The Saint of Santiago de Compostela

By Sandra Groom

How far would you travel for a miracle?

Carrie Johnson is looking forward to celebrating her seventieth birthday in Santiago de Compostela. But an unexpected phone call turns her plans upside down. Should she go against the wishes of her family and embark on the strenuous Camino across north-western Spain, or start behaving in a way her daughter thinks more suitable for a woman her age?

Kit Althorp has everything she always wanted. A husband, daughter, and a home of her own. When her mother flees to Spain, Kit decides to launch a rescue mission to bring her home. But is it Kit, or her mother, who needs rescuing?

Lara Gordon is an Australian living in Kathmandu, Nepal. When her old friend Carrie invites her to join her on the Camino de Santiago, Lara jumps at the chance. As well as a relaxing holiday, it also gives Lara the perfect excuse to reconnect with her Spanish boyfriend. When faced with a difficult choice, will Lara finally learn to put the needs of others ahead of her own?

Join Carrie, Kit and Lara as they walk the Camino and discover how a vow can deliver enlightenment, a promise can bloom into forgiveness, and a prayer can be answered by a miracle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Groom
• Release date: Mar 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645341416

Book preview

Prologue

It was late in the day when the two women finally reached the cliffs of Finisterre Faro. Below them the Atlantic Ocean roared and bellowed as it smashed against the shore. They leaned into the wind, catching their breath and gazing at the vast expanse of sea and sky.

‘Are you ready?’ asked the first woman.

The second woman nodded. Her breath was steady but her eyes and the set of her mouth gave away her inner turmoil.

The footpath north of the lighthouse wound along the narrow ridge towards the Piers Sagrades, a weathered row of sacred stones. This was where the Ara Solis, an ancient devotional altar, had once stood. For millennia, worshipers had gathered here to witness the sun dipping below the horizon, a transformation from finite to infinite, mortal to immortal. Today, the two women had come to witness this same miracle.

Finisterre Faro also marked the furthest point of the Camino de Santiago. It was said that this was where the real pilgrimage began. An opportunity to create the life you truly want, or celebrate a life well lived.

They found a natural hollow in the hillside overlooking the ocean and sat quietly, each lost in her own thoughts. As the setting sun descended in the sky it appeared to grow in size and an orange haze formed over the moving water. All too soon the sun’s rim touched the horizon, paused, then started to slip away.

The younger of the two quietly sobbed, her tears mingling with the dried salt spray on her cheeks. Far out to sea, the sun’s disappearing edge turned a deep, luminous green. It flashed, a last brilliant gift to those it was leaving behind. And then it was gone.

Chapter One

Carrie Johnson ignored the first call when it rudely interrupted her Spanish language podcast. Probably one of those scammers her daughter Kit liked to warn her about, insinuating that she was some naive old biddy who would give her details to someone pretending to be from the bank or power company. She let it ring out without even slowing her brisk pace, then returned to repeating, ‘¡Hola! Mi nombre es Carrie’ in the pauses after the instructor. In six weeks she’d be putting the damp of an English autumn behind her and travelling to Saint Jean Pied-de-Port, a small village on the French border. St Jean was the starting point of the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, a 480-mile traverse of the mountains, plains and valleys of northern Spain. There was no time for distractions. Carrie had far more important considerations, such as breaking in her new hiking boots.

Only another half hour to the turnaround, then the trail would take a wide sweeping turn and lead her home. Twelve miles, her longest walk so far, and she was feeling fit and strong. A refreshing breeze laden with the scents of the countryside lifted over the rounded brow of Beacon Hill. Her senses were awakened by the musty, organic aroma of fallen leaves mingled with the rich sweetness of ripe stone-fruit. Through the oaks’ solid limbs Carrie could see patches of blue sky streaked with cloud. Many of the trees showed bare branches where they had shed their golden adornments, nature in her full mature glory. The browns and reds and oranges were present in the foliage all year round, it was just that in the spring and summer they were masked by green. As the season turned their underlying colours emerged in a display of vibrant glory. Ripe, mellow, bathed in the splendour of nature; autumn had always been Carrie’s favourite time of year.

