Bedworth. Nuneaton. Twycross. Ashby de la Zouch. Through Warwickshire, the western fringes of Leicestershire and into Derbyshire; on he went. There were days when he covered over thirteen miles, and others when the built-up streets confounded him, and he walked fewer than six. The skies turned from blue to black to blue. The soft hills rolled between the industrial cities and towns.
It came as a surprise when he reached Ticknall that two hikers stared point-blank. South of Derby, a cab driver passed Harold with his thumbs up, and a busker wearing a purple jester’s hat stopped playing his accordion and grinned. In Little Chester, a golden-haired girl offered him a box of fruit juice, and hugged his knees, full of joy. A day later, in Ripley, a group of morris dancers appeared to put down their beers and cheer.
Alfreton. Clay Cross. The silhouette of the crooked spire of Chesterfield announced the start of the Peak District. At a drop-in coffee morning in Dronfield, a man offered Harold his willow cane, and squeezed his shoulder. Seven miles on, a shop assistant in Sheffield pressed her mobile into his hand so that he might ring home. Maureen assured him she was well, although there had been a small problem with a leaking shower-head. After that she asked if he’d seen the news.
“No, Maureen. I haven’t seen a paper since the day I set off. What is it?”
He couldn’t be sure but he thought she gave a small sob. Then she said, “Well, you’re the news, Harold. You and Queenie Hennessy. You seem to be all over the place.”
20
Maureen and the Publicist
After Harold’s story was reported in the Coventry Telegraph, there was not a morning in Fossebridge Road that passed without event. It had come on a slack news day. Mentioned on a radio phone-in programme, it was taken up by several local newspapers, including the South Hams Gazette where it was given the front three pages. It was then reported in one or two of the nationals, and suddenly no one could get enough. Harold’s walk became the theme of Thought for the Day on Radio 4, and spawned leading articles about the nature of the modern pilgrimage, quintessential England, and the pluck of the Saga generation. People talked about it in shops, playgrounds, parks, pubs, parties and offices. The story had caught the imagination, just as Mick had promised his editor it would, although as it spread its details began to shift and grow. Some people reported that Harold was in his early seventies, others that he had learning difficulties. Sightings were made of him in Cornwall and Inverness, as well as Kingston upon Thames and the Peak District. There was a handful of journalists waiting on Maureen’s crazy paving, and a local-television crew lodged beyond Rex’s privet hedge. If you had the wherewithal, you could even follow his journey on Twitter. Maureen hadn’t the wherewithal.