Chapter 18 18. Harold and the decision

"Good morning. I am looking for a Miss Queenie Hennessy, who wrote me a month ago." On the twenty-sixth day, six miles south of Stroud, Harold decided to stop.He had turned back the five miles back to Bath and had walked the A46 for four days, but the misdirection had been such a shock that Harold's progress had slowed down.The bushes gradually disappeared, turned into ditches and dry stone walls, and on the open flat ground stood one huge cable pylon after another, with no end in sight.He looked at these things in his eyes, but he couldn't ignite any interest. No matter which direction he looked, it was an endless road with no end at all.He used all his strength and willpower to move forward, knowing in his heart that he would never reach it.

Why waste so much time looking at the sky, looking at the mountains, talking with passers-by, and thinking about the past life?Isn't it over in a car?He certainly couldn't have walked up to Berwick with a pair of sailing shoes.Queenie certainly wasn't delaying the ending just because he told her to wait. Every day, the low-hanging sky became paler and paler under the scorching silver sun, he just walked with his head buried, not looking at the birds above his head, and ignoring the traffic around him.This feeling is even more lonely than standing alone in the deep mountains and wild forests.

This decision is not just for myself.And Maureen, he missed her more and more.He knew he had lost her love, but it was still wrong to walk away and leave her alone to clean up the mess.He has given her too much sorrow and misfortune.And Davy, Harold had been more and more distressed by the distance between them since Bath day.He missed them both so much. Finally, there are economic reasons.The small hotel where he stayed overnight was not expensive, but it was still a sum he could not afford.He checked his bank account and was taken aback.If Queenie was still alive, if she wanted him to come and see her, he would take the train.We can reach Berwick in the evening.

The woman on the other end of the phone asked, "Have you called before?" Harold wondered if this was the nurse who had answered the phone last time.The man has a Scottish accent, he thought, or Irish?He was too tired to think about it. "Can I talk to Queenie?" "I'm sorry, I'm afraid not." Harold seemed to have hit an invisible wall. "Is she—" There was a stabbing pain in his chest, "Is she—" Still unable to say. "Aren't you the gentleman who's walking over to see her?" Harold swallowed, a sharp pain in his throat.He said yes and then apologized. "Mr. Fry, Queenie has no family and no friends. Patients who have nothing to worry about usually don't last long. We have been waiting for your call."

"Oh." He could barely speak, so he just listened.The blood in the veins seemed to be cold and still. "After receiving your call, we have all noticed the change in Queenie, which is very obvious." A stretcher appeared before his eyes, stiff and lifeless.It turned out that it was too late to change this feeling.Harold answered hoarsely, "Yes." Since there was no response from the other end, he added, "Of course." He leaned his forehead against the glass of the phone booth, leaned his shoulders against it, and closed his eyes.It would be great if there was a way to cut off all feelings.

There was a burst of noise on the phone, as if there was laughter, but how could this be possible? "We've never seen anything like this: Sometimes she actually sits up and she shows us the postcard you sent her." Harold shook his head, as if he didn't understand: "Excuse me, what did you say?" "She's waiting for you, Mr. Fry, just as you asked." A cry of surprise erupted from his body, startling Harold himself. "Is she still alive? Is she on the mend?" He laughed, not intentionally, but the louder he laughed, the waves of laughter echoed in the phone booth with the tears that fell. "She's waiting for me?" He pushed open the door of the phone booth, waving his fists in the air.

"When you called and said you were coming on foot, I was afraid you were getting the point wrong. But I was wrong. It's a rare treatment, and I don't know how you came up with it. But maybe it's That's what the world needs, a little less reason and a little more faith." "Yes, yes." He was still laughing.He just couldn't stop. "May I ask how the journey is going?" "Very well. I spent the night at Old Soderberg yesterday or the day before, past Dunkirk and now I think I'm Nails Worth." Even this sentence is funny, and the other end of the phone is also giggling. "I don't know where these names come from. When will you arrive?" "Let me see." Harold blew his nose, wiped away the last tear, looked down at his watch, thinking that he would be able to sit down as soon as possible. Which train to take, how many stops to stop.Then he thought about the distance between himself and Queenie, those mountains, those roads, those people, that piece of sky.Just like that afternoon when I first set off.The difference is that this time, he himself is in the picture.A little tired, a little hurt, with the whole world behind him, but this time he won't let Queenie down. "About three weeks, more or less."

