached and the shoulder pain was worse. I made tea, twice, and then went to the stream to get more water. Mugs of hot tea had become a lifeline. Initially the soothing effect of the hot liquid on jangling nerves had been priceless, but now it filled a hole where food should be. I couldn’t be bothered to take the tent down and Moth wasn’t strong enough; if someone came to throw us off then I’d pack it away. The rock pools made a perfect washing bowl and I scrubbed the clothes with water and shampoo; they smelt better but dried crusty with salt and slightly sticky. I cut the ripped leggings off at the knees with a tiny pair of nail scissors to make a pair of shorts, and left everything to dry on the rocks.

  The Bideford Black stretched and split into the sea like a muscle of land reaching to its furthest point. In the narrow gaps between the shiny, smooth blackness, dark pools formed in hidden depths of salt water. The sunlight reflected from the surface, but when I put my hand in to feel the empty, smooth, cold rock at the base of the pool, it wasn’t there; the hole went down and down, opening wider as it went. No ammonites or crabs, but a deep, mysterious hole that might hold unknown caverns and mysterious creatures. Slightly spooked by what could be beneath my feet, I scoured the beach for driftwood, building a small fire as the evening began to cool, slowly feeding it as Moth huddled in his sleeping bag next to me and shivered. Then another night of wasted batteries.

  Wandering along the beach in the early light, I collected more bits of driftwood for a fire. On the sharp grass at the top of the rocks, amongst the pink thrift, was a rough shelter made from bits of wood and washed up plastic. Someone had put benches inside and hung seaweed around. I was playing house, arranging some shells with the seaweed, when Moth hesitantly walked over the rocks towards me with two mugs held precariously in front of him. I took the mugs of tea and we sat inside.

  ‘Welcome home, Ray. What do you think to our new place?’

  ‘It’s great. I always wanted somewhere with lots of light and a sea view.’

  ‘Should we go back to Wales, camp somewhere and beg the council for a roof? Or shall we just stay here, make the shack better, live on the beach? I mean, what exactly are we going to do when this is over?’ The great unspoken question. What would we do?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We sat around in the shelter and in the shade of the hedge watching a group of turnstones. Compact and beautiful little wading birds with white chests and mottled chestnut backs, hopping deftly between the black rock and the seaweed on spindly orange legs. Their strong pointed beaks quickly flipping stones to find the edible treats beneath. They must have been on their way north or south, or perhaps non-breeding birds just hanging out for the summer. We hung out with them: Moth, cold and aching in his sleeping bag, dozed fitfully in the sun, while I collected more driftwood and dried seaweed for the fire. As the sun set we realized that we actually couldn’t see Wales any more. It had slipped away without us noticing. The only land mass was Lundy, getting much closer. The fire crackled to embers and Wales had gone; we were alone on a beach in Devon, no home, no hope of getting one, just the path and our feet.

  Moth groaned through the night, the aches in his joints getting worse until finally he fell into a sound sleep. Was the Pregabalin hell over? I lay and watched him, but he didn’t wake and finally my own eyes closed. He woke around midday, more alert, a little stronger, ate a cereal bar and was ready to move on.

  ‘We can’t stay, we’ve only got food for one more day. Let’s go to Clovelly. We can get some more supplies there, I’m sure, and it can’t be more than five miles.’

  We climbed up from the beach and back on to the path that rose and fell in relentless jerks. Very quickly Moth was exhausted. The little shop in Bucks Mills had closed ten minutes before we reached it, so we headed up into the woods. Not even halfway to Clovelly and we had to stop. A glimpse of green through the trees made us scramble through the undergrowth, throw our packs over and paratrooper roll under an electric fence into a lush green corner of a field, surrounded on three sides by trees and in a slight dip, completely hidden from view. We pitched the tent and, desperately hungry, ate the last of the rations, leaving four digestive biscuits for breakfast. It didn’t matter; we’d be in Clovelly the next day.

  7. Hungry

  I sat outside in the soft, dewy light of another dry morning and made a cup of tea to dunk the last of the biscuits. My legs itched in my newly cut shorts, probably because of the salt-water laundry.

  ‘Moth, come out, I’ve made the tea.’ Actually, my legs were really itchy.

