The Present

The Present as the Answer to Waiting

The novel's final movement brings the present into direct opposition with waiting. Queenie's entire illness has been a form of waiting, a suspension of life until Harold arrives. Her last moments transform this waiting into arrival. The pink shining light she sees, the call of her father and Harold Fry, her final 'Here I am' — all of these are the present breaking through the long vigil. Harold, too, has been waiting all his life, first in the brewery, then in retirement, and finally on the road. His inspection of his feet in the hotel, where he slips on his reading glasses to examine his toes, soft and pale, a little tender around the nails, quietly proud of his condition, is a moment of pure present attention, a man fully in his body at a single point in time. Martina's gift of her partner's rucksack, the brass compass, and the blue duct tape, along with her soft kiss on his cheek and her words 'Go well, Harold,' is another such moment, a present that asks nothing in return. The present, the novel suggests, is the place where waiting ends and being begins. It is not a duration but a quality of attention, available at any moment to anyone willing to lay down the past. Queenie finds it at the very edge of death; Harold finds it in the middle of the road. The novel's final image of the present is Queenie's easy breath, the intake of air that does not come but is replaced by something else, as easy as breathing. It is the simplest and most profound achievement the book offers: to be fully here, fully now, and to answer the call with a whole heart.