The Living and the Dead in Winsford (41 page)

‘Ah well,’ she says. ‘It’s just a matter of time. But I’m a nurse, I’ll take care of the situation. Bill, take that bloody chicken out of the oven, we’ll have to eat later!’

She smiles at me and is already ringing for an ambulance. I can see that the chances of my ever getting back that two hundred pounds are very small.

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‘They said at the pub that Castor had gone missing. You never told me that.’

I think for a moment. ‘No, maybe I didn’t mention it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t really know. It was during the Christmas holiday period when you and Jeremy were in Scarborough.’

‘It’s still odd that you said nothing about it.’

‘Do you think so? I thought I had done, in fact.’

What is all this? I think, and for the first time I feel a pang of annoyance directed at Mark Britton. Or maybe it’s aimed at me. I ought to have told him about those awful days when Castor was missing: instead I’m keeping quiet and telling lies and holding information back when it’s quite unnecessary, and in the end I won’t be able to keep it up.

‘At least nobody can accuse you of being an open book,’ he says. ‘I’m not scared of mysteries, and sooner or later I’ll get to read all the pages, won’t I?’

He laughs, and I choose to do the same. After all, this is one of the last occasions we shall meet. At least for the foreseeable future. I take a piece of cheese and a mouthful of wine, and he does the same. We are sitting in his kitchen, and I feel rather upset when I think the thought: the thought that I won’t be sitting here any more.

‘It’s not even possible to Google you,’ he adds. ‘It’s a stroke of genius, using a pseudonym.’

I nod. ‘Genius is the right word.’

‘And you’re not going to tell me what name you’re using?’

‘Not just yet. Sorry.’

Does he suspect something? Is Mark beginning to understand that there are hidden and worrying motives behind my veil of secrecy? Perhaps. I can’t make up my mind. He likes casting out flies on the water like this, in the hope of getting a bite: and he didn’t do that a month ago. But I can’t say that I don’t understand why he does it.

Especially if I mean as much to him as I suspect I do.

But this isn’t going to be the very last time we meet. We have another weekend left, assuming I really do leave here on the twenty-ninth as planned. I’ve looked into my diary and put a cross by that day. I must remember to get rid of that diary, but there are quite a few other things that must be disposed of as well.

‘I’m in love with you, Maria – I take it you realize that?’

That shouldn’t have been an unexpected declaration, but I nearly drop my glass even so. I don’t recall hearing such words since . . . I try to remember if Martin ever said anything like that. I’m damned if I know. But Rolf no doubt did.

How many people are there in the world who never hear such words: an assurance that somebody loves them?

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for saying that. I like you an awful lot, Mark. My life out here on the moor has become so much more meaningful since I met you. But I can’t make any promises . . . if that’s what you are after.’

He sits for quite a while, weighing over what I said – I would do the same if I were him. Then he nods and says: ‘You know, I feel pretty confident regarding our relationship. There must be some reason for you turning up in this very village.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘No doubt there was a meaning.’

‘We are grown-up people,’ he says.

‘We are indeed,’ I say.

‘We know what it means to be in denial.’

‘We’re experts at that.’

He leans forward over the table and takes hold of my head with both hands. ‘In love with you, did I say that?’

E-mail from Martin to Gunvald:

Hi Gunvald. Thank you for your message – great to hear that you’re enjoying life down under. The situation in Morocco isn’t nearly so enjoyable, I have to admit. I have total writer’s block, and to tell you the truth I feel utterly dejected. We might go back home to Sweden sooner than intended: I know it’s a bloody awful time of year and all that, but what can one do? Anyway, take care of yourself – we’ll keep in touch. Dad

From Eugen Bergman to Martin:

My dear friend! Come home at once if you’ve run into a brick wall. There’s no point in wandering around in a foreign country and suffering. And a play might be just the right thing, don’t you think? You’ve never written anything for the theatre before. But we’ll see how it goes with that, the main thing is that you keep your head above water. My very best wishes – to Maria as well, of course. Eugen

