Chapter 10 10. Harold and the Hint

In the early morning, the sky is pure blue with a few wisps of white clouds floating, and the unsinkable moon hovers behind the shadows of the trees.Harold was glad he was back on the road.He left Exeter early, buying a second-hand Encyclopedia of Wild Plants and a Travel Guide to Great Britain.He put the two books and the gift for Queenie in a plastic bag, and he brought water and biscuits, and a tube of Vaseline ointment recommended by the pharmacist for his feet. "I can also prescribe you a professional medicated cream, but it will take time and money." That's what the clerk said.He also reminded Harold that the weather was going to be bad.

While in town, Harold's mind seemed to freeze.Now back in the field, walking down one place after another, the pictures in his mind finally came back.On the way, he liberated the memories he had tried to avoid in the past twenty years, and let these memories chatter in his mind, fresh and jumping, full of energy.He no longer had to measure his distance in miles.He uses memory. One way after another.He saw Maureen planting green beans in the garden on Forth Bridge Road, in his old shirt, with his hair tied back, facing the wind, his face covered with dust.He saw a broken bird's egg, and it filled him with tenderness to remember how fragile David had been born.Hearing the hollow cry of a crow in the silence, he suddenly seemed to return to his childhood bed, listening to the same cry, swallowed by loneliness.

"Where are you going?" he asked his mother.She lifted the suitcase, and the long silk scarf was wrapped around her neck and hung down her back, like long hair. "Not going anywhere," she said, but reached out and pushed open the front door. "I want to go too." The shadow of his father can already be seen in him, but fortunately his height only reaches his mother's shoulders.He reached for the silk scarf, just the tassel, so that his mother might not notice.The fingertips touch the silk, the texture is so smooth. "Can I go?" "Stop it, you'll be fine. You're a man." "Would you like to hear me tell a joke?" "Not now, Harold." She pulled the scarf from his hand. "You're embarrassing me," she wiped her eyes. "Is my make-up smudged?" "You're beautiful." "Wish me luck." She took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into In the water, she finally walked away.Every detail is so clear, more real than the ground under your feet.He could smell the musk perfume on her body and see the white foundation on her skin.Even when she wasn't there, he knew her face would taste like cotton candy.

"I guess you might want to try something new," Queenie Hennessy said once.She pried open the tiny tin can, revealing icing-coated chunks of white candy inside.He shook his head and continued driving.She never brought out marshmallows after that. The sun seeps through the thick branches and leaves, and the new leaves undulate in the wind, which at first glance look like silver foil.In Branfosbeck, the roofs have become thatched, and the façades are no longer the color of flint and steel, but a warm red hue.Branches were weighed down by heavy spiraea, and new shoots of delphiniums broke through the ground.Facing the dictionary in his hand, Harold recognized old man's beard, ironhorn fern, morning beauty sage, Robert's geranium, white star calla lily, and discovered that the star-shaped flower that once called him stunning was originally called oak Wood anemone.Riding on his enthusiasm, he walked another two and a half miles with the dictionary in his hand, all the way to Sowerton.It didn't rain like the pharmacist said, and Harold felt very lucky.

The land in front of me is open, extending to the mountains in the distance.Harold passed two young women with prams, a young boy in a fancy baseball cap on a scooter, three men walking their dogs, and a hiker.He spends the evening chatting with a would-be poet social worker who offers to put some beer in Harold's lemonade, which Harold refuses.Alcohol has brought a lot of unhappiness in his past, he explained, and it has affected those around him, so he hasn't had a drink in years.He also mentioned Queenie, and how she liked to sing songs backwards, to come up with riddles, and to have a sweet tooth.Her favorites are pear-shaped candies, lemon sherbet, and licorice candies.Sometimes her whole tongue would turn red or purple, but he never liked to point it out. "I'll pass her a glass of water and hopefully that will clear things up."

"You're such a saint," the man commented after Harold finished his walking plan. Harold crunched a piece of fried pork rind and kept saying he was no saint: "My wife would say the same." "You should look at the people I deal with every day," said the social worker. "It makes you want to give up. Do you really believe that Queenie Hennessy is waiting for you?" "That's right," Harold said. "And you're convinced you can really walk up to Berwick with a pair of sailing shoes?" "Yes," he repeated. "Have you ever been afraid? When you're alone?"

