Free The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce Page A

said? He had looked down at his son, for whom he wanted everything, and been struck dumb.
    Yes, life is terrifying, he might have said. Or, Yes, but it gets better. Or even, Yes, but it is sometimes good and sometimes bad. Better still, in the absence of words, he might have taken David in his arms. But he had not. He’d done none of those things. He felt the boy’s fear so keenly, he could see no way round it. The morning his son looked up at his father and asked for help, Harold gave nothing. He fled to his car and went to work.
    Why must he remember?
    He hunched his shoulders and drove his feet harder, as if he wasn’t so much walking to Queenie as away from himself.
    Harold arrived at Buckfast Abbey before the gift shop closed. The square limestone profile of the church stood grey against the soft peaks behind. He realized he had come here before, many years ago, as a surprise for Maureen’s birthday. David had refused to get out of the car, and Maureen had insisted she would like to sit with him, and they had gone straight home without setting foot out of the car park.
    In the monastery shop, Harold chose postcards and a souvenir pen, and briefly contemplated buying a jar of the monks’ honey but it was still a long way to Berwick-upon-Tweed and he wasn’t sure it would fit in his plastic bag, or survive the journey without the washing powder getting at it. He bought it anyway and asked for extra bubble wrap. There were no monks, only tourist parties. And there were more people queuing for the newly refurbished Grange Restaurant than the abbey. He wondered if the monks noticed, or minded.
    Harold chose a large portion of chicken curry, and carried his tray to a window by the terrace, overlooking the lavender garden. He was so hungry he couldn’t scoop the food fast enough into his mouth. At the next table a couple in their late fifties seemed to be discussing something, maybe a map. They both wore khaki shorts, khaki sweatshirts, brown socks and proper hiking boots, so that sitting opposite each other at the table, they looked like male and female models of the same person. They even ate the same sandwiches and drank the same fruit drink. Harold tried but he couldn’t imagine Maureen dressing like him. He began to write his cards:
Dear Queenie, I have come approximately 20 miles. You must keep waiting. Harold (Fry)
Dear Maureen, Have reached Buckfast Abbey. Weather good. Shoes holding up, as are feet and legs. H .
Dear Girl in the Garage (Happy To Help), Thank you. From the man who said he was off for a walk .
    ‘Could I possibly borrow your pen?’ said the hiking man. Harold passed it and the man circled a point on his map several times over. His wife said nothing. Maybe she even frowned. Harold didn’t like to look too closely.
    ‘Are you here for the Dartmoor Trail?’ asked the man, returning the pen.
    Harold said that he wasn’t. He was travelling to a friend by foot, with a very specific purpose. He shuffled his postcards into a neat pile.
    ‘Of course my wife and I are walkers. We come here every year. Even when she broke her leg we came back. That’s how much we love it.’
    Harold replied that he and his wife also used to take the same holiday each year at a holiday camp in Eastbourne. There had been entertainment every evening, and competitions among the residents. ‘One year my son won the Daily Mail Twist prize,’ he said.
    The man nodded impatiently as if he were hurrying Harold along. ‘Of course it’s what you wear on your feet that counts. What kind of boots do you have?’
    ‘Yachting shoes.’ Harold smiled, but the hiking man didn’t.
    ‘You should wear Scarpa. Scarpa is what the pros wear. We swear by Scarpa.’
    His wife looked up. ‘ You swear by Scarpa,’ she said. Her eyes were round, as if she had contact lenses that maybe hurt. For a confusing moment Harold was caught in the memory of a game David used to play, where he timed how long he could stare without blinking. His