Kit said that at her age she should be taking things easy. But Carrie had no intention of slowing down. Why should she? She’d waited most of her life for this freedom and wasn’t going to give it up now. So despite Kit’s disapproval (or if Carrie was being perfectly honest, perhaps because of it), she was already planning her next adventure. She was going walk the Camino de Santiago and celebrate her seventieth birthday by lighting a candle in the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela.

A tangle of blackberry bushes spilled over the path, their fruit bursting with sweet perfume. Among the spiky thorns a red admiral butterfly had settled. As Carrie watched it fluttered away on black velvet wings. She plucked a plump berry free from the hedgerow and popped it into her mouth, savouring the sweet tartness. The loamy aroma of composting vegetation and distant woodsmoke hung in the cool, moist air. It felt so good to be alive.

Bzzt-bzzt, bzzt-bzzt. A ringtone cut across the singsong voice of the Spanish teacher. Carrie glared at her phone, squinting to make out the caller ID without the help of her reading glasses. ‘Hello. This is Carrie.’ She kept up her brisk pace. Still seven miles until home and a nice cup of tea.

‘Hello, Mrs Johnson. This is Doctor Fatima Khan. Do you have time to talk right now?’

Carrie slowed her pace. ‘Hello, Fatima. I’m out for a walk but can stop for a few minutes to talk.’ She’d had her flu shot this season, and a routine mammogram last week. Was she due to have her blood pressure and cholesterol checked? She stopped beneath an oak tree and uncapped her water bottle.

‘The results from your mammogram are back.’ Doctor Khan paused before continuing. ‘Carrie, unfortunately we’ve detected an abnormality in your left breast. It’s probably nothing to worry about, but I’d like to refer you for a biopsy and ultrasound.’

Carrie slowly lowered the drink bottle from her lips. Even though the doctor hadn’t uttered it, the word ‘cancer’ buzzed in her head like the incessant drone of a blowfly trapped behind glass. ‘Abnormality…’ she stammered. The buzzing grew louder and Carrie lost her train of thought. Sweat prickled her scalp and her heart thudded.

Doctor Khan’s voice sounded like it was coming from the far end of a tunnel. ‘As I said, it’s probably nothing to worry about. Only one in four women with an abnormal screening result will be diagnosed with…’ She paused again, and Carrie heard her softly draw breath ‘…with cancer.’

Cancer. It felt like someone had drawn the pin on a landmine and thrown it to her. What was she supposed to do with this, this horrifying thing she held in her hands, silently ticking and ready to explode at any moment? Doctor Khan’s voice drifted in and out of Carrie’s awareness. ‘…undergo more tests… NHS… read through the brochures… I’ll arrange an appointment…Breast Cancer Clinic…’ Finally, Carrie heard her own polite thank you and goodbye.

‘¿De dónde viene?’ asked a bright voice. Carrie yanked at her earphones and fumbled with cold fingers to stop the podcast. Her hand crept to her left breast and she gently squeezed the flesh through layers of clothing, imagining a tiny lump like a malignant seed burrowing deep inside her. How long had it been silently attacking her? What if it had already germinated and taken root in her body?

Carrie dropped her hand. She must stay positive. Mind over matter, that’s what her meditation instructor always said. Her brain scrambled for the statistic quoted by Doctor Khan. Twenty-five percent of lumps turn out to be nothing, or was it seventy-five percent? She couldn’t remember.

But what if she was one of the unlucky ones? She shuddered, recalling her husband’s last weeks ravaged by cancer and pain medication and the side effects of aggressive chemotherapy. It had been nearly five years, but the trauma of his death still overshadowed their long marriage. If the worst came she didn’t want to go through that. Months of pain and hospitals and illness and drugs? No, she wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t.

