The Living and the Dead in Winsford Read Online Free Page A

emotions in her voice it was the expectation that I heard most clearly. She and Martin had never really got on well together, and I assume that what had happened seemed to her a positive step forward in the hopes she had been harbouring ever since puberty.
    But I informed her that I would not be leaving him. I tried not to sound too definite, said something to the effect that time would have to take its course, and then we would see what happened. I think she accepted that. I don’t know if a private conversation took place between father and daughter during the twenty-four hours she spent in our house. Martin said nothing about that in any case, and I’m sure he thought it was a good thing that she didn’t stay any longer.
    I haven’t seen Gunvald since last Christmas. The intention was that we would stop over in Copenhagen on our way south and call in on him, but after the Poland business happened that was out of the question. Or perhaps it was not really the intention that we would do that: perhaps there was some sort of agreement between Martin and Gunvald, I sometimes think that is the case. A gentleman’s agreement not to meet face to face, and no doubt that wouldn’t be a bad idea. I have the feeling that in the circumstances it would be in the best interests of our children for us to leave them in peace.
    I write us , but I suppose I ought to reduce that to me .
    Perhaps leave them in peace for good, come to that – I must admit that is a thought that has become more pressing during the autumn. But quite a lot of thoughts have behaved like that. The difference between a day, a year and a life has shrunk very noticeably.

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