He was swinging his rucksack up on to his shoulders when Wilf broke free of the woman and caught up. “I had no idea it was like this,” he said. He crammed a smoked salmon blini into his mouth with all five fingers, as if it were alive. “Why are we leaving?”

“I need to get on. And it isn’t usually like this. I find a place for my sleeping bag and no one notices. I’ve been living for days on bread rolls and what I find. But you should stay here, if you’d like to. I’m sure you’re very welcome.”

Wilf gazed at Harold but he wasn’t really listening. He said, “People keep asking if I’m your son.” Harold smiled, suddenly tender. Turning again to the cocktail guests, he felt he and Wilf were linked in some way, as if, by being outsiders, they shared something bigger than in truth they had. They waved their farewells.

“You’re too young to be my son,” said Harold. He patted Wilf’s arm. “We’d better get a move on if we’re going to find somewhere to sleep.”

“Good luck!” called the guests. “Queenie will keep living!”

The dog was already at the gate, and all three walked at an easy pace. Their shadows were pillars against the road and the deepening air smelt sweet with elderflower and privet blossom. Wilf told Harold about his life; how he had tried many things, but been good at none of them. If it wasn’t for the Lord, he said, he would be in prison. Sometimes Harold listened, and sometimes he watched for bats, flitting through the dusk. He wondered if the young man would really accompany him all the way to Berwick, and what he would do about the dog. He wondered if David had ever tried God. Far away, the factories belched further cloud into the sky.

After only an hour, Wilf was clearly limping. They had barely covered half a mile.

“Do you need to rest?”

“I’m fine, Mr Fry.” But he was hopping.

Harold searched for a sheltered spot and they stopped early. Wilf copied him, spreading out his sleeping bag beside a storm-felled elm. Plates of dryad’s saddle grew out of the dead trunk with mottled markings like feathers. Harold picked the fungi while Wilf jumped from one foot to the other, yelping and calling them gross. Afterwards he searched for fallen leafy branches and velvet pads of moss, which he layered in the earthed hole at the foot of the tree where its roots had ripped through. Harold had not taken such care over his sleeping place in days. As he worked, the dog followed, picking up stones and dropping them at his feet.

“I’m not going to throw them,” he warned, but once or twice he did.