"At first, but now I'm used to it. I know what's going to happen." The social worker shrugged and asked, "What about the others? People like the ones I deal with every day. What do you do when you meet someone like this?" Harold thought of the people he had met on his travels.Their stories have surprised and moved him, without exception.There are already many people he cares about in this world. "I'm just an ordinary passer-by. I don't stand out in the crowd. I don't bother anyone. When I tell them what I'm doing, they understand. They look back at their past, Hope I get there too. They want Queenie alive as much as I do."

The social worker listened intently.Harold couldn't help feeling a little hot and loosened his tie.That night he had a dream for the first time.He got up before the picture was frozen, but the scene of blood spurting from the joints was still in his mind. If he didn't wake up in time, he would definitely dream of worse things.Looking at the dark night sky outside the window, he remembered the day his mother left. His father stared at the front door, as if he wanted to use his mind to "bang" the door open, and saw his mother standing behind the door.He moved a chair and sat there, holding two bottles of wine, as if sitting like this for several hours.

"She'll be back," he said.Lying on the bed, Harold listened with all his strength, his small body tensed up, feeling that he was no longer a human being, but a part of the "Silence".The next morning, the small room was covered with mother's clothes, like empty mothers.One even landed on the pitifully small patch of lawn known as "the front yard." "What happened?" asked the lady in the next room.Harold picked up the clothes one by one and rolled them into a ball.It's full of mother's smell, and she's not going to just go away.Little Harold had to dig his nails into his arm to keep from screaming.After he recalled these images again, the darkness of the night sky finally faded.Harold calmed down and lay back on the bed.

Hours later, he didn't quite understand what had happened, except that he could barely move.The blisters are barely tolerable with a few thick patches of plaster.But every time the right leg was stressed, there would be a sharp pain in the ankle, stabbing straight to the calf.He did the usual things: shower, eat breakfast, put away the plastic bags, pay the bills, but whenever he put weight on his right foot, he gasped in pain.The sky was a cool cobalt blue, the sun had not yet risen, and the mist was still shimmering white.Harold walked down Sylvie Street towards the A396, seeing almost nothing down the road.He would stop every twenty minutes to pull down his socks and squeeze the muscles in his calves.Fortunately, there are no traces of strain.

