The Living and the Dead in Winsford

by Håkan Nesser

  And I had nothing to add. I reclined the seat, inflated my travel pillow and announced that I was going to try and get some sleep. He slid a Thelonious Monk disc into the CD-player, then neither of us spoke again for several hours.

  *

  But I didn’t sleep. Just closed my eyes and thought how odd it was that we were sitting in this same car, on our way southwards. After all these years. After all those occasions when we didn’t measure up to each other, all those manoeuvres to ensure we ended up in the same place. How odd it was that we were still together. And that my life had come to the point where I no longer wanted anything apart from being left in peace and quiet – I thought about that as well. Perhaps that was the price of being the person I have been. That we have been the people we have been. The premier league, as my brother Göran once said. The premier league? I remember wondering. What on earth do you mean by that? It’s as plain as day, Göran insisted. A literary colossus and a television presenter – you are playing in the premier league. You only have yourselves to blame.

  He plays in division three. He explained that as well. He’s a secondary school teacher in a small town in central Sweden, which means that he’s slap bang in the middle of real life. Not the town he grew up in, of course not; and the business about divisions was something he’d got from a colleague, apparently. Martin disapproved of that: he had been on the list of Social Democrat election candidates a couple of times – never likely to be selected, but still – and such people mustn’t belong to an elite.

  That was long before the incident in the hotel in Gothenburg. Martin ceased to be a social democrat round about the turn of the century, it wasn’t clear exactly when.

  But the fact is that to a large extent both our lives have been lived in what is known as the glare of publicity – my brother was right about that. We have been standing on a stage – usually separate stages, but occasionally a shared one – and when you are on a stage you try to put on an act. To be good-looking and talk clearly, as I said before. Until somebody says it’s time to make an exit. And on that occasion when Gunvald came home drunk, the only time he had done so, and spelled out the truth for me, his analysis was more or less identical with that, it really was.

  ‘You’re a bloody nobody, do you realize that? A made-up cut-out doll, that’s what I had for a mother – thank you very much. But you don’t need to feel ashamed – I’ve been doing that for you all these years.’

  He was seventeen then. A year later he reached the so-called age of maturity, and fell off that balcony.

  I adjusted the pillow against the side window and started thinking about Synn.

  9

  ‘Mark,’ he said. ‘My name’s Mark Britton. I can see that you have a shadow over you.’

  Those were the first words he spoke, and I wasn’t sure I had heard them correctly.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘What did you say?’

  He had eaten the rest of his food. Now he slid the plate to one side and turned towards me. We were sitting at neighbouring tables, with about a metre between us. Rosie had switched the television on again, but turned the sound down to almost zero. Two men in white shirts and black waistcoats were playing snooker.

  ‘A shadow,’ he repeated. ‘You must forgive me, but I notice things like that.’

  He smiled and reached out his hand. I hesitated for a second before shaking it and telling him my name.

  ‘Maria.’

  ‘You’re not from round here, I take it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Travelling through?’

  ‘No, I’m renting a house for the winter just outside the village.’

  ‘For the winter?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a writer. I need some peace and quiet.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m familiar with peace and quiet. And I read quite a bit.’

  ‘What did you mean by “a shadow”?’

  He smiled again. He seemed reserved and friendly, and gave the impression of being a reliable person. I’m not sure what I mean by that epithet, or how I justify it, but he reminded me vaguely of a religious studies teacher I had at secondary school. It’s a reflection I’m making now with hindsight, as I am writing – not something I hit upon as we were sitting there in The Royal Oak. I don’t remember what he was called, that teacher, but I recall that he had a daughter who was confined to a wheelchair.

  I also wonder what made me start talking to this Mark Britton so casually. It wasn’t just my loneliness crying out for somebody to make contact with, anybody at all: there was a simple straightforwardness about him, not a trace of that typically male scheming that is so prevalent and about as hard to perceive as an elephant under a handkerchief. Despite everything I am aware that I can still be regarded as an attractive woman. Even if Mr Britton must surely be several years younger than me.

  ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Please do.’

  He took with him his half-empty glass and sat down facing me. I had the impression that both Rosie and Robert were watching us, but trying to give the impression of not doing so. Henry was also still there in his corner, but absorbed by his newspaper and something which looked like a horseracing programme. I observed my new table-mate furtively. He had long, slightly unruly hair, but I thought nevertheless that he looked civilized. By civilized I suppose I mean that he looked as if he was at home in an urban environment rather than on a moor out in the sticks. Perhaps he had just been to visit his ancient mother and was on his way back to London, I thought. Or a sister, or a brother-in-law, who knows? Anyway, a dark red shirt, open at the neck, and over it a blue pullover. Quite tall, on the slim side, clean shaven. Deep-set eyes that were perhaps a fraction too close together. His voice was deep and pleasant – he could well be an actor or even a radio announcer. Or possibly even a television presenter, if he paid a visit to a barber. I smiled at the latter thought, and he asked what I found amusing.

