The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry Read Free Page B

Queenie’s letter was in his hands before the door of the telephone kiosk had closed behind him.
    He found the address and telephone number, but his fingers shook so hard he could barely tap the buttons to enter his pin code. He waited for the ringing tone, and the air hung still and heavy. A trickle of sweat slid between his shoulder blades.
    After ten rings there was at last a clunk, and a heavily accented voice: ‘St Bernadine’s Hospice. Good afternoon.’
    ‘I’d like to speak to a patient, please. Her name is Queenie Hennessy.’
    There was a pause.
    He added, ‘It’s very urgent. I need to know that she’s all right.’
    The woman made a sound as if she was breathing out a long sigh. Harold’s spine chilled. Queenie was dead; he was too late. He clamped his knuckle to his mouth.
    The voice said, ‘I’m afraid Miss Hennessy is asleep. Can I take a message?’
    Small clouds sent shadows scurrying across the land. The light was smoky over the distant hills, not with the dusk but with the map of space that lay ahead. He pictured Queenie dozing at one end of England and himself in a phone box at the other, with things in between that he didn’t know and could only imagine: roads, fields, rivers, woods, moors, peaks and valleys, and so many people. He would meet and pass them all. There was no deliberation, no reasoning. The decision came in the same moment as the idea. He was laughing at the simplicity of it.
    ‘Tell her Harold Fry is on his way. All she has to do is wait. Because I am going to save her, you see. I will keep walking and she must keep living. Will you say that?’
    The voice said she would. Was there anything else? Did he know visiting hours, for instance? Parking restrictions?
    He insisted, ‘I’m not in a car. I want her to live.’
    ‘I’m sorry. Did you say something about your car?’
    ‘I’m coming by foot. From South Devon all the way up to Berwick-upon-Tweed.’
    The voice gave an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s a terrible line. What are you doing?’
    ‘I’m walking,’ he shouted.
    ‘I see,’ said the voice slowly, as if the woman had picked up a pen and was jotting this down. ‘Walking. I’ll tell her. Should I say anything else?’
    ‘I’m setting off right now. As long as I walk, she must live. Please tell her this time I won’t let her down.’
    When Harold hung up and stepped out of the phone box, his heart was pounding so fast it felt too big for his chest. With trembling fingers, he unpeeled the flap of his own envelope and pulled out the reply. Cramming it against the glass of the kiosk, he scribbled a PS: Wait for me. H . He posted the letter, without noticing its loss.
    Harold stared at the ribbon of road that lay ahead, and the glowering wall that was Dartmoor, and then the yachting shoes that were on his feet. He asked himself what in heaven’s name he’d just done.
    Overhead a seagull cracked its wings and laughed.

3
Maureen and the Telephone Call

    THE USEFUL THING about a sunny day was that it showed up the dust, and dried the laundry in almost less time than the tumble drier. Maureen had squirted, bleached, polished and annihilated every living organism on the worktops. She had washed and aired the sheets, pressed them, and remade the beds for both herself and Harold. It had been a relief to have him out of the way; in the six months of his retirement he had barely moved from the house. But now that she had nothing left to achieve, she was suddenly anxious and this in turn made her impatient. She rang Harold’s mobile, only to hear a marimba tone coming from upstairs. She listened to his faltering message: ‘You have reached the mobile phone of Harold Fry. I am very sorry but – he isn’t here.’ From the long pause he took in the middle, you’d think he was actually off looking for himself.
    It was past five. He never did the unexpected. Even the usual noises, the ticking of the hall clock, the hum of the fridge, were louder than they should be.