The Living and the Dead in Winsford

3

The first morning was grey and chilly.

Or at least, it was chilly inside the house. The smell of ingrained mould was very noticeable in the bedroom, but I told myself I was going to learn how to live with it. The house has only two rooms, but they are quite large and the windows in both of them face in the same direction: southwards. That is where the moor begins, and on the other side is a rough and moss-covered stone wall that encloses the plot on three sides. Out on the moor the ground slopes gently down towards a valley that I assume continues all the way to the village — but the dense mist that has settled over the countryside this morning makes it difficult to work out the topography.

Especially when viewed from my pillow. Dawn had barely broken, and neither Castor nor I were particularly keen to fold back the duvet and leave behind the comparative warmth that had built up inside the bed during the night.

Sooner or later, of course, one needs to relieve oneself, and this morning was no exception. Castor normally seems able to last for an eternity without emptying his bladder, but I let him out even so while I crouched shivering on the icy-cold toilet seat. When I had finished and went to let him in, he was standing outside the door looking reproachful, as he does for much of most days. I dried his paws and provided him with food and water in the two pastel-coloured plastic bowls I had found the previous evening under the sink. His usual bowls were still in the car — I hadn’t bothered to unpack in the dark.

Then I put on the kettle with tea in mind, and managed to get a fire burning. The uneasiness that had been bubbling away inside my head gradually dispersed, thanks to the heat and the underlying feeling of well-being that was trying to establish itself, no matter what. A truth much deeper than conventional civilization and modern fads presented itself: if you can keep a fire going, you can keep your life going.

In other respects the house is as devoid of charm as its owner. It provides the rudimentary basics, nothing more. Refrigerator and stove. A sofa, an armchair, a table with three chairs and an old-fashioned desk in front of the window. A rocking chair. Nothing matches. Quite a large picture of ponies out on the moor hangs just to the side of the sofa. A smaller embroidered tapestry with six lop-sided trees looks as if it has been made by a child.

Plus an effective fireplace. Thank God for that. Castor was stretched out on the sheepskin in front of the fire as if it was the most natural place for him to be in the world. I assume he is still wondering what has happened to Martin, but he shows no sign of doing so. None at all.

In the built-in wardrobe in the bedroom I found the two electric fires — which I have to pay Mr Tawking extra for if I use them — and plugged in one in each room. I turned them both up to maximum heat output, in the hope of creating a reasonable temperature inside the house without having to keep a fire going. And perhaps also get rid of some of the mould.

I drank my tea without sugar or milk, and ate half a dozen rusks and an apple — all that was left of my emergency rations. Then I made a superficial survey of the cooking utensils in all the cupboards and drawers, and started writing a list of what I needed to buy. A grater, for instance, a frying pan and a pasta saucepan, a decent bread knife; and by the time the clock said half past nine — we had woken up shortly after seven — I had also carried in everything from the car. And crammed stuff into wardrobes and drawers.

It’s going to work, I made so bold as to tell myself. I do one thing at a time, and it works. Castor was still stretched out in front of the fire, completely at ease as far as I could tell, and I thought how interesting it would be to get inside his head for a short while. So interesting to be a dog instead of a person, even if only for a few moments.

When I had finished unpacking and the other chores, I stood out in the yard for a while and tried to sum up the situation. The mist had not dispersed much, despite a fresh wind blowing in from the higher parts of the moor to the north. Visibility was still not much more than a hundred metres in any direction, and instead of going out for a walk, which is what I had intended at first, we got in the car and drove down to the village to do some shopping.

*

Only a small part of what I reckoned I needed was available in the local shop — Winsford Stores. However, the owner, a chubby lady about sixty-five years of age, was very helpful and explained that if I drove to Dulverton I would definitely be able to acquire most things. She was probably longing to ask me who I was and what I hoped to do in her little Winsford; I had an equally unspoken response at the ready, but we didn’t get that far this first morning. Instead she gave me detailed instructions about how to get to Dulverton. There were two possibilities: either take the A396 alongside the River Exe, through Bridgetown and Chilly Bridge; or the B3223 up into the moor, then down into Dulverton alongside the River Barle, the other main waterway over Exmoor. We consulted a map, which I bought from her, and agreed that it would be a good idea to take the former route there, and the latter back. Especially if I was living here on the moor — something I didn’t really admit to doing, for whatever reason. I paid for the various goods I had chosen, including a dozen speckled eggs supplied that very morning by Fowley Farm, which was only a stone’s throw away from the shop: according to all sensible judges they were the most delicious and nutritious in the whole of the kingdom. I thanked her for her help and wished her a very good day. She wished me the same, and I bore with me her warmth and helpfulness most of the way to Dulverton.