  ‘Nothing.’ I shrugged. ‘It was just a passing twitch.’

  Castor noticed that I had acquired a companion and came over to our table. Sniffed casually at Mr Britton, yawned and found a new place on the floor.

  ‘Your dog?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he called?’

  ‘Castor.’

  He nodded, and we sat without speaking for a few seconds.

  ‘Anyway, my assertion about a shadow,’ he said eventually. ‘It wasn’t just something I said in an attempt to appear interesting – I hope you understand that. I could have said “aura”, but people are usually scared of that word.’

  I thought for a moment, then maintained I wasn’t especially afraid of auras, but didn’t believe in them. I asked if people were less scared of shadows.

  ‘They are in fact, yes,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I see an absent husband and a house in the south – but we don’t need to go into that. You’ve just arrived here, I take it? I’ve never seen you around before, in any case.’

  I noticed that my pulse started racing and that I needed to gain time. Absent husband? A house in the south? But I couldn’t see how I could make use of any time I gained.

  ‘I arrived a few days ago,’ I said. ‘What about you? Do you live here?’

  ‘Not far outside the village.’

  ‘It’s beautiful here.’

  ‘Yes. Beautiful and lonely. At this time of year, at least.’

  ‘Some people prefer loneliness.’

  He smiled slightly. ‘Yes, we do. Have you been in these parts before?’

  ‘Never.’

  And so he began talking about the moor. Slowly and almost hesitantly, without my prompting him. About places, walks, the mists. And how he actually preferred this time of year, autumn and winter, when there were not so many tourists about. He sometimes spent whole days out on the moor, he told me, from dawn to dusk, preferably without a map or a compass, preferably without really knowing where he was.

  ‘Trout Hill,’ he said, ‘above Doone Valley, or Challacombe – you can learn a lot
up there. You can get lost on the moor, of course you can: but if you don’t get lost you can’t find yourself.’

  He laughed slightly ironically, and stroked back his hair, which occasionally fell down and covered half his face. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to impress me with what he was saying, but it didn’t seem so. Nor did he offer me any services, didn’t ask if I needed a guide or somebody who could pass on tips about places or paths. He just warned me to be careful, and explained that when the mists fell even the wild ponies could get lost. If you were caught out by the mist, it could often be better simply to stay where you were and hope that it would soon lift. Assuming you had suitable clothes, of course: if you felt cold it was always better to keep moving.

  I asked if he was born on Exmoor, and he said he was. Not quite here in Winsford, but in Simonsbath, a bit higher up and more or less in the middle of the moor. He had moved away when he started at university, but came back ten years ago. As he worked with computers it didn’t matter where he lived: twenty years of city life and stress was quite enough for him, he maintained.

  He said nothing about his family. Didn’t say if he had any children or had anything that could be described as ‘personal relationships’. I suspected he might be gay: he had precisely the frankness that heterosexual men usually lack. Even if he showed noticeably little interest in my circumstances.

  I didn’t ask him about details, of course not, and while he was talking I gained the time I needed. I was able to decide how much of my own personal circumstances I was prepared to reveal.

  Not very much, I concluded. And I stuck to that line.

  Maria Anderson, a writer from Sweden. I think I even man-aged to convince him that I wrote under a pseudonym. I told him I was living just outside Winsford, but I didn’t go into precisely where.

  What sort of books do you write? he wanted to know.

  Novels.

  No, I was not a well-known name, especially not outside Sweden. But I managed to keep going. I had been awarded some kind of scholarship for a year, and that was why I was here on Exmoor.

  ‘And you intend to write about the moor, do you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Then I asked him what he had meant by that reference to a shadow, an absent husband and a house in the south.

  ‘I can’t help it. I can see into people’s minds, that’s the basic truth of the matter. It’s always been the case.’

  We’d had our glasses refilled. He had another dark beer, and I had a drop more red wine.

  ‘Interesting,’ I said, non-committally.

  ‘I’ve been able to do that ever since I was a child,’ he explained. ‘I knew my father had another woman long before my mother found out about it. I was eight then. I knew that my schoolmistress’s mother had died the moment I saw her walking across the schoolyard that winter morning. Five minutes before she came into the classroom and told us about it. And I knew . . . No, I’d better stop. It’s pointless to keep providing proof. It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve no reason to doubt you.’

  ‘And now you’re sitting there wondering what I have to say about the husband and the house, aren’t you?’ said Mr Britton, taking a swig of beer.

  ‘Once you’ve started you might as well go on,’ I said.

  He laughed. Somewhat nervously, I thought – in any case it was the first time he’d done so during our conversation.

  ‘I don’t really have anything to go on about,’ he said. ‘I just get a fleeting image in my brain, and all I can do is describe what the image looked like. What it might mean is another matter altogether.’

  ‘And what exactly did you see in my case?’