From Soblewski to Martin:

My dear friend! You are far too young for depressions! But I can imagine how sitting in that very country with that very story could make anybody go crazy. I suggest you leave it and try to find other distractions – and if you really are on your way home, you are more than welcome to stay a few days in my house, which might enable us to talk things through properly. Your lovely wife and your dog are welcome too, of course. No new bodies have been reported and I have no idea whether they managed to identify the old one. I have heard nothing more about it. All the best, Sob

I read Soblewski’s message very carefully, especially the last sentence.
No new bodies have been reported and I have no idea whether they managed to identify the old one.

I think it over. Surely, I think, surely this must be the most positive piece of information I could have wished for? I sit there for a minute or so, considering it from every conceivable point of view, but I can find no other possible assessment.

What happens next is up to me, of course.

E-mail from Martin to Eugen Bergman:

We shall see, my dear Eugen. It’s hard, but maybe we’ll do as you suggest and head northwards. Don’t have too high expectations of the play, though. All the best, M

From Martin to Soblewski:

Thank you for your concern. We shall see what happens. M

From Christa to me:

Damn and blast! I knew there was something about those dreams! But of course you are the one on the spot down there and will have to take care of the breakdown. I can’t say I’m surprised, I’m afraid. As you know I’ve had my share of depressed menfolk. They’re worse than three-year-olds with earache if you ask me – sorry to have to say that. But for God’s sake make sure you come home so that we can meet and talk everything over. I’ll be staying in Stockholm until the middle of February, so there’s time. Then a month in Florida, thank the Lord. Keep in touch and come home! Christa

From me to Christa:

I’m afraid things are no better here. I think we’ll probably do a runner in a week or so’s time. So if you are still in Stockholm maybe we can meet at the beginning of February. I’d like to put Martin on a flight home and drive all the way myself, but of course that’s not possible. In any case, thanks for your concern. Love, Maria

From me to Gunvald and Synn:

Dear Gunvald and Synn, just a line to let you know that your dad’s not very well at all. We plan to start our long journey back home a few days from now. I don’t know if he’s written to either of you, but it’s pretty unlikely. He is very depressed, and hardly speaks to me at all. Keep your fingers crossed that we get home safely and can get some help. Love, Mum

Well, I think to myself, that’s the foundation for what comes next done and dusted, and it’s with a feeling of relief and cautious optimism that I leave Winsford Community Computer Centre for the last time.

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We spend the last few days repeating everything.

We go for our favourite walks one more time: Doone Valley, Culbone, Selworthy Combe, Glenthorne Beach. We manage to find our way back to Barrett’s bolt-hole and to the pub in Rockford where Jane Barrett’s exhibition is still taking place, but she happens to be out when we go there. I’m a bit annoyed to find she’s absent: there are a few things I’d have liked to ask her, but I suppose I’ll get by even so. The main thing is to dare to get that feeling of confidence she talked about, and rely on Darne Lodge being protected. We call in at the second-hand bookshop in Dulverton one last time and say goodbye to the hundred-year-old dandelion. We also say goodbye to Rosie, Tom and Robert at The Royal Oak Inn. It feels odd to note that it’s only three months since I set foot in here for the first time. I remember that sofa the cat had been peeing on for so long. How was it doing now, and how was Mrs Simmons?

And I carry on writing. It’s surprising to find how easily I make progress with ‘At Sunrise’ – that’s the working name I’ve given the play. I’m writing on Martin’s computer, of course, and perhaps that’s the reason why I don’t feel I need to accept responsibility for it all, and the dialogue flows so smoothly. In parallel I’m reading Bessie Hyatt’s two books, and with Martin’s reports on them at hand it’s not difficult to work out the references.

The setting is the same all the time: the big table on the terrace. It’s explained that we are in Greece during the first two acts, and in Morocco for the last three. It’s important for the audience to understand that time has passed. Eleven roles, of which two are servants. I use Megal – and in a few places his hypnotic wife – as a narrator. They address the audience directly, and describe the off-stage circumstances – exactly as in classical dramas. Their roles are especially important in the closing scenes, when they are together with Bessie Hyatt in the house, watching what happens to Gusov from some distance away. How the murder takes place.

