Two days later, Maureen woke to a bright sky full of promise and a light breeze that played at the leaves. The perfect washing day. She fetched the stepladder and took down the net curtains. Light, colour and texture fell over the room as if they had been trapped in the space behind the nets all along. The curtains were white and dry within the day.

Maureen folded them into bags and took them to the charity shop.

24

Harold and Rich

Something happened after Harold walked away from Maureen. It was as if a door closed on a part of him that he wasn’t sure he preferred to leave open. He no longer took pleasure in imagining the welcoming party of nurses and patients at the hospice. He could no longer visualize the end of his journey. The going was slow and troubled with so much argument that it took the group almost a week to cover the stretch from Darlington to Newcastle. He lent Wilf the willow cane and never got it back.

Maureen had said she missed him. She wanted him home. He couldn’t get that out of his mind. He found excuses to borrow mobile phones and ring.

“I’m fine,” she would say. “I’m good.” She would tell him about a moving letter that had arrived in the post, or a small gift; or maybe she would describe the progress of her runner beans. “But you don’t want to hear about me,” she’d add. He did, though. He wanted that so much.

“On the phone again?” Rich would ask, with a grin but no empathy.

He accused Wilf of stealing again and privately Harold was afraid he was right. It was painful to keep defending the boy, when he knew in his gut he was as unreliable as David. Wilf didn’t even hide his empty bottles. It could take an embarrassingly long time to wake him, and as soon as he was on his feet he complained. Trying to protect him, Harold told the others the old injury on his right leg was playing up. He suggested longer periods of rest. He even suggested they might like to go on ahead. No, no, they chorused; Harold was the walk. They couldn’t possibly do it without him.

For the first time, he felt relief on reaching the towns. Wilf seemed to snap alive again. And seeing other people, looking into shop windows, thinking about what he didn’t need, offered Harold distraction from his own doubts about what had happened to his journey. He didn’t know how he had created something that had grown beyond his ability to keep hold of it.

“A guy offered me a shitload of money for my story,” said Wilf, sprinting up beside him. He had the jitters again and smelt of whisky. “I said no, Mr Fry. I’m sticking with you.”