The Living and the Dead in Winsford

7

We got up late. Or at least, I did. Castor is not the type who gets out of bed simply because he’s opened his eyes.

I had a quickish shower. The cramped bathroom is cold and damp. And there is an odd smell that suddenly reminded me of a pair of old Wellington boots in my childhood (they were always standing in the area between the veranda and the kitchen in the home of my classmate Vera: for a year or two I used to spend about four days a week in their house. They must have belonged to her father, those boots — he was a large, big-nosed and generally unhealthy person). The water for the shower is heated up by a gas flame as it runs through the pipe: a primitive arrangement that doesn’t work very well, but I suppose it’s better than nothing. Maybe I don’t need to have a shower every morning, as I have done for the whole of my life so far. In any case, it seems more sensible to get a fire going first and warm up the rest of the house. I’m learning a lesson: cold and damp give rise to distress and feelings of hopelessness.

We had breakfast, and made plans for the rest of the day. I let Castor out for a three-minute peeing excursion. Stood in the doorway, watching him. He wandered indifferently round the yard a few times: apparently there wasn’t much here worth sniffing at — not even the dustbin over by the stable block was worth investigating this morning, it seemed. He eventually peed on both sides of the only tree, a big, lop-sided larch. That was evidently the right place: he’s used it every time since we came here. I sometimes wonder what goes on inside his head.

Northerly wind. Grey-blue sky. I decided I should buy a thermometer, if for no other reason than to enable me to make more or less accurate weather forecasts every morning. Fire — shower — breakfast — weather: they seemed to be suitable hooks on which to hang up our existence.

I guessed it was about eight degrees today, and noted that figure down. The fourth of November. I also wrote that I was fifty-five years old, three months and four days.

Then a walk, of course. Dogs are made for taking exercise — or at least, African lion-hunting dogs are. I decided on Tarr Steps, a place that’s mentioned in all the guidebooks I’ve thumbed through so far and it’s only a ten-minute drive from here. In the direction of Withypool. It’s an old stepping-stone set-up over the River Barle, as I understand it; from the Middle Ages or thereabouts. There are footpaths to explore on both sides of the river, and a cafe that might be open.

Then some shopping, followed by dinner at the village pub, in the early evening. A good plan. A day in the life. .

Or perhaps the other way round — that would involve a different kind of truth. A life in a day. The way you live one day can be repeated every other single day. Until the end of time. Is that why I’m here? The simple plan? I must stop asking questions like that.

*

Tarr Steps turned out to be protected from the wind, but on the other hand it started raining — as unwelcome as news of a death while you’re busy solving the daily crossword puzzle. Mind you, it held off until we had walked a fair distance along the river bank, and met two elderly women each with a retriever. The dogs greeted one another politely, as did the women and I, and I had begun wondering whether to continue along the path as far as Withypool. That is less than two hours’ walking time from Tarr Steps, and there is a pub there.

But the rain forced us to beat a retreat. We crossed over a ford and began retracing our steps along the other side of the river: after two-and-a-half hours in all we were back at our starting point. The cafe was open, but I felt too wet and muddy to go in. We sat in the car, I took out my mobile and checked the situation: no signal. I switched off. Maybe I ought to find a place where there was a signal and then sit there for a while every other day.

At most. Perhaps once a week would be enough — presumably you would need to switch on, then ring somebody or receive a call in order for it to be traceable? But I don’t know.

Martin’s mobile as well. I ought to force myself to do that, the sooner the better, no doubt. And I mustn’t forget our computers. For that’s the way it is, despite everything: I must make contact with people, face up to facts, send the occasional e-mail, show signs of life. Our children, Eugen Bergman. My brother. Christa. . Yes, of course, I really must see to that. Pretend that we are still going strong in the good old sense of that term, and that there’s no need to worry about us.

Perhaps contact Christa first of all, that would seem logical.