  ‘Wow, look at your legs, amazing.’ Was he still ill? My legs aren’t bad, but they’re definitely not that remarkable either. ‘Lo
ok at that: ladybirds.’

  Rather than layers of sweaty salt, my legs were crawling in ladybirds. I stood up and found they were all over me. In fact they were everywhere. Over the tent, the stove and, as he stood up, Moth too. Their tiny feet all heading towards the sky as they lifted into flight, migrating towards their first breakfast from our outstretched arms. A lifetime spent in the natural world had taught me how the ladybird parent lays hundreds of eggs in an area where there’s a high population of aphids, so that when they hatch they’re in the right place for a ready meal. But they were too special and the shiny red wonders too numerous: there had to be more to it than that; they had to have a meaning for us. We stood in the early morning, watching hundreds of tiny creatures stretch their wings for the first time and lift into flight from our fingertips. No, I couldn’t be scientific about it, and clung to the myth of the ladybird bringing good luck, carrying it with me in a rosy, spotted glow. I watched the pink aura lift from Moth and tried to believe in miracles.

  ‘You know, I’m feeling good today.’

  ‘Was it the ladybirds?’

  ‘No. I think it’s because I’ve stopped taking those tablets; I feel as if I’ve just walked out of a fog. It’s really quite painful, but I’m going to see how it goes without them. I’ll take a few ibuprofen, but I feel different, clearer. Let’s go to Clovelly and get something to eat. I’m starving.’

  ‘Still think it’s the ladybirds.’

  The weather changed rapidly and rain began to fall relentlessly through the trees. The gravel track of the Hobby Drive wound on around endless corners that never opened on to Clovelly. Reminders of our hunger were everywhere, even in flocks of juvenile pheasants eating from grain containers at the edge of the wood. We’d been hungry for a week, but my stomach had started to squeeze and I was feeling lightheaded. Could we boil the pheasant grain?

  Clovelly is run as an estate, all the houses being owned and rented by the estate company, controlled by descendants of the family who’ve owned it for nearly three hundred years. It’s known mainly for its very steep cobbled street running down to the harbour through picture-perfect cottages. But it didn’t appear and the road, the woods and the pheasants went on and on.

  ‘The actor from that film lives here. His wife died of motor neurone disease, you know.’

  ‘That’s really sad. What actor?’

  ‘You remember, that film about walking from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. But they lived with carers and a house, not actually on the path. I don’t want to die in a tent.’

  ‘You’re not going to die in the tent. Do you think he actually walked much at all or was it just for the film?’

  I realized that I envied the actor a little. Not for losing the woman he loved, but for still having their home, full of their memories and their life together; he could close his eyes and picture her reading in her chair, or looking out of the window. What would I have?

  ‘Do you think this is just a masochistic way of pretending we’re not homeless? That we’ve still got a purpose?’ The pheasants drifted away from our feet and re-clustered behind us. The hunger was intense now, and I had a headache.

  ‘Of course it is.’ Moth had stopped, amazed by what he was seeing. ‘What the hell is that? Tell me I’m not still hallucinating.’

  ‘No, that’s a really big turkey.’

  ‘Why is there a huge grey turkey in the woods with the pheasants?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I can smell cars; we must be here.’

  We dodged the sign that said six pounds fifty each to enter and headed down the cobbled street of Clovelly, the weight of our packs adding to the momentum. The shop wasn’t really a shop, more a glorified tuck shop with sweets and ice cream for the visitors.

  ‘You’ll have to go to the pub if you want food, or the visitor centre.’

  We carried on down to the harbour, and sat in the clearing drizzle.

  ‘Maybe they’ll do cashback at the pub if we share a bowl of chips.’

  A spotty youth walked across the stone arc of the harbour, dressed in black as if he was about to start work in the bar. Eating an enormous Cornish pasty. I was so hungry I contemplated putting my hand out to catch the flakes of pastry as they fell to the ground. He was just a youth, he wouldn’t mind.

  ‘Mate, where did you get that pasty? There was nothing in the shop.’

  He looked slightly shocked to be spoken to by a middle-aged, smelly tramp and contemplated us while he finished chewing.

  ‘They sell them in the visitor centre.’

  ‘We thought about going to the pub. Are the meals reasonable in there?’

