Harbourneford. Higher Dean. Lower Dean.

He opened the second packet of Rich Tea biscuits, dipping into the bag for them as he went, although some had an unfortunate grainy texture and a slightly sulphuric taste of washing powder.

Was he fast enough? Was Queenie still alive? He mustn’t stop for meals, or sleep. He must press on.

♦

By the afternoon, Harold was aware of an occasional shooting pain along the back of his right calf, and a locking of his hip joints as he hit the downward slant of the hills. Even their upward slopes he took slowly, with his palms cupping the small of his back, not so much because he was sore as because he felt the need of a helping hand. He stopped to check the plasters on his feet, and replaced the ones on his heel where the blister had bled.

The road turned and rose and fell again. There were times when he could see the hills and fields and others when he saw nothing. He lost all sense of where he was in remembering Queenie, and imagining what her life might have become in the last twenty years. He wondered if she’d married? Had children? And yet from the letter it was clear she’d kept her maiden name.

“I can sing ‘God Save The Queen’ backwards,” she told him once. And she did, while also sucking a Polo mint. “I can also do ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’, and I have almost got ‘Jerusalem’.”

Harold smiled. He wondered if he had done so at the time. A herd of cows, chewing grass, looked up briefly, their mouths paused. One or two moved towards him, slowly at first but building to a trot. Their bodies looked too big for stopping. He was glad to be on the road, even though it was hard on his feet. The plastic bag with his shopping thumped against his thighs and dug white ridges into his wrists. He tried lodging it over one shoulder, but it kept careering back towards his elbow.

Maybe it was because Harold was carrying something too heavy, but he could suddenly picture his young son standing against the wood chip of the hallway, his new satchel dragging down his shoulders. He was wearing his grey uniform; it must have been the day he started primary school. Like his father, David loomed a good few inches over the other boys, giving the impression that he was older, or at least oversized. He had gazed up at Harold from his place against the wall and said, “I don’t want to do this.” There were no tears. No holding on to Harold and not letting go. David spoke with a simplicity and self-knowledge that was disarming. In answer, Harold said – what? What had he said? He had looked down at his son, for whom he wanted everything, and been struck dumb.

Yes, life is terrifying, he might have said. Or, Yes, but it gets better. Or even, Yes, but it is sometimes good and sometimes bad. Better still, in the absence of words, he might have taken David in his arms. But he had not. He’d done none of those things. He felt the boy’s fear so keenly, he could see no way round it. The morning his son looked up at his father and asked for help, Harold gave nothing. He fled to his car and went to work.