One night, as supporters and well-wishers took out guitars and began to sing by the fire, Harold fetched his rucksack and slipped away. The sky was so clear and black, it throbbed with stars, and the moon was losing its fullness once more. He thought back to the night he had slept in the barn near Stroud. No one knew the real truth about why he was walking to Queenie. They had made assumptions. They thought it was a love story, or a miracle, or an act of beauty, or even bravery, but it was none of those things. The discrepancy between what he knew and what other people believed frightened him. It also made him feel, as he looked back at the camp, that even in the midst of them he was unknown. The fire was a glow of light in the blackness. Voices and laughter came to him, and they were all strangers.

He could keep walking. There was nothing to stop him. Yes, he had made a promise to Kate but his loyalty to Queenie was greater. After all, he had everything he needed. His shoes. The compass. Queenie’s gifts. He could take a more indirect route, across the hills perhaps, and avoid people altogether. His pulse quickened as his feet drove forwards. He could walk the nights. The dawns again. He could be in Berwick in weeks.

Then he heard Kate’s voice, thin against the night air, calling his name, and the dog barking at her feet. He heard other voices – some he recognized, some he didn’t – all shouting ‘Harold’ into the darkness. His loyalty to them was not the same as his loyalty to Queenie, but they deserved more than to be abandoned without so much as an explanation. Slowly he returned.

Rich emerged out of the shadows just as Harold hit the circle of soft light from the fire. Spotting the old man, he ran towards him and bundled Harold into his arms.

“We thought you’d gone.”

His voice shook. He had maybe been drinking. There was certainly the smell of it. Rich clung so hard that Harold lost his balance and almost fell.

“Steady on there,” laughed Rich. It was a rare moment of affection, albeit a little stumbling, but locked in this embrace, Harold struggled for breath as if he were being slowly suffocated.

A photograph appeared next day in the papers, with the caption CAN HAROLD FRY MAKE IT? He appeared to be collapsing into Rich’s arms.

23

Maureen and Harold

Maureen could bear it no longer. She confided in Rex that, against David’s advice, she was going to find Harold. She had spoken with her husband on the phone; he hoped the pilgrims would reach Darlington by the following afternoon. She knew it was too late to make amends for the past, but she would have one last stab at persuading him to come home.