But I decided to put it off until tomorrow. There is no great hurry yet. It takes time to get to Morocco. I started the car and began driving back to Darne Lodge.

I ran through the plan for the day again and adjusted it as necessary: an afternoon in front of the fire. Tea and a sandwich. A thick book — I had bought an old copy of Dickens’s Bleak House at that antiquarian bookshop. Nine hundred pages, that seemed about right.

Then, as evening approached, down to The Royal Oak Inn.

Decisions and action. To the end of time.

But they are not easy, those times spent in the car without having decided where to go to. Dulverton, Exford or Withypool. Or to the sea.

Or to any bloody place, come to that. They would all be equally sensible or senseless. And it wouldn’t matter one way or another, it wouldn’t matter at all. Perhaps it would be easier if we were in jail, I wondered this inhospitable morning. If we had narrower horizons, and there was somebody taking care of us. We need a plan, I thought, both me and my dog. We need a path to be following during the whole of the winter.

Or a jigsaw puzzle with five thousand pieces. Why not?

I had anticipated these bleak moments, of course I had: during the whole of that hazy journey through Europe I had been aware that this would happen — but what good did foreseeing it do? We know we are going to die one of these days, but how are we helped by knowing that as a fact?

And I must stop judging Castor in accordance with the same criteria I use for myself. No doubt there is a difference in our ways of thinking about which I haven’t the slightest idea. Or perhaps this is exactly what dogs spend all their time thinking about?

Muddy Paws Welcome

Castor stood up on his hind legs and sniffed at the notice. It was a quarter past seven. Voices could be heard from inside the pub, a man and a woman — a bit casual, slow, tired, like an elderly couple who have been talking to each other for very many years. We went inside and looked around. The woman’s voice was that of the barmaid: a copy or perhaps a sister of the woman I had met in the village shop the previous day, rosy-faced and as tough-looking as a kettle-holder. The man, also in his sixties, was sitting in front of a steaming plate of dinner and a glass of beer at one of the window tables.

Checked flannel shirt. Thinning hair and somewhat skinny, an Adam’s apple like a bird’s beak. The most noticeable thing about his face was his spectacles.

‘Aha, a stranger!’ he said.

‘Welcome,’ said the barmaid. ‘Both of you. It’s a bit rough out there.’

I felt a quick rush of gratitude. For the fact that they started talking to me. But that’s what people do in this country, and my existence was thereby confirmed. Castor’s as well. He wagged his tail a few times, walked over and rubbed up against the man with his nose, who stroked his head gently. The way one should — no hard pats: it was clear that he’d dealt with dogs before. I felt grateful for that as well.

‘My dog Winston died last spring,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got round to acquiring a new one.’

‘You have to finish mourning their loss first,’ said the woman. ‘They are worth that kind of respect.’

‘Absolutely right,’ said the man.

‘Absolutely right,’ I said. The image of Martin on the beach flashed before my mind’s eye, but I shoved him to one side.

‘You’re passing through, I take it,’ said the woman.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I’m renting a house just outside the village for the winter. Darne Lodge, maybe you know it?’

The man shook his head but the woman nodded. ‘Up there?’ she said. ‘Above Halse Farm, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s the place.’

‘For the winter?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t it old Mr Tawking who looks after it?’

‘Mr Tawking, yes, that’s right.’

‘And you’re going to live there all this winter?’

‘Yes, that’s the plan. I have a piece of writing I need to work on.’

She laughed. ‘Well, if it’s being left alone you need, you’ve come to the right place. But forgive me. What would you like to drink? I sometimes forget that I’m working in a pub.’

‘You’ll get used to it eventually,’ said the man. ‘You’ve only been working here for thirty years.’

‘Thirty-two,’ said the woman. ‘We do a very good shepherd’s pie, if you fancy something to eat. That’s right, isn’t it, Robert?’

‘Not bad at all, it has to be said,’ replied Robert, eyeing his portion intently. He had only just begun eating it. ‘I’ve tasted worse. I can’t quite remember when and where, but I think it might have been in-’

He was interrupted by somebody else coming in through the door.