He tried to distract himself by thinking of Queenie and David, but without success, the images often fell apart before they were formed.He remembered his son telling him, "I bet you can't name all the countries on the African continent," but whenever he tried to think of a country, his calf tingled and his mind went blank.After walking half a mile, Harold felt as if his shin had been sawed off, and he couldn't bear any more weight.He had no choice but to drag his left leg step by step, and only dared to touch the ground with his right foot.Before noon, the sky was already full of clouds.No matter how you look at it, crossing England is as difficult as climbing a dangerous mountain, and even the flat ground under your feet seems to be steeper.He couldn't shake the image of his father slumped on a kitchen chair waiting for his mother to return.The picture had actually been there all along, but Harold felt as if this was the first time he had looked at it seriously.There may be a mess in Dad's pants, but it's better not to breathe through his nose. "Go away," he said.But his eyes moved from Harold to the wall in an instant, and it was difficult to determine whether it was Harold or the wall that was blocking his eyes. The neighbors came to comfort the father when they heard what had happened.Joan had always been a man of her own, they said.In fact, this is a good thing, at least you are still young and can start from scratch.Suddenly there was a new feminine air in the house that hadn't been there before: the windows were opened, the cupboards were cleaned, the beds were aired.Stews, pies, aspics, jams, butter puddings, fruit cakes were delivered in packets of brown foil.There had never been so much food in the house, and when it was served was not a concern of his mother.The black-and-white photos were thrown into the bag, and the red lipstick disappeared from the bathroom, along with her bottle of perfume.Sometimes he would see her turn a corner or cross the street, and once he would see her come to pick him up from school, only to find out after rushing past that she was just a strange aunt wearing her mother's hat and clothes.Joan has always liked bright colors.His thirteenth birthday was approaching, and after another, there was still no news from her.Six months later, her scent was no longer in the bathroom cabinet.Dad started to fill the void left by her departure. "It's Aunt May," he said.He had already shed his pajamas for a baggy suit and even started shaving. "My God, what a grown-up." The woman looked like a face poking out of a thick fur collar, fingers that held macaroons like sausages. "Will he like to eat this?" Thinking of this, Harold's mouth was moist.He ate all the biscuits in the plastic bag, but it wasn't nearly enough.The saliva in the mouth is getting thicker and thicker, like paste.When he met passers-by, he covered his mouth with a handkerchief, not wanting to frighten them.He bought two bottles of milk and gulped it down until it dripped down his chin.Already drinking so fast, the desire for liquid is still so strong, he used his mouth to widen the mouth of the carton while drinking, and he felt that he couldn't explain it.The milk still doesn't flow fast enough.A few feet further and you're sure to stop with nausea.He couldn't stop thinking about the days when his mother left. In the suitcase that the mother took away, not only was she laughing, she also took away the only person in the whole room who was taller than him.Joan couldn't be said to be a gentle and kind person, but at least she stood between this son and a dark cloud.The aunts handed him sweets, pinched his cheeks, and even asked him if his dress looked good.Harold suddenly felt as if the world had no boundaries, and he flinched every time they touched him. "I'm not saying he's weird," remarked his Aunt May, "but he just won't look at you." Harold walked up to Bickley now.The guide said he should go and see the little red-brick castle on the banks of the Aix.But a long-faced man in olive trousers told him that the contents of that guidebook were outdated, unless he was interested in lavish weddings or murder mysteries.He recommended the handcrafted gift shop at Bickley's Mill to Harold, saying there was a better chance of finding something to suit his taste and budget. Harold looked at the glass ornaments, aromatherapy bags, and bird feeders handmade by the locals in the store, but found nothing of particular interest or need.He was a little disappointed and wanted to leave, but as the only customer in the store, with the clerk staring at him, he seemed to have to buy something.He left with a set of four coasters with Devonshire stamped on them, and he chose a ballpoint pen for her that glowed a dim red light when she tried to write in the dark. time, you can use it. "Motherless Harold," the kids at school called him.He refuses to go to school. "It's all right," said his Aunt Vera.After Aunt Mei left, she slept in Aunt Mei's place, "He is quite good at telling jokes, and occasionally he has a few finishing touches." Tired and desolate, Harold ordered a meal at a "fisherman's cottage", overlooking the river.He talked to a few strangers and learned that there was a bridge over this restless river that was the inspiration for the song that Simon and Garfunkel wrote.He nodded and smiled during the conversation, as if he was listening carefully, but his mind was really full of the journey he had taken, the time passed, and what happened to his feet.How serious is the situation?Will it disappear automatically?He went to bed early, reassuring himself that he would be fine with more rest, but the pain did not improve. "Dear son," read the only letter from Joan, "New Zealand is a wonderful place. I must leave. I'm not a mother. Give my regards to your father." The bad thing is not that she just walked away.Worst of all, she even wrote an explanation full of typos.On the tenth day of his departure, there was not a movement that did not remind him that he was in trouble.His entire right leg seemed to burn with every muscle movement.He thought of the urgent announcement he had made to Queenie's nursing home on the phone, and thought it was naive and inappropriate, and even the