Carrie shivered in her sweat-dampened clothes. If she turned around now it was still nearly six miles to Barrow. She would keep going, even though her limbs felt stiff and all she wanted to do was retreat to the sanctuary of home and calm her swirling thoughts. A formation of geese passed overhead, migrating south as winter crept in. A wave of sorrow flooded over her. What if she had to cancel her trip? The plane tickets had been booked and her friend was flying all the way from Nepal to meet her. She would hate to let her down. Lara had been training by walking the Himalayan foothills, Carrie the hills and dales of Leicestershire, both of them dreaming of six weeks in Spain.

She’d only met Lara the previous year, but they’d struck up an instant friendship. She’d thought Lara was just being polite when she’d expressed an interest in the Camino, saying it was on her ‘bucket list’. For most people a bucket list was really a procrastination list in disguise, but not for Lara. She was a woman who decided what she wanted then went out and got it. Carrie couldn’t think of anyone else she’d rather be doing the trip with. She could see them both now, sharing a plate of tapas and sipping on long cool drinks after a day spent walking in the sun. Gathered at communal tables alongside fellow pilgrims from all around the world. Celebrating mass at the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela on her birthday. These were the things to focus on, not a tiny collection of abnormal cells which might turn out to be a false alarm.

Carrie replaced her earphones and pressed play on the podcast, hoping it would drown out the sense of dread lodged in the pit of her stomach. ‘¡Hola! Mi nombre es Carrie. Buen Camino, Peregrina,’ she repeated slower than before, her words not quite making it out in time before the instructor began the next line. She forced her body in the direction of Beacon Hill and her mind in the direction of the Camino.

Chapter Two

Kit Althorp strode down the corridor of the Leicester Royal Infirmary towards the nurses’ station, the heels of her patent-leather pumps tapping out a satisfying rhythm against the highly polished linoleum floor.

A woman wearing a light blue blouse with white piping looked up from her computer screen as Kit approached. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked in a thick Midlands accent. Kit’s eyes flicked across nurse’s name badge and gold lapel pin. A staff, two intertwining snakes, topped with pair of wings. Anne Walmsley, Registered Nurse.

‘Hello, Sister. I’m here to pick up my mother. Mrs Johnson.’

‘Please, call me Anne.’ She smiled warmly at Kit then bent her head to check the computer. ‘Carrie, here we are. The doctor has signed her discharge, but she’ll need to visit the specialist in seven days for a post-operative check and to discuss the next stage of her treatment. Would you like me to go through her wound care with you now?’ She looked up at Kit and tilted her head, as if trying to see a resemblance to Carrie. ‘I must say what a delight it’s been caring for your mum, she has such a positive attitude.’

Kit’s mouth hardened. Seemed like her mother had the nurses eating out of her hand. Typical. It was a different story when Kit tried to help her; she’d be accused of interfering. Anne came out from behind the counter with a handful of leaflets. ‘Let’s sit over here in the waiting area and I can explain it all to you. You’ll be nursing your mother through her recovery I take it?’

Kit sighed. ‘She’s going back to her flat in Barrow, but I’ll pop over twice a day to check on her and fix her meals. I did want her to come and stay with us but she refused. Independent to a fault, that’s my mother.’

Anne placed a reassuring hand on Kit’s arm. ‘Some people prefer to be in their own home when they’re feeling poorly. She’s very lucky to have you on hand if she needs anything. So many of our older patients don’t have anybody, it can be ever so lonely for them.’

‘Don’t let her hear you call her old, she’ll tear a strip off you!’ It had meant to come out as a joke, but Kit flinched at how bitter she sounded.

Anne hastily withdrew her hand. ‘No, of course. Now, I have some information here on post-mastectomy care. Most people find their wound takes around two to three weeks to heal, but it may be several months before her chest and arm fully recover. The area will be quite bruised, swollen and stiff at first. She’ll need to take things easy for a few weeks.’