  ‘No. I work in this one; they charge a fortune. They even charge me. That’s why I always go to the visitor centre to buy a pasty before I start work. I mean, that and the girl with pink hair that sells them.’ He smiled.

  ‘Sorry to hear that, mate. Oh well, thanks for the tip. It’s tough to find a cheap pub around here.’

  The boy seemed to sense we were kindred spirits and perched on the bench nearby.

  ‘Tell me about it. I won’t pay a penny into the pockets of the upper class around here. They’ve got plenty of their own. That’s the way it is here. It’s all owned by Him up on the hill.’

  ‘You’re not keen on it here then? I thought it would be a nice place to live.’

  ‘Well, bad boy in the posh village. I’m joining the army soon. Time to get away from here.’

  ‘There must be a lot of positive things about living here though? I mean, it’s idyllic, and there’s the girl with the pink hair.’

  ‘No, she ignores me anyway. I do go beating with the shoot though; the estate boys are a good laugh.’

  ‘You know about the shoot? Tell me: what’s with the turkeys?’

  ‘What, the turkeys in the woods? Not many people spot those. They keep them because they encourage the pheasants to come to eat, then at the Christmas shoot there’s a bonus paid if you bag the turkey. They get to shoot their own dinner and win a bottle of whisky for doing it. We just get a fiver for a whole day trudging around the woods. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Enjoy your walk.’

  ‘Good luck in the army.’ I feared he may be just swapping one hierarchy for another, but he seemed as if life had equipped him with the resilience to deal with it.

  We were nearly on our hands and knees by the time we reached the top of the hill and the visitor centre. Having only eaten one biscuit all day, my head was spinning.

  The big restaurant looked really promising and we had cash in the bank. We laid our waterproofs over the chairs to dry, plugged the phone in to charge and decided on the cheapest thing on the menu. The girl with pink hair looked at us apologetically and explained that they had closed five minutes ago and she wasn’t allowed to sell anything else.

  ‘Well, could we just have a pot of hot water maybe?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Go on then, if you just put some money in the tip jar.’

  ‘Couldn’t I just buy two of those pasties? We’re walking the coastal path and we’ve run out of food. We thought we’d be able to buy some at the shop …’

  ‘Oh no, you can’t get food there. I can’t sell them now we’re closed. Go and sit down, I’ll bring your water.’

  The clothes steamed as we sat and waited.

  ‘What are we going to do? We have to get food.’ The table next to us had been vacated by a family, leaving behind plates of untouched salad. I was just trying to gather my courage to move two plates to our table, when the girl with pink hair came over.

  ‘Just got to wait until the boss goes, then you can have some pasties to take away. I’m supposed to throw them away if they’re not sold, but that’s such a waste, you might as well have them. I can’t let you go without taking some food. It’d be like letting my gran go to starve under a hedge. It wouldn’t be right.’ Her gran? Wow, I must be looking rough.

  ‘Thank you so much, that’s really kind.’ Maybe I could do
something in return. ‘We’ve met some really nice people here, like the boy who buys pasties and works at the pub – he was really nice, very chatty.’

  ‘I know, but he’s joining the army. I really don’t want him to go.’

  ‘Maybe you should tell him? You never know, I think he might feel the same.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  We left with a bag of pasties and bought four packs of fudge and a bottle of locally brewed pear cider from the trinket shop on the way out – paying with the bank card so we could get some cash back.

  The boy on the harbour had got under my skin. I understood his sense of them and us in the village. Growing up as the daughter of a tenant farmer on a large country estate, I didn’t have to ask him to explain who ‘He’ was. As a child watching people in the village ‘doff their caps’ to the landlord, treating him and everyone connected to him with a reverential respect, I empathized with the boy’s disdain. It was that upbringing which drove me to join socialist rallies, protest against the poll tax, protest against the American nuclear warheads at Greenham Common, protest against anything really. When my parents tried to make a match between me and a farm owner’s son, it was the anti-establishment, anti-control sense of rebellion that drove me to run as hard as I could towards Moth and his belief that freedom is the most important right we have. Mum never really forgave me for giving up the security of a life married to a man with acres, and until the day she died never accepted Moth as being worthwhile. Walking through the woods in the falling light, the damp smell of the undergrowth acidic in the air, I could almost hear her laughing at me.