The Accidental Cyclist (25 page)

For a while Icarus drifted out
of his physical being and flew along, above the trio, carried aloft
by his imaginary mythical wings. He looked down on himself, the
Grey Man and the Leader as they trundled along through the emerging
countryside and his chest was filled with an overwhelming happiness
and sense of well-being, a feeling so strong, so warm that it
seemed to melt the imaginary wax that held together the feathers of
flight, and he tumbled back down to earth with a slight bump and
found himself stopped at the side of the road.

“Time for something to eat and
drink,” said the Grey Man. “If we want to travel all day we need to
make sure there is enough fuel in the tank.”

“How far have we gone?” asked
The Leader, adding hopefully, “we must be nearly there.”

“Almost twenty miles,” said the
Grey Man. “That’s nearly a third of today’s distance.”

The Leader groaned.

A quarter of an hour later,
fortified by peanut butter sandwiches and a couple of curious bars
made from oats and dried fruit, the three continued on their way.
The Grey Man remained in the lead, not once making reference to the
map that flapped from his back pocket. He seemed to know his way
through these leafy lanes of Kent. They crossed over the top of the
North Downs and plunged into a long, winding descent. With their
heads down, elbows tucked in and their eyes straight ahead they
tried to gain maximum advantage from the force of gravity. The Grey
Man, the lightest and thinnest of our three riders, seemed to have
the greatest attraction to gravity, and it drew him downhill faster
than the other two. At the bottom of the hill they regrouped,
taking the left fork in the road. Icarus was breathless with
excitement. “Boy,” he said, “wasn’t that fun.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said The
Leader, “it was totally bloody scary.”

“That must be the longest
downhill in England,” said Icarus. “If I wasn’t carrying all this
luggage I’d go all the way back up and do it again.”

The Grey Man smiled wanly. “That
wasn’t a long downhill,” he said, “or even steep. Just wait until
we get to France, then you’ll find what real downhills are all
about. And uphills. That was nothing more than a hillock.”

Under his breath The Leader
mumbled something that seemed to rhyme with hillock. The Grey Man
did not hear, or pretended not to hear. He glanced at his watch,
and signalled for them to continue on their way. And so our three
riders pressed onwards into the dark green heart of deepest
Kent.

The sun was still high in the
sky, but it must have been nearly teatime. Icarus laboured along
beside the Grey Man. The Leader, contrary to that appellation, was
some way behind them. “I’m totally knackered,” said Icarus, using a
term he had recently learnt from The Leader, and of which his
mother would not have approved. He didn’t care. His mother was far,
far away and could not hear him. Moreover, he was too tired to care
about anything. “I don’t think I can go much further.”

“We’re nearly there,” said the
Grey Man. “See that roundabout up ahead?”

Icarus nodded.

“Well, we turn right there, and
up a short hill” – Icarus groaned – “up the hill, through the town,
then a short downhill and we will be there. This is where we will
spend the night.”

The Leader was falling back even
further, so The Leader stopped to wait for him, to encourage him
over the final mile.

Icarus turned at the roundabout
and set off up the short hill listlessly, head down, legs labouring
to turn the pedals. He noted that he was entering a small town. To
his left was a long stone wall that stretched along the road and
was overhung by trees. On the right were some comfortable Victorian
houses. Town Hill, the street name read. A droplet of sweat
trickled down from under Icarus’s helmet and into his eye. With a
grimy, gloved hand he rubbed his eye, which only made the stinging
worse, and succeeded in blurring his vision. He could see a black
blob on the edge of his right eye. Icarus blinked hard, but the
black blob seemed to grow larger. Steadily the blob grew level with
him – it seemed to be overtaking him. Icarus shook his head
violently to try to clear his vision, then looked across to his
right. Next to him, gliding gracefully, effortlessly up the hill
was a nun, her bicycle totally engulfed by her habit. She seemed to
have no legs – or if she did, they were hardly moving, Icarus
thought. As she slowly drew ahead of Icarus she turned her wimpled
head and gave him a beatific, dimpled smile, and sailed onwards and
upwards, propelled by some divine power. Icarus shut his eyes
tightly for a moment and imagined that an invisible rope linked
their two bicycles, and that the nun was effortlessly pulling him
up the hill. As if by a prayer answered, or by dint of his
imagination, Icarus felt the pressure on his legs lighten and he
was drawn up the hill. The nun, burdened by a sudden extra weight,
turned round to see what was holding her back. Icarus, jolted by
the sensation, opened his eyes and saw the nun looking at him, her
smile now gone. The invisible band snapped. The nun, released,
powered gracefully over the crest while Icarus, overcome by fatigue
and gravity, ground to a halt and, for the first time that day,
found himself pushing his bicycle.

