Harold was the only resident in the dining room, which was really a small front room with a three-piece suite pushed flat against a wall and a table for two positioned at the centre. It was lit by a lamp with an orange shade and smelt of damp. A glass-fronted cabinet exhibited a collection of Spanish dolls and dead bluebottles, dry as twists of tissue paper. The woman who owned the B&B said that the girl who helped was off. She spoke the word as if there were something unsavoury about the girl’s absence, as if she were maybe a piece of food that had to be disposed of. She put his breakfast on the table and watched him from the doorway, her arms folded. Harold was glad not to have to explain. He ate greedily and impatiently, staring out at the road beyond the window, and calculating how long it would take a man who wasn’t used to walking to cover the six miles to Buckfast Abbey, let alone the further four hundred and eighty plus to Berwick-upon-Tweed.

Harold read the words of Queenie’s letter, although he knew them now without looking. Dear Harold, This may come to you as some surprise. I know it is a long time since we last met, but recently I have been thinking about the past. Last year I had an operation –

“I hate South Brent,” said a voice.

Surprised, Harold looked up. There was no one except him and the owner, and it seemed unlikely she had spoken. She was still leaning against the doorframe, with her arms folded, and jiggling her leg, so that her slipper dangled from her foot, on the verge of escape. Harold returned to his letter and his coffee, when the voice came again.

“We get more rain in South Brent than anywhere else in Devon.”

Clearly it was the woman, although she still didn’t look at him. Her face remained fixed towards the carpet, her lips an empty O, as if her mouth were speaking despite the rest of her. He wished he could say something helpful but he couldn’t think what it might be. Maybe his silence or simply his hearing was enough, because she went on.

“Even when it’s sunny I can’t enjoy it. I think to myself, Oh yes, it’s nice now, but it’s not going to last. I’m either watching rain, or waiting for it.”

Harold refolded Queenie’s letter and returned it to his pocket. Something was bothering him about the envelope, but he couldn’t find in his mind what it was; besides, it seemed rude not to give the woman his full attention, since she was evidently talking to him.

She said, “I won a holiday to Benidorm once. All I had to do was pack my suitcase. But I couldn’t do it. They sent me the ticket in the post, and I never opened the envelope. Why is that? Why, when the chance to escape came, couldn’t I take it?”