your face and you saw mine, I turned to the window. I had to concentrate very hard on the sky or the evergreens or anything that was not inside my mind.
I have searched for you, Harold, in the years I have lived without you. Not a day has gone by when I have not thought of you. There was a time when I wished it would stop, when I tried to forget, but forgetting took such strength it was easier to accept you were a missing part of me and get on with life. Sometimes, yes, I have spotted a tall man down by the sea, throwing stones, and with a jolt of excitement that leaves me trembling I have said to myself, That’s him. That’s Harold Fry. Other times I have heard a car draw up behind me as I walk to the village, or I have passed a man heading towards the castle ruins, a hiker perhaps, or I have stood behind a stranger at the shop. And something about the rumbling of the car engine, or the way the man carries his shoulders, or asks for stamps at the counter with a southern softness to his voice, has allowed me for one moment to pretend it is you. It is a fantasy, a daydream. Even as I indulge the idea, I know it cannot be true. Embleton Bay is a sprinkling of clifftop summer beach houses in the north-east of England, and I never sent you my address.But pretending you are near, for a few moments, I have felt complete again. Only when my illness came did I give up looking for you.
You must have changed, just as I have changed. Where my skin once showed the faintest of lines, there are now ridges and indentations. Where my hair was thick and brown and shoulder-length, it is soft and white as the tufts of old man’s beard that fleck my sea garden in winter. My waist that was once plump and beskirted is a hollowing curve between the knobs of my hipbones. Maybe you don’t even wear fawn any more. Maybe you have moved on to blue.
I laid aside my notebook and tried to picture you in blue. You looked made of water. I had to dress you quickly back in fawn again. And then I remembered there was no postcard and I felt stupid for thinking all this.
Sister Lucy asked if I’d like to help with her British Isles jigsaw, but I only shrugged. Sister Catherine suggested a visit to the Well-being Garden. ‘It’s a nice day. A spell outside might do you good. You like plants and things, don’t you, Queenie?’ I shook my head.
When Sister Philomena came in with the trolley of nutritional milkshakes, I said no to those as well.
‘Listen here,’ said Finty. ‘I’ve been watching you, missy. You sit in that chair over there and you write away in your notebook. Then it comes to mealtimes and you hardly eat. Sometimes you don’t even show your face in the dining room. If you’re going to keep living, you have to come here and take the nutritional milkshakes with the rest of us.’
‘No,’ I groaned. ‘Please.’ I had them in hospital. They made me sick.
‘It seems like you’ve got a man walking the length of England. Thereare some of us here that haven’t even had a visitor. So the least you can do is not kick the bucket. Now, I know you think you look like a monster, but this is hardly a beauty pageant. Look at Barbara here. The Pearly King has a plastic arm, and I’m carrying the contents of my bowel in my handbag. Either you take the drinks like we do or you’ll end up on a drip feed. Which is it going be?’
‘Don’t push her,’ said Sister Catherine. ‘It’s different for everyone.’
‘Excuse me, sister, but I’m talking to Queenie Hennessy.’ Finty fixed me with a look that was like being pinned to the wall by two orange eyebrows.
I opened my mouth. I could sense them all watching, the patients, the nuns. I didn’t think for a moment they’d understand. ‘The drinks,’ I grunted.
‘Excellent,’ said Finty. ‘Come on, everyone. Gather up. We’ll get in a round.’
Sister Catherine helped me out of my chair by the window. It was only a small distance to the other patients, but I was so slow, it was
I have searched for you, Harold, in the years I have lived without you. Not a day has gone by when I have not thought of you. There was a time when I wished it would stop, when I tried to forget, but forgetting took such strength it was easier to accept you were a missing part of me and get on with life. Sometimes, yes, I have spotted a tall man down by the sea, throwing stones, and with a jolt of excitement that leaves me trembling I have said to myself, That’s him. That’s Harold Fry. Other times I have heard a car draw up behind me as I walk to the village, or I have passed a man heading towards the castle ruins, a hiker perhaps, or I have stood behind a stranger at the shop. And something about the rumbling of the car engine, or the way the man carries his shoulders, or asks for stamps at the counter with a southern softness to his voice, has allowed me for one moment to pretend it is you. It is a fantasy, a daydream. Even as I indulge the idea, I know it cannot be true. Embleton Bay is a sprinkling of clifftop summer beach houses in the north-east of England, and I never sent you my address.But pretending you are near, for a few moments, I have felt complete again. Only when my illness came did I give up looking for you.
You must have changed, just as I have changed. Where my skin once showed the faintest of lines, there are now ridges and indentations. Where my hair was thick and brown and shoulder-length, it is soft and white as the tufts of old man’s beard that fleck my sea garden in winter. My waist that was once plump and beskirted is a hollowing curve between the knobs of my hipbones. Maybe you don’t even wear fawn any more. Maybe you have moved on to blue.
I laid aside my notebook and tried to picture you in blue. You looked made of water. I had to dress you quickly back in fawn again. And then I remembered there was no postcard and I felt stupid for thinking all this.
Sister Lucy asked if I’d like to help with her British Isles jigsaw, but I only shrugged. Sister Catherine suggested a visit to the Well-being Garden. ‘It’s a nice day. A spell outside might do you good. You like plants and things, don’t you, Queenie?’ I shook my head.
When Sister Philomena came in with the trolley of nutritional milkshakes, I said no to those as well.
‘Listen here,’ said Finty. ‘I’ve been watching you, missy. You sit in that chair over there and you write away in your notebook. Then it comes to mealtimes and you hardly eat. Sometimes you don’t even show your face in the dining room. If you’re going to keep living, you have to come here and take the nutritional milkshakes with the rest of us.’
‘No,’ I groaned. ‘Please.’ I had them in hospital. They made me sick.
‘It seems like you’ve got a man walking the length of England. Thereare some of us here that haven’t even had a visitor. So the least you can do is not kick the bucket. Now, I know you think you look like a monster, but this is hardly a beauty pageant. Look at Barbara here. The Pearly King has a plastic arm, and I’m carrying the contents of my bowel in my handbag. Either you take the drinks like we do or you’ll end up on a drip feed. Which is it going be?’
‘Don’t push her,’ said Sister Catherine. ‘It’s different for everyone.’
‘Excuse me, sister, but I’m talking to Queenie Hennessy.’ Finty fixed me with a look that was like being pinned to the wall by two orange eyebrows.
I opened my mouth. I could sense them all watching, the patients, the nuns. I didn’t think for a moment they’d understand. ‘The drinks,’ I grunted.
‘Excellent,’ said Finty. ‘Come on, everyone. Gather up. We’ll get in a round.’
Sister Catherine helped me out of my chair by the window. It was only a small distance to the other patients, but I was so slow, it was
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