"My God," laughed the other end of the phone, "I'll tell her." "Also, please tell her not to give up. Tell her I'm going to go." He laughed again, because the phone came back There was a burst of laughter. "I promise to convey." "Even if she is afraid, tell her to persevere and live." "I believe she will. God bless you, Mr. Fry." Harold went from afternoon to dusk.He knew why he was doing it again, more clearly now than ever, actually.The intense sense of disbelief that preceded the call was gone, and he escaped again.It turned out to be a miracle.If he takes a car or a train, he will think he is right all the way, but in fact he is completely wrong.He had almost given up, but there was a turning point that made him persevere.This time he will never give up.

On the way to Stroud, Harold passed a garbage truck when something strange caught his eye.He stopped, flipped through a few offset plates, and suddenly discovered that it was a sleeping bag.He picked it up and shook it off, flicking off the dust on it. Although the sleeping bag was torn and the cotton inside stuck out like a soft white tongue, the tear was not big, and the zipper was still usable.Harold rolled up his sleeping bag and walked to the house next to the garbage truck.After hearing Harold's story, the owner called his wife out and brought him a cup of tea, a folding chair and a yoga mat.Harold thanked them, repeating that a sleeping bag would suffice.

The hostess said, "Please be careful. Our gas station was robbed by four gunmen last week." Harold assured her that despite his belief in the goodness of human nature, he was very vigilant.The twilight was thickening, covering the roofs and treetops like a thick layer of fur. Looking at the dim lights from every house and the busy figures in the lights, Harold thought about how they would climb into bed later and fall asleep in a dream.He was surprised to find how much he still cared about them, relieved that they had a safe and warm place to live so that he could move on freely.It had always been like this anyway, he was always at a distance from them.The outline of the moon gradually became clear, round and full, like a silver coin peeking out of the water, hanging high in the night sky.