Half an hour later I parked outside The Bridge Inn next to an old stone bridge over the Barle. Without doubt Dulverton is a market town that can supply everything a modern person can possibly need — or an unmodern one, come to that. After strolling around the town for ten minutes — under a greyish white sky with no trace left of the mist, and even a suggestion that the sun was about to break through the clouds — Castor and I were able to establish that the place had not only restaurants, but also a police station, a fire station, a pharmacy, a library, and a variety of shops, pubs and teashops. There was even an old antiquarian bookshop, which we couldn’t resist paying a visit to, as a notice pinned to the rickety door announced that four-footed friends were especially welcome.

We did the shopping at a leisurely pace, then went for a little stroll by the cheerfully babbling brook that was the Barle — oh, I am so pleased to be able to write ‘cheerfully babbling brook’, I think it enables me to redress matters somewhat — and I found it difficult to understand where all the water was coming from. To round things off we ate some venison pie with a large helping of peas at The Bridge Inn — well, Castor had to be satisfied with a handful of doggy treats produced willingly from a store under the counter.

I noted that there is a considerable difference between being a single middle-aged woman and a single middle-aged woman with a dog. Castor’s company, as he lies there under my table in the pub, gives me some sort of natural dignity and legitimacy that I find difficult to explain. A sort of undeserved blessing that one can make the most of. I would not be able to cope with the situation I find myself in were it not for his reassuring presence and support — certainly not. Nevertheless I am of course very unsure if everything will end up happily, whatever that cliché might mean, even with this formidable companion by my side. But at least it helps me to get by in the short term. Minutes, hours, perhaps even days. Presumably that is also how a dog thinks and makes its way through life. One step at a time. They obviously have an advantage on that score.

In fact he was Martin’s dog to start with. Martin was the one who insisted that we needed a pet when the children had flown the nest — and by a pet, he meant of course a dog, nothing else. He grew up with lots of pooches around the house; in my well-organized childhood there was no room for such extravagances, I don’t really know why. I had to make do with unreliable cats and a handful of aquarium fish that soon died off, that was all. Oh, and a brother as well. Not to mention a younger sister — I would prefer to write my way around her, giving her as wide a berth as possible, but I can see that it wouldn’t work.

He’s seven years old, getting on for eight, Castor. A Rhodesian ridgeback. I had never heard of them when Martin first brought him home. I think he had a vague dream of the dog lying at his feet in his study at the university, and perhaps also accompanying him when he delivered his lectures. But of course, that never happened. I was the one who took Castor on courses, and to the vet’s. I was the one who looked after all the practical details involved in owning a dog, and I was the one who took him for long walks every day.

Because I was the one who had time.

Or to be frank, who made the time: but there was never any argument about it. I enjoyed doing it, it was as simple as that. To go wandering through woods and fields for a few hours every day with a silent and loyal companion, with no other aim than doing just that — walking through the countryside in silence — well, after only a few weeks that was an occupation I came to regard as the most important and meaningful aspect of my life.

Perhaps that says something about my life.

When I drove back to Darne Lodge — following the elevated route over the moor — the mist had dispersed altogether and the views extended for miles. I wound down the side window and thought I could just about make out the sea in the distance, or the Bristol Channel at least, and I was overcome by a feeling of being very solitary, totally insignificant and passed over. In many ways it is easier to live somewhere without horizons, in the mist and in a confined space. At least I am well aware that I need to stick to simple and practical activities, to make decisions and stick to them, as I said before — otherwise everything can go to pot. When everything, every step and every action and every undertaking has no broader significance, when you might just as well be doing something else rather than what you are actually doing at the moment, and when you can’t help but think about that — and when the only thing that might possibly have some point seems to be linked with the mistakes and misdeeds one was guilty of in the past — well, then madness is lying in wait just round the corner.

Living on the moor involves an attractive but dangerous freedom, I’m beginning to understand that already. I stopped in a lay-by and let Castor move from the poky back seat to the front passenger seat. He loves being there, puts his nose over the air intake and thus creates for himself an ethereal range of scents.

Or he pokes his whole head out through the side window, like dogs do in the countryside. There is nobody in the whole world who knows that we are here.

I’ll say that again: there is nobody in the whole world who knows that we are here.