“That was when things were good. A lot has happened since then.” Her voice was so slow and certain Maureen lifted her head. The girl’s face was still pale, but it suddenly shone with disarming clarity. Maureen maybe gave a start, or even cried out, because the garage girl laughed. “Get yourself to Berwick-upon-Tweed.”

29

Harold and Queenie

After writing his letter, Harold had persuaded a young man to buy him an envelope and a first-class stamp. It was too late to visit Queenie, so he spent the night in his sleeping bag on a bench in the municipal park. Come the early morning, he visited the public lavatories where he washed and combed his hair with his fingers. Someone had left a plastic razor on the sink, and he pulled it through his beard. It didn’t give him a proper shave but the bulk of it was gone, so that it was more like prickles than curls, but the odd tuft remained. The flesh around his mouth looked bleached, and somehow disconnected from the leathery skin that held his nose and eyes. He lifted his rucksack over his shoulder, and made his way to the hospice. His body felt hollowed out, and he wondered if he needed food. He had no appetite. If anything, he felt sick.

The sky was covered with thick white cloud, although the salt air smelt already warm. Cars of families were arriving with picnics and chairs to set up home on the beach. Far out on the horizon, the metal sea sparkled against the morning light.

Harold knew an end was coming, but had no idea how it would be, or what he would do afterwards.

He turned into the drive of St Bernadine’s Hospice, and once more walked the length of the tarmac. It had been recently laid; his feet fell softly. He pressed the buzzer, without hesitating, and while he waited he closed his eyes and groped for the wall. He wondered if the nurse who would greet him might be the same woman he had spoken with on the telephone. He hoped he wouldn’t have too much to explain. He hadn’t the energy for words. The door opened.

Before him stood a woman whose hair was covered, and who wore a long, cream high-collared robe, with a belted black over-garment. His skin shivered all over.

“I’m Harold Fry,” he said. “I have walked an awfully long way to save Queenie Hennessy.” He was suddenly desperate for water. His legs trembled. He needed a chair.

The nun smiled. Her skin was soft and smooth; what he could see of her hair was grey at the roots. She reached out her hands and took Harold’s between her own. They were warm, and rough; strong hands. He was afraid he would cry. “Welcome, Harold,” she said. She introduced herself as Sister Philomena and urged him to enter.

He wiped his feet, and then he did it again.