He tried a small carport, the door was locked; he stood on a children's playground for a long time, but there was no roof to cover his head; and a house under construction, the windows were sealed with plastic sheets, Harold didn't want to walk in without asking.A few wisps of white cloud shone like black and silver mackerel, and all the roofs and roads were bathed in the softest blue. Climbing up a steep hill, the dirt track ends in a barn.There were no dogs and no cars. The roof and three walls of the barn were corrugated iron sheets, and the last wall was covered with a tarpaulin that reflected the moonlight.He lifted up a corner of the oilcloth, bent over and got in, the air inside was very dry, with a faint sweet smell, and there was a reassuring tranquility. The straw piles were piled up in bales, some low, some almost touching the rafters. Harold climbed up and found his footing in the dark, a little easier than he thought.The straw under the sailing shoes made a rustling sound, and the touch of his hands felt very gentle. He unfolded his sleeping bag, knelt down to open the zipper, and lay still without moving, but after a while he began to worry that his head and nose might will freeze.So he opened the pack to find the soft wool beret for Queenie, who wouldn't mind lending him a beret.A little light flickered in the dark across the valley. Harold's mind gradually became clear, and his body seemed to melt.The rain fell on the roof of the barn and on the oilcloth. The sound of the rain was soft and full of patience, just like Maureen used to sing a lullaby to the young David.Harold was still a little reluctant when the rain stopped, as if the voice had become an integral part of the world.At this moment, there seemed to be no distance between the sky, the earth and him.Harold woke up before dawn.He propped up his elbow and looked out of the warehouse through the gap. The day was fighting back against the night, and the dawn seeped into his vision, so pale that there was almost no color.As the outlines in the distance gradually became clearer, the dawn became more and more firm, and the birdsong suddenly sounded, and the night sky gradually turned dark gray, milky white, peach red, indigo, and finally frozen into a blue.A faint mist crept across the valley, and the hilltops and houses seemed to rise from clouds.The moon is now blurred and indistinguishable.He passed his first night outside like this, and Harold felt a little incredulous at first, and then turned into joy.Stamping his feet and blowing his nose, he felt a sudden urge to tell David about this small achievement.The air throbbed with the song of birds, the smell of life, and he felt as if he were standing in last night's rain.He quickly rolled up his pack and returned to the road.He walked for a day, and when he saw the spring water, he bent over and took a sip, feeling the coolness in his hands to the fullest.At a small roadside stall on the way, he stopped to buy a cup of coffee and a skewer of roast meat.After hearing Harold's story, the stall owner refused to accept the money, saying that his own mother had also suffered from cancer and was recovering, so he was very happy to buy Harold something to eat.He passed Slade, saw a woman with a kind face smiling down from an upstairs window, and from there he walked to Birdlip.The sun shone through the foliage of the Cranlam woods, and sprinkled gold leaf on the thick beech leaves.In a small abandoned cabin, Harold spent his second night in the field.The next day he set out for Cheltenham. The Black Hills and Malvern Hills ahead stood at both ends of the field of vision, and Harold could see the roofs of factories in the distance, the vague outline of Gloucester Cathedral, and some tiny shadows that must have been houses and passing cars.There's so much going on there, so many beings busy, suffering, struggling, unaware that on this little mountain, there's a man sitting and watching quietly.Once again, he felt both detached and part of the world in front of him, inextricably connected to them and yet a passing visitor.Harold came to understand that this was also the essence of his journey.He is part of a great process, but not of this great thing. To stay the course, he had to be honest about the feelings that pushed him to take the first step.It doesn't matter that others choose a different approach, it's unavoidable.He'd keep walking down the road because he felt safer here, apart from the occasional speeding car.It doesn't matter if he doesn't have a mobile phone, and it doesn't matter if he doesn't have a plan. He has a completely different map, just in his mind, consisting of the places he has traveled along the way and the people he has met.He still wouldn't change his sailing shoes, because no matter how worn they were, they were his shoes.He found that when a person is alienated from the familiar life and becomes a passer-by, strange things will be given new meanings.Knowing that, it becomes even more important to be who you are, to be honestly Harold and not be anyone else. It all makes sense.So what else was bothering him about the nature of the journey?He reached into his trouser pocket and fiddled with the coins in the bag. He thought again of that kind childless woman, and of Martine's kindness. They offered him food, shelter, even though he was timid to accept it.In the process of acceptance, he also learned new things.Giving and receiving is a gift that requires both humility and courage.He thought of the peace of mind lying in the barn.He let these things play back in his mind over and over again, and the ground under his feet stretched out to the distant skyline.In an instant he understood.He knew what he needed to do to get to Berwick. In Cheltenham, Harold gave his washing powder to a student who was about to walk into the laundry.In Peresberg he met a woman who couldn't find her keys, and he gave her the hand-held flashlight.The next day he gave both the tape and the antiseptic ointment to a mother whose baby had fallen below her knee and was crying, and Harold sent out the comb as well, to distract him. He gave the "Guidebook to Great Britain" to a German couple who got lost near Cliff Hill and were at a loss, and since he was already very familiar with the plant encyclopedia, he simply gave them as well.He rewrapped the presents for Queenie: honey, rose quartz, shiny paperweights, Roman key rings, and the wool hat.The gifts for Maureen were all put together and sent out at a post office.The knapsack and compass remained because they did not belong to him and he had no right to pass them on. He would go to Broadway via Winchcombe, then to Mickelton, Clifford Hall, then Stratford-upon-Avon. Two days later, Maureen was wrapping the bean vines around the bamboo frame when she heard someone call her to pick up the courier.She opened the box to find a pile of presents, as well as Harold's wallet, watch and a postcard with a Cotswold woolen sheep. It was in Harold's handwriting: "Dear Maureen: Please check the debit card etc. in the package. I don't want to walk with so many things. If I keep things simple, I know I will. Miss you often. H." Maureen climbed up the front porch, feeling like she had no feet.Maureen stuffed Harold's wallet into the bedside table, under the family portrait of the three of them, and pinned the postcard to the map Rex had given him. "Oh, Harold," she sighed softly.Deep down in her heart, she wondered if Harold, who was thousands of miles away, could hear this sigh.