It had dawned on him, after several days of watching from a window, that what they were up to was being the new woman in finances. They were being Queenie Hennessy and her handbag.

Remembering this, Harold woke with an intense need to be back outside. Bright daylight frilled the curtains, as if straining to get at him. To his relief, while his body was unyielding and his feet tender, he could move both, and the blister on his heel appeared less angry. His shirt, socks and underpants were strung on the radiator; he had rinsed them in hot water and washing powder the previous night. They were stiff and not quite dry, but they would do. He applied a tidy parade of plasters to both feet, and carefully repacked the contents of the plastic bag.

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.”