The Living and the Dead in Winsford

39

The shortest day.

At The Stag’s Head in Dunster, where we have a simple lunch — a ploughman’s and fizzy water — we get into conversation with a local fudge maker. I’m grateful for every form of human contact, and it seems the fudge maker is as well. He tells me that his ex-wife runs a little delicatessen shop in the town, and although it’s fifteen years since they divorced he is still responsible for making the fudge. Selling it is still the cornerstone of the whole business, he stresses: people come from as far away as Taunton and Barnstaple to buy Mrs Miller’s Home-Made Fudge. Occasionally they even get customers from as far away as Bristol, and during the weeks leading up to Christmas she sells as much as during the rest of the year put together.

I promise to call in and buy a few lumps.

‘Vanilla,’ he says. ‘Take the classic stuff. Or possibly coffee, but don’t go for any of the newfangled fancy tastes. Fudge ought to taste like fudge, for God’s sake.’

Then he asks where I come from. I tell him I’m a Swedish writer but I’m spending the winter on Exmoor and writing a novel. He asks where I’m living, and I tell him I’m renting a house just above Winsford.

‘Winsford!’ he exclaims, and his expression becomes distinctly dreamy. ‘I had a girlfriend there once. I should have married her instead of Britney. She runs the pub there, by the way — perhaps you’ve seen her?’

‘Rosie?’

‘Rosie, yes! She’s a fine-looking woman, isn’t she? Not as attractive as you, of course, but pretty good by my standards.’

I make a non-committal response and we chat for a while about Exmoor and the way that life makes up its own mind about how it’s going to proceed. When we say goodbye I can’t avoid thinking what a small world it is, here on Exmoor. The fact that a fudge maker in Dunster was once sweet on a pub landlady in Winsford is nothing remarkable. I also remember clearly Mark Britton’s estimate of the number of marriageable women on the moor. Rather less than zero.

And that makes me think about something else as I sit chewing fudge in the car on the way back to Darne Lodge: how many people actually know that there is a mad Swedish woman author sitting writing in that old house, the scene of several suicides?

One or two, presumably.

The evenings are the worst. Unless I think about going to The Royal Oak Inn, and I’ve decided not to do so today. Better to save it up for a day or two. Once before Christmas Eve, once afterwards, and then Mark Britton will be back and as the new year dawns I shall be in a fit state to make plans. To create a future for myself.

I try to convince myself of this as I wander around the house, as I make a fire, as I put stuff into the refrigerator and sip at a glass of port. It’s five o’clock and already pitch dark, impossible to move around outdoors. I recall that the moon was shining the evening I came here, briefly at least, but I don’t think I’ve experienced a moonlit evening since then. Ten metres away from the house is the overgrown stone wall, I know that, but there’s no chance of seeing it from my window. Tonight it’s foggy as well: it’s usually possible to detect the borderline between heaven and earth, where the rounded hill with a handful of trees on the summit can be seen to the south; but not the way things are this evening.

Not in the evening of the year’s shortest day.

I manage to make the hours pass with the aid of routines. I avoid thinking about Soblewski. Avoid Samos and Taza and all that. I make some soup instead, working at snail’s pace so that time can pass unhindered. I eat half the soup, put the remainder into a plastic container then stow it away in the tiny freezer compartment.

Wash up.

Give Castor some food.

Another chapter of Blackmore.

Sixteen games of patience. At last it’s eleven o’clock.

Three more attempts — that’s also a part of the routine now. I’ve spent the last half-hour sifting out this evening’s words.

Garbo. Wrong.

Monroe. Wrong.

Novak. Wrong.

I write them all down in my notebook. Put more wood on the fire to keep us warm during the night. Let Castor out to do his business while I brush my teeth.

I go to let him in. It really is impossible to see more than two metres out into the darkness — the faint light that seeps through the door opening seems afraid of venturing too far out. As I stand there I can feel that it has become colder, and I remember my fudge-making friend going on about the frosty nights we had in store.

No sign of Castor. I whistle twice, have no desire to stand there getting cold.

He still doesn’t appear. That is odd. I hope he hasn’t found something and is busy chewing it. His stomach can be rather sensitive, and half-rotten meat is not what he needs. Come on now, you blasted mongrel, I think.

But he doesn’t. I whistle again.

I look at the clock. He must have been out for five minutes. At least — perhaps seven or eight. He usually needs only one or two. I almost close the door. Then change my mind and open it again.

Shout for him.

Once. Twice.

I feel frightened, suddenly and overwhelmingly. I shout again. My voice sounds weak and terrified, and is gulped down by the darkness.

But I shout once more even so.

Again and again.

It’s the longest night of the year, and there is no sign of my dog.