Harold stopped looking at the hills, the sky and the trees. He stopped looking for the road signs that would mark his journey north. He walked against the wind, with his head bowed, seeing only rain because that was all there was. The A38 was far worse than he had imagined. He stuck to the hard shoulder, and walked behind the barrier when he could, but traffic tore past at such speed he was drenched and constantly in danger. After several hours, he realized he had been so lost in remembering and mourning the past, he had wasted two miles heading in the wrong direction. There was nothing for it but to retrace his steps.

Walking the road already travelled was even harder. It was like not moving at all. It was worse; like eating into a part of himself. West of Bagley Green, he gave up and stopped at a farmhouse advertising accommodation.

His host was a worried-looking man, who said he had one available room. The others were occupied by six female cyclists on the trail from Land’s End to John o’Groats. “They’re all mothers,” he said. “You get the impression they’re letting their hair down.” He warned Harold it might be better to keep a low profile.

Harold slept poorly. He was dreaming again, and the mother-cyclists seemed to be having a party. Harold slipped between sleep and consciousness, afraid of the pain in his leg but desperate to forget it. The women’s voices became those of the aunts who had replaced his mother. There was laughter, and a grunt as his father emptied himself. Harold lay with his eyes wide, and his leg throbbing, wishing the night was over and he was somewhere else.

In the morning the pain had worsened. The skin above his heel was streaked with purple, and so swollen it would barely fit inside the shoe. He had to ram it home, wincing at the pain. He caught his face in the mirror, and it was haggard and burnt, covered in sharp stubble like pinheads. He looked ill. All he could picture was his father in the nursing home, with his slippers on the wrong feet. “Say hello to your son,” the carer had said. Catching sight of Harold, his father had begun to shake.

♦

Harold hoped to finish his breakfast before the cycling mothers awoke but just as he was draining his coffee they descended on the farmhouse dining room in a burst of fluorescent Lycra and laughter.

“You know what,” said one, “I don’t know how I am going to get on that bike again.” The others laughed. Of the six women, she was the loudest and gave the impression of being the ringleader. Harold hoped that by remaining quiet he would go unnoticed, but she caught his eye and winked. “I hope we didn’t disturb you,” she said.