The Living and the Dead in Winsford

28

The seventh of December, a Friday. Rain during the night, but fine the next morning. A cloudy sky, but no mist. A south-westerly wind, hardly stronger than five to six metres per second.

I have been sleeping badly for several nights, and during the day have felt restless, neglecting the usual routines. The lack of sleep has left me feeling sluggish whenever there is still a bit of daylight: I lie in bed, try to read, but instead end up in a sort of semi-torpor. If I didn’t have the obligatory daily walk with Castor to think about I would probably allow dawn and dusk to merge, and thus sink into a state of absolute lethargy. But our walks become shorter for every day that passes, and when I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, I had the impression of a woman on the downward path. I have also drunk two of the bottles of red wine I bought in Dunster, and half a bottle of port. All I have managed to do is to buy the basic necessities at the general stores in Exford. No excursions, not to Dulverton, Porlock nor anywhere else.

In the afternoon, after a short stroll down towards Tarr Steps, I pulled myself together even so: took a shower, washed my hair and had a complete change of clothes. Wrote in my notebook that I really must drive to Minehead on Monday to see to some laundry. I persuaded Castor to jump into the passenger seat of the car and drove down to Winsford and the computer centre.

It was already five o’clock by the time I got there, but there were lights in the windows and Alfred Biggs immediately bade me welcome. At one of the tables towards the back of the room were the two young girls I’d met on my first visit — or at least, I thought they were the same ones. Castor went over to greet them, they asked what he was called and spent some time playing with him before returning to their screens. I felt a surge of gratitude towards them.

‘It’s pretty bleak at this time of year,’ said Alfred Biggs.

‘You can say that again,’ I said.

‘How are things going for you up there?’

‘Not too badly, thank you.’

‘It must be hard, being a writer. Keeping tabs on everything.’

‘Yes, it’s not always all that easy.’

‘I mean, all those words and people and things that happen.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ I said. ‘Not all that easy.’

‘But I assume you keep a notebook?’

‘Yes, I do. You have to keep making notes all the time.’

‘I must say I admire you. For keeping tabs on everything. But forgive me, I mustn’t distract you with my chit-chat.’

He indicated where I could sit down, and went to make tea.

E-mail from Gunvald to Martin:

Hi. I hope all is well in Morocco. Work has been keeping me pretty busy, but virtue has its reward. My book has gone to the printer, and over New Year I’m going to a five-day conference in Sydney. I’ll stretch it out of course with a week’s holiday. Greetings to Mum, and have a Merry Christmas if we’re not in touch again before then.

E-mail from Soblewski to Martin:

Just a quick note to say that I’ve talked to BC and there is no problem. Let’s stay in contact. My best to your lovely wife and dog.

E-mail from Gertrud to Martin:

What are you up to nowadays? I got your e-mail eventually. Lennart and I have split up, so I’m as free as a bird. It would be great to meet and pick up the threads again, don’t you think?

Nothing from Bergman, nothing from G. I was grateful for that, especially the latter. The message from Gunvald could just as well have come from a cousin or a distant acquaintance. And as for Soblewski — greetings to your wife and dog?

Gertrud aroused suspicions, of course. Who is she, and what the hell does she mean by picking up the threads again? And why had I given her Martin’s e-mail address so casually when Bergman asked for it? But I couldn’t really get het up about it — whatever might have taken place between her and Martin belonged to a different life. For a few seconds I considered sending her a reply, just to amuse myself: but I let it pass. And didn’t write to Gunvald or Soblewski either.

E-mail from Synn to me:

Hello, Mum. I hope all is going well in Morocco. I’ll probably stay in New York over Christmas and the New Year — I assume you won’t be going home either. Business is going well, I’ve applied for a green card and expect to get it. I agree with Woody Allen: there’s hardly ever a good reason for leaving Manhattan. Greetings to the old bastard.

E-mail from Christa to me:

Dear Maria. Dreamt about you again. I think it’s odd, I hardly ever remember that I’ve been dreaming, never mind what about. This time you really were in danger, you cried for help and I was the one who would be able to help you. But I didn’t understand what I could do. There was a man in a car chasing you. You ran like mad to get away, and I really wanted to save you but I was so far away all the time. In another country, or something like that. Never mind, but it was both very clear and very horrible in any case. Write and let me know that all is well. Love, C

I thought for a while, then wrote to both of them. I wished my daughter a Merry Christmas and reported that both I and the old bastard were in good shape, all things considered. Christa was duly informed that everything was under control down in Morocco, and that I would try hard to behave myself rather better in her next dream. I took the opportunity to pass on season’s greetings, and asked her to pass on greetings to Paolo.

I didn’t bother to chase up the latest news from Sweden — nor news from anywhere else, come to that. Instead I thanked Alfred Biggs, and went with Castor to The Royal Oak for dinner.

Six days have passed since my last visit.

And it feels like a month since I sat here talking to Mark Britton that last time, which just shows how my conception of time is going off the rails. When he now comes in, less than a minute after I’ve ordered my food and got a glass of wine on the table, I suddenly feel grateful — and just as suddenly uneasy as well, in case he is only going to sit at the bar, drink a pint of ale and then leave.

But I needn’t have worried. When Mark sees me he gives me a broad smile and sits down at my table without even asking.

‘How are things? How’s it going with the writing?’

‘Fine, thank you. A bit up and down, but that goes with the territory.’

‘It’s nice to see you again. You brighten up my mealtimes, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘All right, I’ll allow it. But you’d better hurry up and order or we’ll get out of step.’

