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Back The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry Save as PDF
Chapters (34)
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  2. Table of Contents
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Later, as he packed his plastic bag in his room, a slight rustling from the hall, followed by a knock, took him to the door. Martina handed him two pairs of walking socks, as well as a roll of blue duct tape. Then she hooked an empty rucksack over his wrist, and placed a brass compass in his palm. They had been her partner’s things. He was about to insist he couldn’t take anything more, but she nipped her face towards his, and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. “Go well, Harold,” she said. “And you owe me nothing for the room. You were my guest.” The compass was warm and heavy in his hand.

♦

Harold left as he had said he would, with the first light. He propped a postcard against his pillow, in which he thanked Martina; and also the set of laminated place mats because her need for them might be greater than Queenie’s. To the east the night had cracked open, revealing a pale band of light that began to climb and fill the sky. He patted her partner’s dog at the foot of the stairs.

Harold closed the front door quietly, not wishing to wake Martina, but she was watching from her bathroom window, with her face pressed to the glass. He didn’t look back. He didn’t wave. He caught her profile at the window and then stepped as boldly as he could, wondering if she was worrying about his blisters, or his yachting shoes, and wishing he was not leaving her alone, with only a dog and some boots. It had been hard being her guest. It was hard to understand a little and then walk away.

14

Maureen and Rex

After her conversation with the locum, Maureen sank into a further decline. She thought with shame of the visit Queenie Hennessy had paid her twenty years ago, and wished she had been kinder.

Now, without Harold, the endless passage of days flowed one into the other and she watched them with apathy, not knowing how to fill them. She would decide to strip the beds only to realize there was no point, since there was no one to witness her slamming down the wash basket, or complaining that she could manage perfectly well without help, thank you. She opened the road map on the kitchen table, but every time she looked at it, trying to picture Harold’s journey, she felt her loneliness more keenly. Inside her stretched such an emptiness, it was as if she were invisible.