Autumn in Quebec – Part 1: The Slow Walkers

The walking group met every Sunday at nine, under the old stone gate of the Plains of Abraham, and it was called the Slow Walkers by everyone who had ever been to one of its outings. Marguerite had joined it three weeks after the funeral of her husband Louis, because her daughter had begged her to get out of the house.

"You'll meet people," her daughter had said. "People who understand."

Marguerite had not wanted to meet people. But the maples along the river were turning gold and red, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and wet leaves, and she found herself lacing up her walking shoes on a Sunday morning anyway.

The group was small and cheerful: retired nurses, a former postman who told terrible jokes, two sisters who finished each other's sentences. And at the back, always the slowest, always last, a tall, thin man with a grey cap and a wooden walking stick carved with a fox.

"That's Henri," said the postman, with a wink. "He walks like a snail with opinions."

"He's very polite," said Marguerite.

"He's a widower," said the postman. "Like you. He doesn't talk about it. You'll get on."

Henri caught her eye as the group set off. He nodded, politely, and then, when she slowed on the steep path down to the river, he slowed too, falling into step beside her without a word.

"The leaves are beautiful this year," he said at last.

"Every year they are," said Marguerite. "We just forget to look."

"You're looking now."

She glanced at him. His face was lined and kind, his eyes a faded blue, and there was a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm looking at the leaves," said Marguerite. "Mostly."

"Mostly is a good place to start," said Henri.

They walked to the river, past the old stone houses and the golden trees. At the bottom of the hill he stopped, leaned on his stick and waited, as if he had all the time in the world.

"Are you tired?" he asked quietly.

"A little."

"Then we'll sit. There's a bench by the water, and it's not as cold as it looks."

They sat. The river moved slowly beneath them, reflecting the sky and the trees. The other walkers had gone ahead, their voices fading.

"Can I ask you something?" said Henri.

"Yes."

"How long since you laughed properly?"

Marguerite thought about it. "Louis used to make me laugh every morning," she said. "He'd tell me about his terrible dreams before breakfast. I haven't laughed since."

Henri was quiet for a moment, looking at the water.

"My wife Josée used to sing to the radio," he said. "Terribly. Off-key. I told her she'd frighten the birds. She said the birds were too polite to complain."

Marguerite laughed. It came out rusty and surprised, and then softer, and she pressed her hand to her mouth.

"There," said Henri gently. "That's one."

"One what?"

"One laugh. I'm counting them now."

Her throat tightened. "Henri, that's very kind."

"It's selfish," he said, with a faint smile. "I like hearing it."

They sat in silence for a long time, two old friends on a riverside bench, watching the leaves drift down onto the water like slow, golden letters.

"Can I ask you something else?" Henri said.

"Yes."

"Would you like to walk with me next Sunday, and every Sunday after, just the two of us, at the speed you choose?"

Marguerite's heart gave an unexpected, joyful flutter.

"Yes," she said. "But I'm choosing the speed, and it's going to be very slow."

"Good," said Henri. "I'm very patient, and I have a good stick."

She reached over, and her hand found his on the wooden bench, dry and warm and steady.

"Green?" he asked softly.

"Green," said Marguerite. "The most green I've felt in a year."