And so we are sitting here again. I think that either I’m so starved of everything to do with human relationships, or that it has something to do with this man. Most probably a combination of the two. I can feel butterflies in my stomach, and am relieved that I smartened myself up before coming here. Mark looks very smart, a little darker under the eyes than I remember, but newly shaved, well combed and wearing a wine-red pullover instead of the blue one. Corduroy trousers and a Barbour jacket that he’s hung over the back of his chair. Indeed, I think he could well be a sort of semi-noble country squire after a successful afternoon’s shooting, and I can’t help smiling to myself when I realize that I’ve given him a title that my father used to like using. Country squire.

‘I gather you don’t come here all that often,’ I say, ‘or is it just that we happen to have missed one another?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I usually come here at least twice a week — but I like cooking, so that’s not why I come. I reckon you need to see somebody else’s face besides your own occasionally. Don’t you agree?’

‘Mine, for instance?’

He leans forward over the table. ‘I prefer your face to Rosie’s and Henry’s and Robert’s, I’ll admit that. And I’m grateful that you can put up with me now and again.’

I manage to shrug and assume a neutral smile. Being a television hostess for a quarter of a century does leave its mark. ‘You’re welcome,’ I say. ‘Being with you doesn’t cause me pain.’

‘But you have done,’ he says, suddenly becoming serious. ‘Suffered pain, that is. Things are a bit rough for you up there in your house when darkness descends to gobble us up. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘What do you mean? You’re not sitting there again and reading my mind, are you?’

‘Only a bit,’ he says. ‘I see a bit and guess the rest. Who could spend a whole winter up there and survive with their mind in one piece? The moor is best for people who are born on it. In the winter, at least. Cheers, by the way.’

We each take a sip of our wine and look each other in the eye for a second too long. Or maybe I only imagine that extra second: it’s not the kind of judgement that is part of my repertoire any longer. Good Lord, I think, if he stretches out his hand over the table and touches me I’ll wet myself. I’m as emotionally unstable as a fourteen-year-old.

The new young waiter, who is called Lindsey and is undoubtedly as gay as the Pope is Catholic, comes with our food and we start eating. A couple arrive with an elderly terrier, and there is a pause while the dogs greet each other and we indulge in doggy talk before our four-legged friends settle down under their appropriate tables. I am grateful for the interruption, as it gives me time to get a grip of myself. Mark wipes his mouth.

‘Good, but not five stars. What was yours like?’

We had both chosen fish: me cod, him sea perch.

‘Pretty good. Five stars plus or minus a half.’

‘I would have cooked it more slowly at a lower heat,’ he said, nodding at his plate. ‘But of course, then the customer needs to be patient and wait a little longer. Would you like to try it?’

I don’t understand what he means. ‘Try what?’

‘My cooking. You could come round to my place for a meal one evening, and see what I’m capable of.’

I’m taken completely by surprise, but at the same time must ask myself why. What is so remarkable about a single man inviting a single woman to dinner?

‘You’re doubtful?’ he has time to say before I can squeeze a response out of myself.

‘No! Of course not. . I mean, obviously I’d love to go to your house for dinner. Forgive me, it’s just that I’m a bit socially retarded.’

That makes him laugh. ‘We’re in the same boat, then. I. .’

He pauses and looks embarrassed for a moment.

‘Well?’

‘I really wasn’t at all sure if I would dare to invite you. But anyway, it’s done now.’

‘Are you saying it was planned?’

He smiles. ‘Of course. I’ve been thinking about it all the time since we first met. If you think I’m some sort of village Casanova, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. But I’m pretty good with fish, as I’ve already said.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for being so bold. But how is Jeremy going to take it? Will he accept that you are being visited by a stranger?’

Mark gestures with his hands and looks apologetic. ‘He’s not going to hug you enthusiastically. You’ll probably think he’s being antagonistic, but he will leave us in peace. He has plenty of private business to be getting on with.’

I think about the gesture Jeremy made when I saw him looking out of the window. I wonder if I ought to mention it, but decide that it can wait. ‘And dogs? Does he like animals? I won’t come without Castor, I hope you understand that.’

He bursts out laughing. ‘The invitation is for both of you. As for Jeremy, I think he prefers animals to humans. I’ve thought about buying a dog, but haven’t got round to it.’

And so we start talking about breeds of dog, about loneliness and the particular kind of darkness that embraces the moor at this time of year. He maintains that some nights, when there are no stars visible, heaven and earth can take on exactly the same shade of black — it’s simply not possible to distinguish between them, it’s as if one were living in a blind universe. Or as if heaven and earth had actually merged. Such nights can be dangerous for your state of mind, Mark says, even if you don’t go out on the moor to experience it. The phenomenon creeps into your house and under your skin. He remembers it from his childhood in Simonsbath — people just went out of their minds overnight.

‘And it’s at times like that you need to visit a good friend and have a bite to eat, is it?’ I ask.

‘Exactly,’ says Mark. ‘See a different face, just like I said. Shall we say next Friday? A week from now?’

We agree on that. Why wait for a whole week, I wonder, but I don’t say anything. He explains that I can drive right up to the house even though that doesn’t seem possible from a distance, and when we leave The Royal Oak Castor and I accompany him a short way up Halse Lane so that he can show us where we must turn off.

‘A mere three hundred crooked yards,’ he says.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Castor and I have already walked them, but in this direction, not towards the house.’

Then we shake hands and part.

*

I wish I could regard that as the end of the day, but unfortunately that is not possible. When we come down to the war memorial, where we have parked the car as usual, there it is again: the silver-coloured hire car. I can’t see the silver colour, of course, because this little central spot in the village is only lit up by a single street lamp which is hanging over the memorial, swinging back and forth in the wind, and its dirty yellow beam is inadequate — but there is no doubt that it is the same car. The same newspapers are lying on the dashboard, one Polish and one Swedish, and this time he has parked so close that I have to get into my car via the passenger door.

He? Why do I write he?