But it’s all about Herold and Hyatt, of course. I’ve changed the names of all the other characters, and I stigmatize Herold as much as I dare without turning him into a caricature. Hyatt is the innocent party, albeit not absolutely so; all the rest are fellow travellers who act in such a way that Herold can assert himself continuously. Which makes it possible for him to crush both Gusov and Bessie Hyatt. For instance, I locate Bessie’s abortion in a room adjacent to the terrace: the audience will know what is happening, but the other characters pay no attention: they sit eating and hear her cries through the open window without bothering about them. Her suicide is announced in a sort of prologue before the curtain rises. I know that my play is brutal and harsh, without mercy or reconciliation; but I think a little rewriting can make it more mild and sophisticated. If such adjustments need to be made. I also toy with the idea that at some point in the distant future I can explain to Eugen Bergman that I have worked on the text together with Martin, so that perhaps I can take another good look at it and produce an amended version. At some point in the even more distant future I can envisage the play being performed at the Royal Dramatic Theatre in Stockholm, and picture myself saying a few brief words about Martin from the edge of the stage before it starts. There is no limit to my fantasies.

Two days before we leave I complete the script. Five acts, a hundred and twenty pages of dialogue. Tom Herold and Bessie Hyatt placed under the microscope: I’m surprised by the euphoria pounding away inside me. This must be what it feels like to be a real writer, I think. When you come to the point at which a project has been successfully completed.

My taking leave of Mark Britton turned out to be less emotional than I had feared, and it occurs to me that I have underestimated him. As usual Castor and I spend an evening, a night and a morning in Heathercombe Cottage: when we part on the Sunday, we have checked carefully one another’s telephone numbers and e-mail addresses, and I am sure that we shall meet again. Nothing, not even the most awful short story imaginable, can end like this.

‘We’ll meet again,’ says Mark. ‘I know we shall.’

‘You can read my mind, can you?’

‘There is no end of ways in which I know. If I haven’t heard from you in a week’s time, I shall come looking for you. But of course it’s best that you sort out what has to be done, and then come back here. Any questions?’

I laugh. ‘So this is plan A, is it?’

‘Exactly,’ says Mark. ‘And you’d rather not know about a plan B, I can assure you. I’m in love with you, have I said that before?’

I give him a big hug and say that I probably feel more or less the same. He doesn’t need to worry.

‘I’m not worrying,’ says Mark.

I shake Jeremy’s hand – he’s wearing a yellow Harlequins jersey today, with blue and red text – and then Castor and I leave Heathercombe Cottage. In the car on the way up towards Winsford Hill I start crying, and I let the tears flow freely until they dry up of their own accord.

Early in the morning of the twenty-ninth of January I close the gate of Darne Lodge. Drive down Halse Lane for the last time and park by the war memorial. It’s a foggy morning, grey and gloomy. I take Castor for a short walk up Ash Lane and knock on the door of Mr Tawking’s neighbour. It’s answered by the same nurse as last time: she tells me that old man Tawking is in hospital in Minehead, and probably doesn’t have much longer to live. I thank her and hand over the key.

‘So you’re leaving now, are you?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m leaving now.’

‘You should come back at another time of year,’ she says. ‘Winter is so damned awful.’

I nod and say that I shall certainly be coming back.

We walk past the computer centre but it’s so early in the morning that it isn’t open yet. I knock on Alfred Biggs’s door, but there is no answer. For once he’s not in – but then I’ve already said thank you and goodbye to both him and Margaret Allen.

And I intend to come back after all.

I do, don’t I?

Then we walk back to the car, and drive off.

The A396 via Wheddon Cross, the same road as we came on. We don’t go into The Rest and Be Thankful Inn for a glass of red wine. Besides, they’re not open.

FIVE

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