conversation with the social worker that night made him feel ashamed.As if something happened overnight, the journey and his confidence were broken into two irrelevant things, and all that was left was the arduous and boundless trek.He walked for ten days, and all his energy was spent on constantly putting one foot in front of the other, but now he found that his beliefs were lowered to his feet, and the worries that were suppressed before gradually became hidden facts. The three and a half miles up the A396 to Tilburton are by far the toughest.There was little room for dodging by the side of the road, and although he could see the silvery glimmer of the Aix River over the freshly pruned bushes, he wished he hadn't seen the angular branches and leaves.Passing drivers honked at him and yelled at him to get off the road.He blamed himself for the current progress. At this rate, he would not be able to reach Berwick until Christmas. "Even a child can do better than you," he said to himself. He thought of David dancing madly, and the boy who swam into the deep sea desperately.Seeing himself trying to tell the kid a joke again, David scrunched up his face when he heard it. "I don't think it's funny," he said.Harold recalled these images with tears in his eyes.He explained to him what the point of the joke was, that it was made to make people laugh easily, and told him again. "I still don't get it," David responded.Later Harold heard David repeat the joke to Maureen in the bathroom. "He said it was funny," David complained, "and he said it twice, and I didn't laugh." Even at such a young age, he could speak so darkly. Harold thought of David at eighteen, with his hair hanging over his shoulders and his hands and feet sticking out long from his cuffs and trouser legs.He saw the young man lying on the bed with his feet on the pillow, his eyes fixed on one place, and Harold almost wondered if David could see something he couldn't.His little wrist was so thin that nothing but bone remained. He heard his own voice: "I heard from your mother that you were admitted to Cambridge." David didn't even look at him, and continued to stare at the nothingness.Harold thought about pulling him into his arms and hugging him tightly.He wanted to say, "Well done, son, how can someone like me have a child as smart as you?" But in the end he just looked at David's unfathomable face and said, "Oh my god, that's great, old man. sky". David smiled derisively, as if his father had told a joke.Harold closed the door and said to himself that one day, when his son was a real man, it might be easier for them to get along. Starting from Tiberton, Harold decided to follow the main road, which he consoled himself with as a straighter route.Follow the Great Western route, through country lanes, to the A38, which is twenty miles to Taunton. The storm is coming.Dark clouds hooded the land, but left an eerie fringe of light on the edge of Brecton Hill.For the first time, he remembered the mobile phone he didn't bring, and he didn't know what was waiting for him in front of him. He really wanted to talk to Maureen.The tops of the trees, glowing faintly against the granite sky, trembled wildly at the first gust of wind, blowing leaves and twigs into the air.Birds are chirping.In the distance a curtain of rain appeared between Harold and the mountains.He ducked his head into his coat as the first rain fell. There is nowhere to escape.The rain was beating on Harold's waterproof jacket and neck, even into the elasticated cuffs.The raindrops fell like beans, swirling in puddles and washing up gutters.Every time a car passed, the rain splashed on his trousers and flowed into his sailing shoes.An hour later his feet were completely wet, and his skin was itchy from the soaked clothes.He didn't know if he was hungry or not, and he couldn't remember if he had eaten.Only the right leg still hurts. A car pulled up next to him, splashing water on his waist.It doesn't matter, anyway, it can't get wet anymore.The passenger window rolled down slowly, and there was a smell of new leather mixed with heating.Harold bent down. There was a young, dry face in the car: "Need a ride with you?" "I need to walk," the rain stung Harold's eyes, "but thanks for stopping." "It really doesn't matter," the young face insisted, "No one should stay outside in this kind of weather." "I swear it," Harold said, straightening up, "I've got to go all the way. But thank you very much." For the next mile, he wondered if he was an idiot, imagining sitting in the steamy car, giving his feet a rest.If he hitchhiked all the way in this way, he would be in Berwick in a few hours.Maybe by the next morning.The longer he goes, the less likely it is that Queenie is still alive.But he was still convinced that she was waiting.If he failed to keep his side of the promise - no matter how absurd the "agreement" seemed - he was sure he would never see her again. what should I do?Give me a hint, Queenie.He might have said it out loud as he thought about it.He didn't know where he stopped, and he didn't know when the outside world came back to his eyes. A huge van rumbled toward him, honking like crazy, and splashed mud from head to toe. Yet another thing happened.It's the kind of thing that makes people realize its importance before it's over.Towards evening, the rain stopped suddenly, making one wonder if it hadn't rained at all.A rift opened in the clouds to the east, and a short, shiny silver light broke through the clouds.Harold paused, watching the great gray cloud break apart, revealing new blues, bright ambers, peaches, greens, crimsons.Gradually, the clouds revealed a dark pink color, as if penetrated by those vivid colors and fused together.He couldn't move, eager to see every change: the light on the ground was golden, warming even his skin; the ground creaked under his feet, as if whispering something; the air smelled green, full of A new life was born; the soft water vapor rose up like wisps of light smoke. Harold was too tired to lift his legs, but he was dazzled by the abundance of hope.If he could keep his eyes on something greater than himself, he knew he could make it to Berwick. Queenie is still alive.She believed it too.She is waiting for him.