“John Lennon had Yoko Ono and the world’s press in the bed as well. You’re on your own, slogging to Berwick-upon-Tweed. It’s going to take weeks. And supposing she didn’t get your message? They might have forgotten to tell her.” The actor’s mouth arched in a frown, as if he were thinking through the implications of such a mistake. “What does it matter if you walk or get a lift? It makes no difference how you get there. You’ve just got to see her. I’ll lend you my car. My driver. You could be there tonight.”

The door opened and a gentleman in shorts made his way to the urinal. Harold waited for him to finish. He needed the very famous actor to know that you could be ordinary and attempt something extraordinary, without being able to explain it in a logical way. But all he could picture was a car driving to Berwick. The actor was right. Harold had left a message, and sent postcards, but there was no proof she’d taken him seriously, or even heard about his call. He imagined sitting in the warmth of the car. If he said yes, he could be there in hours. He had to grip his hands to stop them from shaking.

“I haven’t upset you, have I?” said the actor. His voice was suddenly tender. “I told you I was an arse.” Harold shook his head, but kept it bowed. He hoped the gentleman in shorts wasn’t looking.

“I have to keep walking,” he said quietly, although he knew he was no longer certain.

The newcomer placed himself between Harold and the actor in order to wash his hands. He began to laugh, as if remembering something private. Then he said, “I’ve got to tell you. We have this dog – ”

Harold made his way to the street.

♦

The sky had filled with a dense layer of white cloud that pressed down on the city as if intending to squeeze the life out of it. Bars and cafés spilled on to the pavements. Drinkers and shoppers were stripped to vests, and skin that had not felt the sun for months was crimson. Harold carried his jacket over his arm, but he frequently had to mop his face with his shirtsleeve. Seedheads hung in the stiff air like fuzz. When Harold got to the cobbler, it was still closed. The straps of his rucksack were wet from his body, and dug into his shoulders. It was too hot to keep walking, and he hadn’t the energy.