The Living and the Dead in Winsford

11

The fifth of November. Thirteen degrees. Fog.

We went northwards on our morning walk, towards what is called the Punchbowl and Wambarrows. Wambarrows is one of the highest points on the whole moor, but visibility today was no more than thirty or forty metres and the world was hiding away. We followed a well-trodden path, which was very muddy in parts and difficult to cope with; and in order to avoid the risk of getting lost we turned round after half an hour and followed the same route back. No wild ponies loomed up out of the mist, just the usual screeching pheasants. And the occasional crow. I’m grateful for the fact that Castor has no trace of any kind of hunting instinct: it would be difficult to wander around as we do with a different kind of dog. But he trotted along as usual, ten metres behind on the way out, ten metres ahead on the way home.

We also came upon ‘that woman’s grave’, as Mr Tawking put it. Surrounded by a circle of low, windswept trees is a small metal plate on a wooden stake: In memory of Elizabeth Williford Barrett, 1911–1961.

Nothing more. It didn’t look like a grave. I thought it was probably where her ashes had been scattered in this private little memorial grove.

Who was she? And why this barren spot? No more than a hundred metres from Darne Lodge. She only lived to be fifty years old, and I thought I ought to find out more about her. Not today, but in due course. She is my nearest neighbour after all.

I had lit a fire before we set off, and the house was warm when we got back. I had my breakfast in peace and quiet while reading the first thirty pages of Bleak House. It’s difficult to grasp that the description of a London fog in the opening chapter is a hundred and fifty years old. It could just as well have been written today. I haven’t read all that much Dickens, but Martin has always rated him highly. Maybe I’ll make it routine to read thirty pages of Bleak House every morning: that would make it last for a month, and then I can go to the antiquarian bookshop in Dulverton and buy a new Dickens. Why not? I need to build up my day-to-day existence around practical rituals — now is a time to proceed prudently, not to dismantle everything.

When I look out of the window and compare my Exmoor mist with Dickens’s nineteenth-century fog it feels as if it were a living being, just as he claimed. A sophisticated and intelligent enemy intent on encircling, penetrating and swallowing up everything. As patient and methodical as a virus, it needs bodies with as much energy as the sun to defend themselves in the long run, and needless to say the environment Castor and I have done our best to create will submit eventually. But I think that in fact it is just a variation on the old, familiar theory about the incorruptibility of life and death and the forces of nature, and I persuade myself that I should not succumb to passing whims. And concentrate on outliving my dog, as I have said before. Make decisions and stick to them. Fog or no fog.

Shortly after eleven o’clock we got into the car and set off for Exford. That is a village slightly larger than Winsford: two local pubs instead of one, a separate post office and general store, and with plenty of overnight accommodation for passing visitors. We bought a newspaper, then continued north-westwards over the moor: I suspected that this was the part of the moor that Mark Britton had referred to. But there were no views at all of the Bristol Channel and Wales which were allegedly visible on a clear day.

Then the road sloped steeply down into Porlock, before following the coast to Minehead. I had consulted the map carefully before setting out, and stopped occasionally in order to establish exactly where we were.

Minehead is a real town — no doubt a tourist destination of significance in the summer, but comparatively deserted at this time of year. We parked the car, then walked along the main street — The Avenue — to the sea. We found a launderette, where I eventually managed to fill and start two machines after various problems, and not far away was an open internet cafe. I bought tea and scones, and with Castor under the table I opened our mailboxes for the first time since we left Sweden. First my own, and then Martin’s. I must admit that my heart was racing. I hadn’t taken our own computers with me, but was sitting at one of the cafe’s six slightly old-fashioned setups: I had the impression that this is what one was supposed to do, even if I had seen youngsters with their own computers linked in to up-to-date connections at Starbucks and Espresso House. But I had failed to find either of these coffee temples in sleepy Minehead.

My inbox contained no fewer than thirty-six new messages, thirty-one of them general and of no interest, but five personal ones. Among the latter were two invitations to autumn parties, one from colleagues at the Monkeyhouse, the other from a friend and former colleague from Skåne who organizes a Martinmas party every year in her home in Söder in Stockholm — I’ve been receiving the same invitation every year since 2003, the only time I accepted. Since this year’s party had already taken place I didn’t bother to reply. The other three personal messages were from Synn, Violetta — who is living in our house in Nynäshamn — and Christa. None of them was more than three lines long. Violetta had a query about rubbish collection, that I was able to answer forthwith. Synn just wanted to know that all was well and wondered where we were — the sending date was eight days ago. I wrote a polite but non-committal reply to the effect that we were doing fine, had arrived in Morocco, and hoped that everything was satisfactory in New York. Christa wrote as follows:

Dear Maria. I have the feeling that all is not well. I’ve dreamt about you two nights in a row. Please get in touch and assure me that I don’t need to worry. Where are you? C.

