Wilf steals and leaves the pilgrims

Wilf's theft and departure marks a turning point in Harold Fry's pilgrimage, the moment when the communal spirit of the walk curdles into suspicion and the boy Harold had trusted against all odds vanishes with stolen goods. The event strips away the last pretense of innocence from the pilgrimage, revealing how far the journey has drifted from its original purpose of saving Queenie Hennessy. It also forces Harold to confront his own pattern of failed relationships, as he admits that Wilf reminded him of his dead son David, and that his betrayal of David sometimes pains him even more than his betrayal of Queenie.

The Theft and the Search

Harold was woken the following morning by shouts. Rich's knife had gone. After a thorough search of the field, banks and hedgerows, it was clear that Wilf had gone with it. And so, he discovered, had the glittering paperweight for Queenie Hennessy. The paperweight was one of the gifts Harold had carefully rewrapped for Queenie, along with the pot of honey, the rose quartz, the Roman key ring and the wool hat, after he had donated his washing powder, wind-up torch, plasters, antiseptic cream, comb and guide to Britain to strangers in Cheltenham. The theft of this particular object struck at the heart of Harold's mission, for the paperweight was meant to be a token of his promise to Queenie, a physical proof that he was walking to save her. The gorilla man reported news that Pilgrim Wilf had set up a Facebook page. It already had over a thousand likes. There were personal anecdotes about his walk, and the people he had saved. There were several prayers. He promised his fans there were more stories to come in the weekend papers. The boy had not merely stolen and fled; he had transformed his theft into a performance, a self-promotion that mocked the very idea of pilgrimage.

Rich's Condemnation and Harold's Guilt

'I told you he was no good,' said Rich across the camp fire. His eyes pinned Harold through the dark. Rich's words carried the weight of vindication, for he had always been suspicious of Wilf, and the theft confirmed his judgment. Harold was deeply troubled by the boy's disappearance. He walked apart from the group and scanned the shadows for signs. In towns, he stared into pubs and gangs of young men, searching for Wilf's gaunt, sickly face, or listening out for that infuriating yelp of a laugh. He felt he had let the boy down, and that this was how it always was with Harold. Once again, he slept badly at nights, and sometimes he did not sleep at all. The guilt was not merely about Wilf; it was about David, about Queenie, about every person Harold had failed to save. His sleeplessness echoed the restless nights of his earlier journey, when he had driven himself harder despite the pain in his calf and the cold in his bones, and it foreshadowed the deeper collapse of faith that would come at Wooler.

Kate's Revelation and the Pattern of Betrayal

'You look tired,' said Kate. They had moved a little distance from the group and were sitting in a brick tunnel by a stream. The water was still and thick, more like green velvet than fluid. Further along the banks, there was water mint and cress, but Harold knew he'd lost the interest in picking them. 'I feel a long way from where I began. But I also feel a long way from where I am going.' He gave a yawn that seemed to shudder up through his whole body. 'Why do you think Wilf went?' Kate's answer was blunt: 'He'd had enough. I don't think he was evil or anything like that. He's young. He's flaky.' Her words cut through the sentimentality that had begun to surround the pilgrimage, offering Harold the plain speech he had not heard since the early days of his walk, when no one had expectations, including himself. He confided that Wilf had reminded him of his son, and that Harold's betrayal of David sometimes pained him these days even more than his betrayal of Queenie. 'When my son was little, we realized he was clever. He spent all his time in his room, doing schoolwork. If he didn't get top marks, he'd be in tears. But then his intelligence seemed to backfire on him. He was too clever. Too lonely. He got into Cambridge and he started drinking. I was such a no-hoper at school, I was in awe of his intelligence. Failure was about the only thing I was good at.' Kate laughed and her chin concertina'd into her neck. Despite her brusque manner, he had begun to find comfort in the stalwart bulk of her. She said, 'I never said anything about this to the others, but my wedding ring disappeared a few nights ago too.' Harold sighed. He knew he had trusted Wilf against the odds, but somehow he had also trusted that there was a basic goodness to be found in everyone, and that this time he could tap into it. 'It doesn't matter about the ring. My ex and I just got divorced. I don't know why I kept on wearing it.' She flexed her naked fingers. 'So maybe Wilf did me a favour.' Kate's revelation reframed the theft: Wilf had not only stolen from Rich and from Queenie, but from Kate as well, and yet her response was not anger but a weary acceptance that the ring had outlived its meaning. Harold's trust in the boy, his faith that he could reach the goodness in everyone, had been betrayed, and the betrayal reopened the old wound of David, the son he had failed to save from depression, addiction and suicide.

The Aftermath and the Splintering of the Pilgrims

The theft accelerated the disintegration of the pilgrimage. The pilgrims had already been divided by Rich's scheme to distinguish the real pilgrims from their followers, when he had arranged for T-shirts with the word PILGRIM on the front and back, provided by the distributors of a health drink through a friend in PR. Kate had scoffed at the white T-shirts, asking where they were going to wash them, and Rich had replied that white stands out and its image is pure. The pilgrimage had become a brand, and Wilf's Facebook page was the logical extension of that corruption. A week after the split, reports came of the pilgrims' arrival in Berwick-upon-Tweed. There were photographs in the newspapers of Rich Lion walking hand in hand with his two sons along the quay; and others of a man in a gorilla suit nuzzling the cheek of Miss South Devon. There was a brass band to welcome the party, with a performance by the local cheerleading troupe, and a dinner attended by local councillors and businessmen. Several Sunday papers claimed to have sole access to Rich's diaries. There was talk of a film. The pilgrims' arrival was also covered on the television news. Courtesy of BBC Spotlight, Maureen and Rex watched footage of Rich Lion and several others delivering flowers to the hospice along with a giant basket of muffins, although Queenie was unable to receive them. The reporter added that sadly no one from the hospice was available for comment. She stood with her microphone at the edge of the drive. Behind her there appeared to be a neatly kept garden, with blue hydrangeas, and a man in a boiler suit raking grass clippings. 'Those people didn't even know Queenie,' said Maureen. 'It makes me want to spit. Why couldn't they wait for Harold?' The splinter pilgrims had reached Berwick without Harold, without Queenie, without any understanding of what the walk had meant. They had turned the pilgrimage into a spectacle, a media event, and Wilf's theft was the first sign that the journey had been stolen from Harold.

The Deeper Wound: David and the Garden Shed

Wilf's disappearance resonated with Harold's deepest trauma, the memory of his son's suicide. In his confession letter to the garage girl, Harold had written: 'Twenty years ago I buried my son. It is not something a father should have to do. I wanted to know the man he would become. I still do. To this day, I don't understand why he did it. He was depressed, and addicted to mixing alcohol with pills. He couldn't get a job. But I wish with all my heart he had spoken to me. He hanged himself in my garden shed. He did it with some rope, tied to one of the hooks I used for garden tools. He was so full of the alcohol and pills, the coroner said it must have taken a long time to tie the noose. The verdict was suicide. It was me who discovered him.' The garden shed, the place of David's death, was also the place Harold had dismantled in a drunken rage, and the place where he had kept his bottles in paper bags under his desk. Wilf, with his gaunt, sickly face and his flaky youth, had become a stand-in for David, and Harold's failure to save Wilf from his own weakness repeated his failure to save David from his. The theft was not just a loss of objects; it was a confirmation that Harold could not protect the young, that his trust was misplaced, and that the pattern of betrayal and loss would follow him to the end of his walk. The paperweight, meant for Queenie, was gone, and with it a piece of Harold's promise. He would continue to Berwick, but the pilgrimage had been irrevocably changed, and the boy who had stolen from him had taken something that could not be replaced.