Pilgrimage

Pilgrimage
I woke at three thirty without the need of an alarm clock. After forty years and being a Baker by trade, I just don’t need one. My bakery ‘The man with the golden bun’ is not doing well. Most of my trade has been lost to the local supermarket.
I still have a regular clientele, but it is no longer enough to make a living.
This fact led me into something of a hair brained scheme. To generate interest and get a little free advertising I decided to run in the Local Marathon.

I had the highly original idea of running dressed as a jam tart. Unfortunately the local costume hire shop could not help, even if it was for charity. One of my customers, Mrs. Daley, a happy large Barbadian woman offered help. She is a seamstress by trade and attends the Pentecostal church at the end of the high street. That woman is no stranger to a tambourine I can tell you.

Mrs. Daley spends a great deal of time making costumes for dance schools and carnivals. The jam tart costume turned out to be a riotous success. I had it on display in the shop, the local radio station interviewed me and so did the local paper. Trade picked up and I let be known that I intended to run on behalf of Shelter.

The race day came; I booked in with the marshals and made off down the route. The first couple of miles went by in a flash. I found myself happily carried along on waves of cheers, accompanied by a gorilla, Marylyn Monroe and Batman.

I started to drop back; a rod in the costume began to cut into an area just above my shorts. The gorilla wished me well and batman shook my hand. Marylyn Monroe collapsed and had to retire, her prosthetic limb had developed a fault.

I mistakenly wandered out of the first aid post to find myself outside of the route. That’s when I saw the bus that changed my life. It’s not easy getting on to a bus in a jam tart costume with a six foot diameter. I knew the bus route well and managed to get off two miles before the end of the marathon route. This meant I had to negotiate a couple of fences and a few alleyways in order to rejoin but incredibly I finished, card stamped and a hero.

Within a couple of days the jam tart caper came on top. The shop filled with reporters, I was a cheat and a fraud. Two weeks later the shop windows were smashed and someone painted, ‘here lives your cheating tart’ on the pavement outside the shop. I sold the premises to a Halal Butcher and decided to make good my escape.

The pilgrim route to Santiago de Compostella had long been a daydream. I’m not a holy Joe, but I do enjoy a good walk. Now homeless, but with a few bob in the bank I made my way to France.

I finally arrived in Oloron-Sainte-Marie. The bus pulled away and in the warm evening sun I found myself surrounded by the scent of chocolate. I spoke no French, had no home and only a basic idea of which way to head. I walked down toward a river grinning like a chimp.

I stopped at a bakery to buy some food. In pigeon French I asked the baker the way to Santiago. He appeared pleasantly surprised at one so naive. Somehow we managed to communicate; I told him I had been a baker.

He gave me bread, cheese an onion and water. He gave me long walking stick with a seashell nailed to the top. He seemed to be a religious bloke, which was lost on me. But his kindness wasn’t. I stood outside the shop hesitating; he smiled and pointed out the way I should go.

I waved back at him and began.

As I looked at the road ahead, the stone lifted from my back.

© Stephen Pullman 2011