  He thought for a moment, no more. ‘I didn’t see a lot,’ he said. ‘At first a man, then a white house . . . Bathed in strong sunlight – it looked as if it were somewhere in the south. The Mediterranean or North Africa, perhaps. Then came the shadow: it came from up above, and I had the impression that it was your shadow. Or that it had something to do with you at least. And it swept away the man. But the house remained standing. Anyway, that’s all – but it was pretty clear. I suppose “mist” is a better word than “fog” to describe it, by the way.’

  I swallowed. ‘What did this man look like, did you notice any details?’

  ‘No. I saw him standing quite a long distance away. But he was rather elderly, not really old – about sixty or so.’

  ‘And you saw all this inside my mind?’

  He adopted an apologetic expression. ‘Perhaps not quite – but it’s when I observe a face that images like these crop up, and that’s what I did.’

  ‘You observed my face?’

  ‘Every man between the ages of fifteen and ninety would want to observe your face. If he could. Do you think I’m being importunate?’

  I wondered if I thought so. I concluded that I might have done in different circumstances, but now here we were in the local pub in Winsford in the county of Somerset, and with the exception of Mr Tawking this Mark Britton was the first person I’d spoken to for more than half a minute in over a week. No, it didn’t feel importunate, and I explained why.

  ‘Thank you. It’s lonely, being a writer, is it?’

  ‘It goes with the territory. If you can’t cope with loneliness you can’t devote yourself to writing.’

  He shrugged, and suddenly looked a little sad.

  ‘I could be a great writer. If that’s the necessary criterion.’

  That was of course an opportunity for me to ask questions about his private circumstances, but I desisted. Instead I extracted some practical information from him. Where I could find a launderette, for instance. Where I could buy firewood. Which was the best place to shop for food.

  Mr Britton filled me in on these points and several more besides, and when we left the pub we thanked each other for an interesting conversation. He said he usually visited The Royal Oak Inn several times a week, and was looking forward to meeting me there again.

  Then we shook hands and said goodbye. He went off up Halse Lane, Castor and I crossed over the road and walked down to the war memorial, where the car was parked. I realized that I had drunk two glasses of wine rather than the planned one, but I certainly had no intention of walking up to Darne Lodge in the dark. I could see no sign of Mark Britton on the road, and assumed he must have turned off into one of the narrow alleys you pass before coming up onto the moor itself.

  I had left the bathroom light on, but that wasn’t visible from the road and I overshot the house by some fifty metres before realizing it. It was not exactly straightforward, backing along the narrow asphalt track, but I managed it. I made a mental note to buy some kind of outdoor lantern to hang on the gate-post, so that I would be able to find my way home in future.

  Before I fell asleep – but quite a while after Castor had done so at the foot end of the bed – I made two decisions. I would wait for at least a week before setting foot again in The Royal Oak Inn, and the following day I would be sure to check the computers, both mine and Martin’s. Sixteen days had passed since we left Stockholm, so it was high time.

  I would go to an internet cafe in Minehead – Mark Britton had said there were several there – and take a look at the e-mail inboxes. And if necessary answer any pressing messages. It would certainly not be a good thing if correspondents started checking up on where we were.

  Certainly not.

  10

  After Synn’s birth I was stricken with something that was eventually diagnosed as post-natal depression.

  I don’t know if that was the correct name for it, but if the two things coincide in time – the birth and the depression – I assume it must be. In any case, it meant that the relationship between myself and my daughter was disturbed from the very start. That important contact between mother and child that everybody talks about didn’t happen until several months later, and by then it was too late.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like my child. The fact
was that I had no desire to go on living any longer. I could see no light at the end of the tunnel, and nothing seemed to have any point. Every day, during the weeks I was in hospital, I asked the nurses to bring my daughter to me: but as soon as I had been with her for a few minutes I started crying my eyes out. It was uncontrollable, and after I had fed her briefly they took her away again. I know that I cried more for Synn’s sake than for my own.

  I received help of various kinds, and was eventually allocated a therapist. It was the first time in my life I had met one; her name was Gudrun Ewerts, and after only two or three sessions she expressed the opinion that I ought to have been given help much sooner. When I told her the story of my life up to that point – it was 1983, and I had just celebrated my twenty-sixth birthday – Gudrun put her head in her hands and sighed.

  ‘My dear,’ she said. ‘Have you paused to think about what you’ve been through these last ten years?’

  I thought about that, then asked her what she meant.

  She glanced at her notebook. ‘If I understand things correctly, what’s happened is as follows: your younger sister has died. Your boyfriend has died. Your mother and father have died, and you have given birth to two children. Is that right?’

  I thought once again. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s right. I suppose it’s a bit much.’

  Gudrun smiled. ‘You can say that again. And I don’t blame you for reacting as you have done.’

  She went on to explain that what I had done was simply to bottle everything up, and that was what was now punishing me. She accepted that bottling things up could be an effective way of dealing with such happenings: but before you do that you need to have a clear idea about what it is that is being hidden away.

  She liked to express herself in images, and what we spoke about in all our conversations – for there were many, definitely over a hundred – had much more to do with the fatal accident to my younger sister and the tragic fall that killed my boyfriend than with little Synn.