He looked for traces of the land beneath his feet and all he found was where it had been replaced with paving stones and tarmac. Everything alarmed him. The traffic. The buildings. The crowds pushed past, shouting into their mobile phones. He smiled at each face and it was exhausting, taking in so many strangers.

He lost a full day, simply wandering. Each time he resolved to leave, he saw something that distracted him, and another hour passed. He deliberated over purchases that he hadn’t realized he required. Should he send Maureen a new pair of gardening gloves? An assistant fetched five different types, and modelled them on her hands, before Harold remembered his wife had long since abandoned her vegetable beds. He stopped to eat and was presented with such an array of sandwiches that he forgot he was hungry, and left with nothing. (Did he prefer cheese or ham or would he like the filling of the day, seafood cocktail? Or would he like something else altogether? Sushi? Peking duck wraps?) What had been so clear to him when he was alone, two feet on the ground, became lost in this abundance of choices and streets and glass-fronted shopping outlets. He longed to be back on the open land.

And now that he had the opportunity to buy walking equipment, he also faltered. After an hour with an enthusiastic young Australian man, who produced not only walking boots but also a rucksack, a small tent and a talking pedometer, Harold apologized profusely and bought a wind-up torch. He told himself that he had managed perfectly well with his yachting shoes and his plastic bag, and with a little ingenuity he could carry his toothbrush and shaving foam in one pocket, and his deodorant and washing powder in the other. Instead he went to a café close to the railway station.

Twenty years ago Queenie must have made her way to Exeter St David’s. Had she gone straight from here to Berwick? Had she family there? Friends? She had never mentioned either. Once, a song had come on the car radio and she had wept. ‘Mighty Like A Rose’. The male voice filled the air, steady and deep. It reminded her of her father, she said between gulps; he had died only recently.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s all right.”

“He was a good man.”

“I’m sure.”

“You’d have liked him, Mr Fry.”

She had told a story about her father; how he played a game when she was a child where he pretended she was invisible. “I’m here! I’m here!” she’d be laughing; and all the time he’d look straight down at her, saying, as if she wasn’t there, “Come here this minute. Where are you, Queenie?”

“It was so funny,” she said, nipping the end of her nose with her handkerchief. “I miss him very much.” Even her grief possessed a compact dignity.