Kit had been telling her to take things easy for years. Maybe now she’d be listened to. And perhaps they could have the sort of relationship they’d shared before Dad died and her mother went through her mid-life crisis. Going off to India and getting her nose pierced, at her age! Well, all that was behind her now, thankfully. It was time for her to act like a proper mother and grandmother and stop this foolish gallivanting around.

Anne spread out a full colour brochure on the low table and pointed to a photo of a woman with one full breast and a large scar where the other had been removed. Kit flinched and looked away. She wasn’t in any way squeamish, but the shocking reality of what her mother had experienced was right there in front of her. Memories of her father’s cancer were a hazy jumble of hospital wards and of him asleep in his armchair as the chemotherapy sapped away his strength. Then later as he retreated to the bed they’d set up for him in the downstairs drawing room, her mother stoically caring for him alongside daily visits from community nurses. Although heartbreaking, it had been a peaceful end. But actually cutting off part of her mother’s body? The very part which had nourished Kit as a baby? It felt so brutal and violent.

Anne explained how to bathe the wound and the exercises Carrie should do to ease the stiffness in her arm and shoulder. Kit avoided looking at the photographs and instead watched as medical staff moved around the nurses’ station. She felt a stab of envy. If things had worked out differently she would be a Registered Nurse by now. She loved her daughter Sarah to bits, but falling pregnant while single and still at training college had certainly derailed her career plans. Post-natal depression was nothing to be ashamed of, but it wasn’t just something you just snapped out of either. The crippling self-doubt had lingered for years. What if she failed at both motherhood and university? Better to dedicate yourself to one thing and do it properly rather than spread your energy too thin. It was of course too late to return to college now. How could she juggle studying and raising a family? And who would pay for it all?

Kit had done well at maths and science at school, was ordered, disciplined, and ran her home with an almost military precision. So much so that Nick sometimes called her Sergeant Major as a joke. Compared to some of his other nicknames for her, Kit hadn’t minded this one so much. Nursing had been borne out of conflict, she reminded him, and Florence Nightingale had been a nurse in the Crimean War. She caught sight of herself in one of the glass panels of the waiting area and straightened her back. It was a pity they had done away with those lovely starched uniforms though. She stole a glance at the nurse’s crumpled trousers and white trainers and ran her hands down the length of her own neat navy-blue skirt.

‘Do you have any questions?’ Anne folded the brochure and handed it to Kit.

‘No, I think I have it all. She can bathe and shower as usual but shouldn’t use any soap or deodorant around the wound. The bruising will fade in two to three weeks, and the stitches will dissolve in a similar time. If the wound becomes hot and red, or she develops a fever, I should call the hospital immediately for advice.’

Anne raised her eyebrows, appearing surprised that Kit had absorbed the instructions so quickly. ‘Very good. I think you have everything covered.’

Kit gave her a crisp nod and stood up. She liked to think her mind was organised like one of those old-fashioned library index systems, the ones with the little wooden drawers which, when pulled out, revealed neat rows of cards. Facts and figures, all recorded and cross-referenced in an orderly manner, ready to be retrieved. She quickly grasped the logic of things and could readily categorise them. From telephone numbers to her daughter’s after school activity schedule, Kit remembered everything. Even the recipe of Nick’s favourite chocolate cake—the one she prised from her mother-in-law but suspected she never made quite as well as he remembered.

But this filing system could also be a hindrance. Events from years earlier felt like they had happened yesterday. That girl Cherie Capper from her schooldays who was now the perfectly nice mother of one of Sarah’s school friends? Kit could vividly remember Cherie the seven-year-old who didn’t want to be her friend over twenty years earlier. The last time Nick told her she was beautiful? On their wedding day, four years ago. And the last time they had made love? Exactly three months. Three months of wasted opportunities to have a baby of their own and complete their family.

