He wished she could have said the same thing.

“I think not.” Sometimes her words sliced down on his before they had even reached his mouth.

After speaking to Maureen, his steps had grown heavier. You couldn’t blame her for what she felt about him as a husband, and yet he wished it were otherwise. He had arrived at a small hotel, with palm trees growing at a lopsided angle as if cowering from the coastal wind, and enquired about a room. He was used to sleeping alone, of course, but it was a novelty to be in a hotel; when he worked for the brewery, he had always been home by nightfall. Closing his eyes, he had slipped into unconsciousness almost as soon as he was lying down.

Harold leaned against the soft upholstered headboard and crooked his left knee, clasping the ankle in his hands and drawing it up as far along his leg as he could, without losing balance and keeling over. He slipped on his reading glasses for a closer inspection. The toes were soft and pale. A little tender around the nails, and in the bulbous joint at the middle, and there was a possible blister on the way at the top of his heel, but considering his years and his lack of fitness, Harold was quietly proud. He performed the same slow but thorough inspection of his right foot.

“Not bad,” he said.

A few plasters. A good breakfast. He’d be ready. He imagined the nurse telling Queenie that he was walking, and that all she had to do was keep living. He could see the features of her face as if she were sitting in front of him: her dark eyes, her neat mouth, her black hair in tight curls. The picture was so vivid he couldn’t understand why he was still in bed. He must get to Berwick. He rolled his legs to the edge of the mattress and poked his heel towards the floor.

Cramp. The pain roared up his right calf, as if he had just stepped on an electric current. He tried to pull his leg back under the quilt but that made it even worse. What was it you were supposed to do? Point the toes away? Or flex them up? He hobbled out of bed and danced the length of the carpet, wincing and crying out. Maureen was right; he’d be lucky if he got as far as Dartmoor.

Clinging to the windowsill, Harold Fry peered at the road below. It was already rush hour and traffic was speeding in the direction of Kingsbridge. He thought of his wife making breakfast at 13 Fossebridge Road and wondered if he shouldn’t go back. He could fetch his mobile, and pack a few things. He could look up the AA map on the internet, and order some walking essentials. Maybe the travel book he had been given for his retirement, and never looked at, would offer useful suggestions? But planning his route would involve both serious consideration and waiting, and there was no time for either of those things. Besides, Maureen would only give voice to the truth he was doing his best to avoid. The days when he might expect her help or her encouragement, or whatever it was he still wanted, were long since gone. Beyond the window, the sky was a fragile blue, almost breakable, flecked with wisps of cloud, and the treetops were bathed in warm golden light. Their branches swung in the breeze, beckoning him forward.