‘Good evening, Henry,’ said the woman. ‘Pretty rough weather out there.’

Robert shrugged and started eating. The newly arrived customer — a short, slim man aged about thirty-five — nodded a greeting to all three of us, and smiled when he noticed Castor, who had already stretched himself out on the floor in front of the radiator. ‘A nice dog. Yes, winter’s on the way.’

‘Can you wait a minute, Henry,’ said the woman. ‘I must just see to our new guest first. Would you like to try the pie? There’s steak and kidney as well, of course. And a few other things.’

‘Shepherd’s pie sounds good,’ I said. ‘And a glass of red wine, I think.’

‘Excellent,’ said the woman. ‘My name’s Rosie, by the way. It’s always nice to have a new face around.’

‘What’s wrong with our faces?’ asked Robert, his mouth half-full. Henry, who actually looked as if he might be Robert’s younger brother, or even his son, took off his jacket and hung it on a hook on the wall. I received my glass of wine and sat down at one of the four empty tables in the bar. Castor raised his head and wondered if he ought to move a little closer to me, but decided it was more comfortable by the radiator.

‘Anyway,’ said the man called Henry. He seemed a little more shy, somewhat more introvert than the other two, Robert and Rosie. ‘Mrs Simmons managed to get away to the hospital after all.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said Rosie.

‘And not a day too soon, if you ask me,’ said Robert.

‘Nobody’s asking you,’ said Rosie. ‘How’s George?’ she added.

‘I don’t really know,’ said Henry. ‘But at least he said he was going to take the opportunity of throwing out that sofa.’

‘About time,’ said Robert. ‘The cat’s been pissing on it for the last ten years.’

‘George is the nicest man I’ve ever met,’ said Rosie as she poured out a glass of beer for Henry.

‘Except when he’s watching football,’ said Robert. ‘Then he’s like a male gorilla with toothache.’

Henry sat down on one of the barstools. They continued talking about Mrs Simmons and George, the sofa and the cat, for a while. All the time they avoided using Mrs Simmons’s first name, whatever it was, and I wondered why. But I didn’t ask. I sipped my wine and started leafing through my Exmoor guidebook. I thought that if I really was going to stay here for the winter I would eventually discover all kinds of connections and contexts that I didn’t have a clue about just now. Perhaps Robert and Rosie and Henry had spent the whole of their lives in this village. Mrs Simmons and George as well. And the cat and the sofa. For several minutes none of the others seemed to pay any attention to the fact that I was sitting there, and I wondered if it was up to me to make some kind of move. To ask about something or other — but before I hit upon something a young girl appeared with my food. She was dark-haired and pretty, twenty-five at most, and somehow or other it was obvious that she didn’t really belong here.

‘You can take out those bottles when you’ve finished with the rest of it,’ said Rosie. The girl curtseyed, and returned to the inner regions.

‘It’s hard to get good staff,’ said Rosie to nobody in particular.

Robert cleared his throat and looked as if he was about to say something, but nothing came of it. Rosie switched on the television, which was attached to the wall high up under the ceiling. All four of us gaped at a sports quiz for half a minute — not Castor, he was asleep — then Rosie switched off.

‘Does it taste all right?’

I had eaten only two mouthfuls so far, but assured her that it was absolutely delicious.

‘She’s good in the kitchen in any case,’ said Robert.

‘Not only there, unfortunately,’ said Rosie, and I gathered that she had other sides in addition to the rose-tinted one.

I stayed at The Royal Oak for nearly two hours, and drank a second glass of red wine. While I was sitting there three other customers arrived. A young couple only stayed long enough to drink whatever it was they had ordered, but soon after they left a man of indeterminate age came in. He was tall and lanky with dark, slightly tousled hair, and sat down at the table next to mine with a pint of ale and a portion of cod and chips.

After a while we engaged in a conversation.