“I’ll tell her that too.”

“Even when she is afraid, she must wait. She must keep living.”

“I believe she will. God bless you, Mr Fry.”

♦

For the rest of the afternoon Harold walked, and into the dusk. The violent doubt he had felt before phoning Queenie was gone. He had escaped a great danger. There were miracles after all. If he had got on a train or in a car, he would be on his way, believing he was right, but all the time it would be wrong. He had nearly given up, but something else had happened and he kept going. He wouldn’t try to give up again.

The road led from Nailsworth, past the old mill buildings, and into the outskirts of Stroud. As it dipped towards the centre, he passed a row of red-brick terraced houses, one with scaffolding and ladders and a skip of building rubble parked in the road. A shape caught his eye. On stopping and pushing aside several pieces of plywood, he found a sleeping bag. He gave it a shake to blow off the dust, and although it was ripped and the padding bulged like a soft white tongue from the hole, the tear was only superficial and the zip was still intact. Harold rolled the sleeping bag into a bundle and walked to the house. There were already lights downstairs. When he heard Harold’s story, the owner called his wife, and they also offered a fold-up chair, a Teasmade and a yoga mat. Harold assured them the sleeping bag was more than enough.

The wife said, “I do hope you’ll be careful. Only last week, our local petrol station was held up by four men with guns.”

Harold promised he was vigilant; although he had come to trust in the basic goodness of people. The dusk deepened and settled like a layer of fur on the outlines of the roofs and trees.

He watched the squares of buttery light inside the houses, and people going about their business. He thought of how they would settle in their beds and try to sleep through their dreams. It struck him again how much he cared, and how relieved he was that they were somehow safe and warm, while he was free to keep walking. After all it had always been this way; that he was a little apart. The moon drew into focus, full and high, like a silver coin emerging through water.

He tried the door to a shed but it was padlocked. He rooted around in a sports field, but there was no proper shelter, and then a building under construction where the windows were secured with plastic sheeting. He didn’t want to go where he was not welcome. Swathes of cloud shone against the sky like a black and silver mackerel. The road and rooftops were bathed in softest blue.