“I can’t look after a dog. I don’t have food. And I’m walking to Berwick on busy roads. It’s too dangerous. Go home, dog.”

They tried to fool it by throwing the stone into a field and hiding behind a hedge, but the dog fetched the stone and sat beside the hedgerow, wagging its tail. “The trouble is, I reckon it likes you,” whispered Wilf. “It wants to come too.” They crawled out from the hedge and continued, with the dog now sauntering openly at Harold’s side. It wasn’t safe to stick with the A61. Harold took a diversion on the quieter B6132, although the going was slow. Wilf had to keep stopping to pull off his trainers and shake them. They covered only a mile.

It came as a further surprise to Harold that he was recognized by a woman deadheading roses in her front garden. “You’re the pilgrim, aren’t you?” she said. “I have to say I think what you are doing is absolutely marvellous.” She opened her purse and offered him a twenty-pound note. Wilf wiped his forehead with his cap and whistled.

“I couldn’t possibly take it,” said Harold. He felt the young man’s eyes boring holes into his side. “But a round of sandwiches would be kind. And maybe some matches and a candle for tonight. A bit of butter. I don’t have any of those things.” He glanced at Wilf’s nervous face. “I think we may need them.”

She urged him to join her for a light supper, and extended her invitation to Wilf, also offering the men bathroom facilities and the use of her telephone.

It gave seven rings before his wife answered. She sounded tense. “You’re not that PR girl again?”

“No, Maureen. It’s me.”

“It’s gone mad,” she told him. “Sometimes people ask to come inside the house. Rex found a young man trying to remove a piece of flint from the front wall.”

By the time Harold had showered, it seemed that his hostess had also invited a small number of chums for an impromptu sherry party on the lawn. On greeting him, they raised their glasses and toasted Queenie’s health. He had never seen so much backcombed grey-blue hair, or so many corduroy trousers in shades of mustard, gold and russet. Underneath a table, laid out with canapés and cold meats, sat the dog, chewing on something between its paws. Occasionally someone threw the stone, and the dog retrieved it and waited for them to do it again.

The men told stories about their own adventures involving yachts and shooting, and Harold listened patiently. He watched Wilf talking animatedly to their hostess. Her laughter had a shrill quality Harold realized he had almost forgotten. He wondered if anyone would notice if he slipped away.