“I’m not saying cancer can’t be cured. And when surgery fails, there are alternative treatments. But as a physician, I would never tell a patient there was nothing to be done, unless I was absolutely certain. Harold, you have a wife and son. If I may say so, you look tired. Is it really necessary to walk?”

Out of words, Harold stood. He reached for his jacket and slipped his arms into the sleeves but he kept missing one of them, and the oncologist had to stand to help. “Good luck,” he said, holding out his hand. “And please let me take the bill. It’s the least I can do.”

♦

For the rest of the afternoon, Harold continued to tread the streets but without knowing where he was going. He needed someone to share his faith in his walk so that he could believe in it too, but he barely had the energy to talk. He finally got his shoes resoled. He bought a new box of plasters to keep him going as far as Stroud. He stopped for a takeaway coffee and briefly mentioned Berwick, but nothing about how he was getting there, or why. No one said what he longed to hear. No one said, You are going to get there, and Queenie will live. No one said, There will be crowds applauding because this, Harold, is the best idea we have ever heard. You must definitely finish.

Harold tried to speak to Maureen, but worried he was taking up her time. He felt he had mislaid all the normal words and the everyday questions that would lead to an exchange of commonplaces, so that speaking caused further pain. He told her he was doing splendidly. He found the courage to hint that a few people had expressed doubt, hoping Maureen would laugh it away, but instead she said, “Yes, I see.”

“I don’t even know she’s – ” Again the words ran out.

“She’s – what?”

“Still waiting.”

“I thought you did?”

“Not really.”

“Have you stayed with any more Slovakian ladies?”

“I met a physician, and a very famous actor.”

“Goodness,” said Maureen with a laugh. “Wait till I tell Rex.”

A bald, thickset man wearing a patterned frock trudged past the kiosk. People were slowing to point him out, and laugh. The buttons on the dress strained at his belly, and his eye was a large closed-up bruise from a recent punch. Harold wished he hadn’t seen, but he had, and he knew it would be unbearable for a while to keep thinking of the man, but that he would do it all the same.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” said Maureen.

Along came another pause, and he was suddenly afraid he was going to cry, so he told her someone else was waiting for the phone, and that he must get going. There was a red stretch in the western sky, and the sun was beginning to sink.