It was only in saying these things that Harold realized how far he had come. He took pleasure in heating water, a little at a time, in a can for Wilf over a candle, and picking the blossom from the lime tree to make tea. He showed him you could eat ox-eye daisies, pineapple weed, toadflax and sweet hop shoots, if you wanted. He felt he was doing everything for David that he hadn’t in fact done. There was so much he wanted Wilf to see.

“These are vetch pods. They’re sweet, but not good if you have too much. Mind you, nor is vodka.” Wilf held the tiny pod and took one nibbling mouthful, before spitting it out.

“I’d rather have vodka, Mr Fry.”

Harold pretended he hadn’t heard. They hunkered down on a bank, waiting for a goose to lay an egg. The boy danced and screamed as it emerged, wet and white and huge against the grass. “Oh fuck, that’s so rank. It came right out of her arse. Shall I throw something?”

“At the goose? No. Throw a stone for the dog.”

“I’d rather hit the goose.”

Harold ushered Wilf away, and pretended he hadn’t heard that either.

They talked about Queenie Hennessy, and the small kindnesses she had shown. He described how she could sing backwards, and always liked a riddle. “I don’t think anyone else knew those things about her,” he said. “We told one another things we probably didn’t tell other people. It’s easier when you’re travelling.” He showed the presents he carried for her in his rucksack. The boy particularly liked the paperweight from Exeter Cathedral that glittered when he tipped it upside down. Sometimes Harold found Wilf had taken it from his rucksack and was playing with it, and had to remind him to take care. In turn, Wilf produced further souvenirs. A piece of flint, a spotted guinea-fowl feather, a stone hooped with rings. Once he produced a small garden gnome with a fishing rod that he promised he had found in a bin. Another time he appeared with three pints of milk, insisting they were going free. Harold warned him not to rush as he drank, but the boy did and was sick after ten minutes.

There were so many offerings, Harold had to leave them behind when Wilf wasn’t looking, taking care to hide them from the dog, who was inclined to retrieve the pebbles at least and return them to Harold’s feet. Sometimes the boy turned to shout about something new he had found, and Harold’s heart flipped over. It could so easily be David.

22

Harold and the Pilgrims

Dear Queenie, There has been a surprising turn of events. So many people ask after you. Best wishes, Harold.

PS. A kind woman at the post office has not charged me for the stamp. She also sends her regards.