At the summit he stopped and
waited for the Grey Man and The Leader. When they arrived, The
Leader looked even more tired than Icarus felt, if that was
possible.

“Where are we going to camp?”
Icarus asked.

“We won’t be camping tonight,”
said the Grey Man, “I’ve got somewhere special.”

The Leader, glassy eyed, was
silent. The Grey Man gave him a small push, so that he rolled
slowly down the main road through the town. Shops and pubs lined
the ancient, crooked street, unblemished except for a supermarket
that scarred the timber-framed facades. The Grey Man picked out a
tiny lane between the buildings, barely wide enough for a small
car. Immediately they were out of the town again, gliding down a
mossy, stone-walled tunnel topped by a leafy canopy. Down they
went, a quick drop, across a ford, the left through a wide set of
iron gates into a forecourt, where they stopped.

“This is it,” said the Grey Man,
“no more riding today.”

Icarus took in their
surroundings. A small stream burbled lightly alongside the
driveway, shaded by a giant willow, and other trees that he did not
recognise. He wanted to lie down in that stream and let the water
wash over him. Beyond the stream was a meadow filled with wild
flowers and … sheep. Yes, real sheep. Icarus was reminded of the
park opposite his mother’s flat. This was all so different, so
natural, so far away from that manufactured, manicured greenery.
And he had got here, all this way, under his own steam.

“Welcome, welcome, friends,” a
voiced thundered behind Icarus.

A large man in a threadbare
brown robe strode towards them, arms spread, a knotted white rope
just holding the wobbling belly in place. On his feet were a pair a
pink flip-flops.

“Hello, Brother Sam,” said the
Grey Man.

Brother Sam stopped and stared,
and stared. His eyes went blank for a moment and his brain seemed
to shift into neutral. After three or four seconds he blinked hard,
and as he opened his eyes Icarus could see that all the laughter
and life had returned. “Oh, my Lord,” Brother Sam exploded, “Peter,
it’s you. Welcome back. It’s so good to see you. Are these your
boys? What are you doing these days? It must be ten years since
last we saw you …”

The questions and statements
tumbled out of big Brother Sam’s mouth, and the Grey Man stood
there waiting for the torrent to subside. He couldn’t have answered
the questions even if he had tried.

Icarus looked at The Leader and
mouthed: “Peter?” The Leader shrugged, too tired even to express
surprise.

“I’ll tell you later,” said the
Grey Man. “Maybe. It’s another long story.”

The monastery was built in a
U-shape and at its heart was a large ancient stone barn, tall and
airy. Icarus, the Grey Man and The Leader were shown to a small
ancient caravan in the middle of an apple orchard.

“I’m afraid two of you will have
to share the double bed,” said Brother Sam. “I’ll leave you to
settle it. You can come and join us for tea at four o’clock.”

When he had gone Icarus turned
to the Grey Man and asked: “Peter? This is getting quite
confusing.”

“What is this place?” asked The
Leader, unconcerned about Icarus’s concern for the Grey Man’s many
monikers.

“I’ll explain,” said the Grey
Man. Icarus and The Leader both stood there, expecting an answer to
their question. But the Grey Man just sat on his bunk, thinking,
and not explaining anything. Finally Icarus said: “Well?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Grey Man. “I
was going to explain.” And then he thought a bit longer, then said:
“I used to be a wayfarer.”

“What’s a wayfarer?” Icarus
asked.

“Well, a person who chooses to
live on the road.”

“You mean a tramp,” said The
Leader.

“Or a beggar,” said Icarus.

“I suppose like a tramp,” said
the Grey Man, “but not a beggar. I’ve never begged. I’ve asked for
food, but not begged. There is a difference,” he explained,
although Icarus and The Leader weren’t sure what it was.

