Harold reminded Wilf to check his feet for blisters. It was important to take proper care; later he would show him how to drain the pus. “And can you light a fire, Wilf?”

“Can I shit, Mr Fry. Where’s your petrol?”

Harold explained again that he was walking without unnecessary baggage. He sent the boy off to look for more wood, while Harold ripped the fungi into rough slices with his fingernails. They were tougher than he would have liked, but he hoped they might impress. He cooked them over the fire in an old tin he carried in his rucksack especially for the purpose, with the pat of butter, and torn-up leaves of Jack-by-the-hedge. The air smelt of fried garlic.

“Eat,” he told Wilf, offering the tin.

“What with?”

“Your fingers. You can wipe them afterwards on my jacket if you want. Maybe tomorrow we’ll find potatoes.”

Wilf refused; he had a laugh that was like a shriek. “How do I know it’s not poisonous?”

“I’m eating it. Look at me. And there’s nothing else tonight.”

Wilf posted a small corner between his teeth, and ate with his lips curled back as if he was afraid of being stung.

“Shit,” he kept squealing. “Shit.” Harold laughed, and the boy ate more.

“It doesn’t taste so bad,” said Harold. “Does it?”

“It tastes of fucking garlic. And mustard.”

“That’s the leaves. Most wild food tastes bitter. You’ll get used to that. If it tastes of nothing, that’s nice. If it tastes good, that’s a treat. Maybe we’ll spot redcurrants. Or wild strawberries. If you get a really ripe one it’s like cheesecake.”

They sat with their knees hunched, watching the flames. Far behind them, Sheffield was a sulphuric glow on the horizon, and there were always cars if you listened hard enough, but he felt they were a long way from other people. Harold told the boy how he had learned to cook over the fire, and how he had taught himself about plant life from a small book he had acquired in Exeter. There were good fungi and bad ones, he said; you had to learn the difference. You had to be sure, for instance, that you didn’t pick sulphur tufts instead of branching oysters. Occasionally he leaned over the fire and blew on it, so that the embers bloomed red. Flicks of ash rose into the air, glowing briefly before melting into the dusk. The air was alive with crickets.

“Don’t you get scared?” said Wilf.

“When I was a boy, my parents didn’t want me. Then, later on in my life, I met my wife and we had a child. That went wrong too. Since I have been out in the open, it seems there’s less to be afraid of.” He wished David could hear.