I wrote a reassuring reply to Christa. The journey through Europe had gone very well, we were renting a little house not far from Rabat and from it could see the sea in the distance — or at least could just about make it out. Both Martin and I were well and enjoying ourselves. But I noted how my spirits had been raised by Christa contacting me in this way: we presumably don’t dream about people unless they are important to us.

Then I went over to Martin’s inbox. It was the first time I had ever read his e-mails, but he had been using the same password for ten years, so it was not difficult to open it. But I did have a sudden rush of guilt feelings — which gradually faded away — while I was reading the messages. Who would deal with his correspondence in future if I didn’t?

Thirty-two messages. I opened all of them and was able to discard a third without more ado, but I read the rest carefully, every single one. Most were from colleagues about whom I knew a little, one was from Gunvald, one from Bergman — and one from somebody calling himself G: his address details didn’t provide any clues. The content of the message was also a bit cryptic, and when I checked back I could find no earlier messages from him. But as I was going via the internet no messages older than twenty days were preserved. Anyway, this G wrote:

I fully understand your doubts. This is no ordinary cup of tea. Contact me so we can discuss the matter in closer detail. Have always felt an inkling that this would surface one day. Best, G.

I read the text again — it was written in English, and I translated it into Swedish in my head.

Your doubts? No ordinary cup of tea? Discuss in detail? A feeling that this would surface one day?

What was all this about? I felt a clear stab of worry, and made a mental note to check up on Martin’s address book when I got back to Darne Lodge, in the hope of finding out more about this G. But I had no high hopes. Martin has never understood how to keep a register of that kind, and instead merely kept all messages for years on end. But that route was probably blocked now as well, since both of us — for one reason or another — had acquired new addresses during the summer.

I clicked away the message from G and instead began writing a reply to Gunvald. I provided the same information as in my own messages to Christa and Synn, and decided to make a few notes about our fictive residence — for my own use and so as to make sure I was consistent in future.

A house not far from Rabat. Self-contained and secure. Small swimming pool, the sea close by.

I also explained that we were only going to read our e-mails once a week, so that a delay in responding wasn’t something they should worry about. We had found a little internet cafe only a few kilometres from our rented house, but one of the reasons for our journey was of course to keep some distance away from the madding crowd. So we would be grateful if Bergman, Gunvald, Synn, Christa and all the others would respect that.

I spent a minute or so wondering whether I should write a reply to the message from G as well, but I couldn’t find a suitable way of expressing it and decided to postpone it. And I also decided to delay an answer to Bergman.

When I had finished dealing with the e-mails I started reading some news from Sweden in the web versions of the biggest newspapers, but after only a couple of minutes I realized that it didn’t interest me in the slightest. In any case there were no reports about the missing wife of a professor who had been found dead in mysterious circumstances on the Polish Baltic coast; and although I hadn’t expected to find anything of that sort, I noticed that I found it a relief. I thanked the girl behind the counter, paid what I owed and said I would certainly be coming back again.

I returned to the launderette, inserted several one-pound coins and pressed a few buttons to begin the drying process. I took Castor back to the car and let him lie under a blanket on the back seat while I wandered around the town, bought a few necessary provisions and eventually collected my clean and dry washing.

I certainly felt pleased and satisfied after having sorted out these necessary chores, as if I were any respectable and hardworking middle-aged woman you care to name. With a dog.

*

We drove a different route back over the moor. We passed through the medieval town of Dunster, passed by Timberscombe and Wheddon Cross — all the time on the same narrow, winding road that sometimes even passed through tunnels. One has to drive very carefully, and occasionally it is necessary to stop and allow oncoming traffic to pass: but I have the feeling that I’m getting used to it.

I’m getting used to everything, in fact. We arrived back at Darne Lodge at half past four as dusk was falling. The mist had persisted all day without lifting at all. Going out for walks at this time is simply unthinkable: both Castor and I could have done with some exercise, but instead the evening hours were spent ironing the washing and preparing a vegetable soup that ought to last for at least three days.

They were all useful and necessary tasks, but I noticed that my thoughts had a tendency to return to the mysterious correspondent G, and his not really specific disquiet.