The woman smiles at me and rings up the total, and I guiltily pay with my credit card. It’s only €5.39 and I’m sure she’d probably prefer cash.
‘C’est cassé?’she asks, gesturing towards my leg.
‘Oui,’ I reply, not 100per cent sure what she’s asked me, but sensing from the tone and her sympathetic face that it’s something to do with my having an injury.
Then, armed with a plastic bag and my crutch, I walk-hobble back to the van.
Just twenty minutes on and the campsite is beginning to come to life. The sun plays on the back of my neck and the place where my upper arms emerge from my T-shirt; it’s not hot yet, but packs enough heat to make me think of applying sun lotion when I get back to the van. A couple of joggers are out for a morning run together – one clearly a seasoned runner, all thigh muscles and appropriate kit. The other looks to be someone who’s trying to take up the habit. She passes me, face flushed, and gives a small, exhausted smile.
‘Bonjour!’ I say to everyone I pass. ‘Bonjour!’
Back in Cambridge, I barely say hello to anyone. Certainly not to people on the street. But there’s a different atmosphere here. Or maybe I just feel different here? I’m not rushing anywhere, I have time.
I can see Hal before he notices me. He’s opened Betty’s door fully and is standing at the stove, wearing the same T-shirt and shorts ensemble that he sported yesterday. His back is turnedand he seems to be studying something on the hob in front of him. There’s a little steam or smoke visible just over his head. Next to him, on the tiny counter, is a laptop, opened at his email page.
‘Breakfast?’ I suggest as I near the open doorway, and he jumps out of his skin.
‘Sarah!’ he squeaks, as if surprised to see me.
‘That’s me!’
‘Are you OK? I tried to call you, but…’ He nods to the bed where my mobile phone lies next to a set of keys.
‘Oh.’ I have the sudden urge to grab the phone. It feels weird not to have it on me. But I resist. ‘Yeah, I’m great. I just bought…’ I hold up the bag.
He holds up the saucepan to reciprocate. ‘Made porridge.’
I wrinkle my nose instinctively before forcing my skin back to straightness. ‘Oh, thank you. Did you have to look up a recipe or something?’ I nod towards his laptop.
Hal laughs. ‘Nah, just fielding some work that’s come in.’
‘You’re… multi-tasking?’ I feign astonishment. ‘But… but… you’re aman!’
‘And they said it couldn’t be done!’
He reaches into some sort of high locker and pulls out a jumble of wood that, with a little manipulation, folds out to form a little table and two chairs, which he assembles on the grassy patch outside the door. It feels a little bit like watching Mary Poppins draw a lamp out of her bag – there’s no way that he was hiding furniture in that tiny space.
Then, wordlessly, he takes my arm and helps me to one of the chairs. I realise, once I sink into it, that I feel completely exhausted. It’s such an effort walking in this thing, supporting myself on the crutch. It’s not just the physical side of things, but the coordination of it that exhausts me, I think. I mean, I’m relatively fit – I go to the gym a few times a week, do afew sit-ups here and there. But the thought process involved in remembering to place the crutch, then lean on it to take the weight from the boot, before putting my good leg forward, seems too much for my brain.
I catch Hal watching me from the van where he’s pouring hot water into two mugs, his forehead creased.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Just hope you’re not overdoing it.’
‘I’m fine,’ I lie.
‘OK, well let me know if you need… well, anything,’ he says, walking over with my cup of instant.
I’m tempted to reply: ‘Who are you? My mother?’Then realise that the last thing my mum would be doing in this situation is make me sit down. She’d be more likely to admonish me for being clumsy, then detail every instance from my childhood and adolescence in which I displayed this particular flaw.
Dad would have though, I think. And for a moment I’m undone. I add a sugar to my coffee and stir, focusing my attention on the swirling brown liquid and keeping my face from view.
Hal pours thick, grey, sludge-like substance into two bowls then brings them to the table. It looks almost like cement, but he takes a greedy spoonful from his own bowl and appears to be enjoying it.
‘Thanks,’ I tell him, wondering how insulted he might be if I say I’m too full after my pastry to try it. I take a sip of coffee and it’s surprisingly good.
‘Better than yesterday’s?’ he asks.