Clutching the brochures in her hand, Kit followed Anne down a brightly lit hallway. Staff in blue scrubs hurried past with busy importance. Ahead of them a woman in a green hospital gown supported herself with an IV stand. She took a few hesitant steps then stopped to rest before taking a few more. Perhaps another cancer patient like her mother? Kit felt a swelling in her chest. Did this woman have a husband, children and grandchildren who loved her, or was she facing this battle alone? As they drew closer the woman lifted her bald head and greeted Anne with a smile. An oxygen tube protruded from her nose and ran along the side of her cheek.

Anne cheerfully returned her greeting. ‘Well done, Judith. Great to see you up and about. You’ll be running marathons again in no time!’

Kit stared, then averted her eyes. The woman couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five.

Her mother’s ward was at the very end of the corridor. Anne pushed aside a set of double doors and pointed to a curtained-off cubicle near the window. Kit thanked her, but didn’t move any further into the room as the doors shut behind her and the nurse’s soft steps moved away. After arranging her face into what she hoped was a cheerful yet no-nonsense expression, she walked to her mother’s bed and swept the curtains aside.

An elderly woman was sitting in the vinyl visitors chair, head dipped and hands quietly folded in her lap as if in prayer. The bed beside her had been stripped bare, the mattress naked and vulnerable. Kit frowned. Who was this? And where was her mother? The frail figure raised its head. Kit recoiled before quickly recovering.

‘Mum?’

Frail wasn’t a word that anyone would associate with Carrie Johnson. Feisty, prickly, bossy, fiercely loyal, but never frail. She had always been petite and fine-featured, with curly blond hair (now grown out to silver white but still worn longer than Kit considered suitable for a woman her age), and a sartorial style Nick sneeringly described as ‘individual’. The layers of brightly coloured scarves and beads that had seemed exotic when Kit was young now just made her mother look eccentric. Kit felt unaccountably sad, like a child at a Christmas pantomime who realises it is all an elaborate deception—flimsy plywood sets and the Widow Twankey a man in drag.

Although Carrie had only been in hospital a few days the healthy glow had leached from her cheeks and harsh overhead lighting accentuated the lines on her face. Kit noticed she’d made an effort with her appearance, but the slash of lipstick had obviously been applied without a mirror and the pink shade was almost grotesque in its girlishness. The chemical tang of disinfectant cut through an underlying sourness, like flowers left too long in a vase.

Kit felt an uncomfortable clenching in her stomach. She ran through her mental index of emotions, but found nothing to describe the sensation. Was it sorrow? No, sorrow was grey and smothering. This was bile green and gripped at her with sharp talons. Anger? She knew that emotion too; it rose crimson in your chest and exploded from your head, smashing through carefully constructed defences. But this was squeezing in on her, forcing her to confront ugly truths. Then it hit her; she felt disgust. Disgust at herself for

being so weak and fearful. Disgust at the brutality of

what her mother had endured, and what she was yet to endure during chemotherapy. Disgust at the cancer that had ravaged and was now threatening to destroy her one

link to a happier past. Sorrow or anger would be understandable in this situation, but this? Disgust? What a shameful emotion.

‘Hello, Kit dear.’ Carrie pulled herself to her feet, a fleeting grimace of pain crossing her features. ‘You really didn’t need to come, I could have caught a taxi.’

Her voice jolted Kit into action. In one swift movement she closed the gap between them and seized Carrie firmly under the elbow. ‘Don’t be silly, Mum. It’s no trouble.’

Carrie shrugged her elbow free. ‘Thank you, dear.

I can manage.’ Kit swallowed her exasperation. Nothing had changed.

It took fifteen laborious minutes to reach the lobby. Carrie insisted on pausing at each and every bed on the ward to say goodbye to her fellow-patients, wishing them well in their recoveries. Then at the nurses’ station she stopped and personally thanked the staff for their care. Finally, Kit was able to settle her mother on a seat near the glass entrance doors while she bought the car around.