The Grey Man went on: “And while
I was on the road I wanted to be anonymous, incognito, so I
travelled about without calling myself anything. I just moved from
place to place, depending on the weather, or which way the swallow
flew, or just whichever way the spirit moved me. I would work if
any work was available, but only enough to keep me alive. I would
never stay in one place for more than two or three days. And I
would sleep wherever I could find a warm, dry, safe place.”

“It must have been quite a
lonely life,” said The Leader.

“Well, I wanted to be alone, but
it wasn’t lonely. There were – are – lots of other wayfarers who
I’d meet from time to time. And we would talk – talk about where
you could get a meal, or some work, or a place to stay for a few
nights. And this monastery here was one of them.”

“You used to stay in a
monastery?” said Icarus.

“Yes,” said the Grey Man, “most
of the places where we were welcomed were religious orders like
this. They weren’t all Christian, mind you. There were some
Buddhist and Sikh communities. And even some of the Christian ones
didn’t seem all that Christian. This was the place that I came back
to most often, where I felt most comfortable. Anyhow, finally one
very bad winter Brother Sam asked me if I would like to stay here
for a while, try to get my life back together. I said okay. But I
needed a name, and Peter was the first name that came into my
head.”

The three travellers joined the
monks for tea in a long, low library. There were about ten monks in
all, monks of all ages, shapes and sizes. They all wore the same
uniform brown habits, hitched up variously by leather belts, or
bits of rope or string, revealing underneath an array of sandals –
leather sandals, reef walkers, flip flops and plastic women’s
sandals. They had all obviously been working – some had hands grimy
from gardening, another wore a floral pinafore over his habit,
another wore mechanic’s overalls.

One monk who was almost as wide
as he was tall rolled in carrying a tray filled with mugs of tea,
and sliced fruit cake. The others helped themselves, then flopped
down into the comfortable armchairs that lined the whitewashed
room. Some of the monks were quiet, others talkative, loudly
regaling one another of their day’s exertions.

Some who recognised the Grey Man
gathered around him and asked him where he had been for the past
how many years, and where were the three travellers heading.

When he had finished telling the
brothers about his travels and his change in circumstance, the Grey
Man – or Peter, as he now appeared to be known – excused himself
from the company, saying: “I must just pop across the way to say
hello to the sisters.”

“The sisters?” asked Icarus as
the Grey Man disappeared past the window and through a carefully
tended cabbage patch.

“Oh, he’ll be wanting to say
hello to the nuns. They are over there,” said Brother Sam with a
wave vaguely in the direction of a cluster of ancient buildings on
the far side of the vegetable patch. “Peter used to get on very
well with the sisters. And they seemed to have a soft spot for him
too, heaven knows why.”

Icarus and The Leader were
sagging, slipping deep into the comfortable armchairs. Icarus hoped
that they might snatch a short nap before dinner, but he found that
he and The Leader were unable to turn down Brother Sam’s invitation
to wash up the tea mugs, then spend an hour in the cloisters
helping to weed the borders and flower beds. The fact that they had
no idea of what they were doing didn’t seem to bother Brother Sam.
“Everyone who stays here enjoys helping us with our little
day-to-day tasks,” he informed them joyfully.

Icarus and The Leader did not
see the Grey Man again until everyone was gathered around the vast
dining table for supper. He was standing at the table next to
Brother Sam, who summoned the two younger men to take the seats on
either side of them. The Leader promptly hauled out his chair and
sat down, only to be hauled up by the collar and the booming voice
of Brother Sam, who said: “Grace.”

“What?” said The Leader.

“Grace,” Brother Sam repeated.
“We don’t sit down until after the grace.”

Having never said grace in his
life, nor ever heard it being said, The Leader had absolutely no
idea what Brother Sam was talking about, but he was too weary to
argue or make a scene, so he stood up again and waited behind his
chair. Bowls of some steaming brown concoction was served up to
everyone at the table. Brother Sam recited something in a foreign
tongue, which to The Leader sounded like dominoes tumbling out of
his mouth. Before the last amens had finished echoing through the
cloisters the monks – and Brother Sam himself – were seated and
exchanging bottles of brown sauce for ketchup, Tabasco for the
pepper mill. Icarus and The Leader pulled out their chairs and sat
down.