‘I see they made you take that thing out,’ Kit said, noticing the tiny hole left from her mother’s absent nose ring. She was very close to Carrie’s face, leaning right across to fasten the seatbelt and adjust it to avoid her wound. A faint odour from the ward clung to Carrie’s hair and clothes. Once again Kit’s stomach clenched. Her mother was supposed to smell like sandalwood and soap, not disinfectant and decay. She clicked the seatbelt into place then cracked her window down an inch to let in some fresh air.

It was a forty-five minute drive from the hospital to Barrow-upon-Soar, although it seemed a lot longer. On the way they exchanged stilted comments about the weather and the quality of hospital food. Neither of them seemed willing or able to broach the subject which hovered between them like a malevolent spirit. What was the next stage of Carrie’s treatment, and what was her prognosis?

* * *

The slam of cupboard doors and rattle of cutlery echoed from the kitchen. ‘Do you have any biscuits?’ Kit called. Before Carrie could answer she appeared in the doorway of the sitting room, brandishing an empty tin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pick some up for you tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, dear.’ Carrie murmured, sinking back into the sofa. The painkillers had made her a little woozy.

Kit returned with a tray and placed it on the coffee table. ‘You would have been more than welcome to stay with us, Mum. The spare room is made up and we’d have loved

having you.’

‘I know, dear. But I’m quite happy here.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then. I’ll come straight over after dropping Sarah at school. And don’t forget to take your pills. I left them out on the bench for you.’

‘Thank you, dear. I’ll be quite alright.’ She noticed the single cup and saucer. ‘You’re not going to stay?’

‘No time, sorry. I need to stop at the shops before collecting Sarah. You’re having the stitches removed on Wednesday?’

Carrie nodded wearily.

‘And when’s your next appointment at the clinic to go over your treatment plan? Seven days the nurse said.’

‘Treatment plan?’ Carrie raised her head and frowned.

‘Yes, for the chemotherapy. The specialist spoke you about it, remember? Depending on how quickly you heal, they’ll start chemo in four to six weeks’ time.’

‘But…’

‘Oh, Mum.’ Kit came and sat next to her on the sofa, handbag on her knees and car keys in her hand. ‘I know it’s

a lot to take in, and probably a bit frightening, but I’ll

be there with you. That’s the good thing about me

coming along to your appointments, I can ask questions and take notes.’

‘But… I’ll be in Spain in four weeks.’

Kit stiffened and pulled herself away. ‘Don’t be silly, you’re not going to Spain. That’s completely ridiculous.’

‘Ridiculous? That’s exactly what you said when I went to Nepal. You told me I’d be robbed and left for dead in a gutter,’ said Carrie vehemently, the fogginess of the past few hours swept away by her indignation.

‘But this is different, Mum. You’ve got cancer.’

Carrie stared at her daughter, her mouth tense. Kit stared back, then after a few seconds let out an exasperated sigh and stood up. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mum,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘We can talk about this when you’re not so confused.’ The front door slammed shut behind her.

‘Confused? I know exactly what I’m doing,’ muttered Carrie. She listened for the sound of Kit’s car reversing down the driveway then rose from the sofa. Another bout of dizziness approached and she put a hand on the bookshelf to steady herself. Once it had passed she walked unsteadily to the front door and swung it open.

She stood on her front step, closed her eyes, and inhaled. The peppery scent of wet grass and rustle of wind through the branches of her beloved oak greeted her like old friends. First one foot, then the other. It might only be fifteen feet to the end of the garden and back, but it was a start.

Chapter Three

Kit unrolled a length of aluminium foil and laid it across the two servings of roast chicken, steamed potatoes and minted baby peas, firmly pinching around the edges of each plate. She put one in the fridge to take to her mother’s in the morning and the other in the oven on a low heat. The clock on the stove glowed eight-thirty. Nick had probably got caught up at the office, but he’d be home soon. He