Håkan Nesser - The Living and the Dead in Winsford

But I needn’t have worried. When Mark sees me he gives me a broad smile and sits down at my table without even asking.

‘How are things? How’s it going with the writing?’

‘Fine, thank you. A bit up and down, but that goes with the territory.’

‘It’s nice to see you again. You brighten up my mealtimes, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘All right, I’ll allow it. But you’d better hurry up and order or we’ll get out of step.’

And so we are sitting here again. I think that either I’m so starved of everything to do with human relationships, or that it has something to do with this man. Most probably a combination of the two. I can feel butterflies in my stomach, and am relieved that I smartened myself up before coming here. Mark looks very smart, a little darker under the eyes than I remember, but newly shaved, well combed and wearing a wine-red pullover instead of the blue one. Corduroy trousers and a Barbour jacket that he’s hung over the back of his chair. Indeed, I think he could well be a sort of semi-noble country squire after a successful afternoon’s shooting, and I can’t help smiling to myself when I realize that I’ve given him a title that my father used to like using. Country squire .

‘I gather you don’t come here all that often,’ I say, ‘or is it just that we happen to have missed one another?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I usually come here at least twice a week — but I like cooking, so that’s not why I come. I reckon you need to see somebody else’s face besides your own occasionally. Don’t you agree?’

‘Mine, for instance?’

He leans forward over the table. ‘I prefer your face to Rosie’s and Henry’s and Robert’s, I’ll admit that. And I’m grateful that you can put up with me now and again.’

I manage to shrug and assume a neutral smile. Being a television hostess for a quarter of a century does leave its mark. ‘You’re welcome,’ I say. ‘Being with you doesn’t cause me pain.’

‘But you have done,’ he says, suddenly becoming serious. ‘Suffered pain, that is. Things are a bit rough for you up there in your house when darkness descends to gobble us up. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘What do you mean? You’re not sitting there again and reading my mind, are you?’

‘Only a bit,’ he says. ‘I see a bit and guess the rest. Who could spend a whole winter up there and survive with their mind in one piece? The moor is best for people who are born on it. In the winter, at least. Cheers, by the way.’

We each take a sip of our wine and look each other in the eye for a second too long. Or maybe I only imagine that extra second: it’s not the kind of judgement that is part of my repertoire any longer. Good Lord, I think, if he stretches out his hand over the table and touches me I’ll wet myself. I’m as emotionally unstable as a fourteen-year-old.

The new young waiter, who is called Lindsey and is undoubtedly as gay as the Pope is Catholic, comes with our food and we start eating. A couple arrive with an elderly terrier, and there is a pause while the dogs greet each other and we indulge in doggy talk before our four-legged friends settle down under their appropriate tables. I am grateful for the interruption, as it gives me time to get a grip of myself. Mark wipes his mouth.

‘Good, but not five stars. What was yours like?’

We had both chosen fish: me cod, him sea perch.

‘Pretty good. Five stars plus or minus a half.’

‘I would have cooked it more slowly at a lower heat,’ he said, nodding at his plate. ‘But of course, then the customer needs to be patient and wait a little longer. Would you like to try it?’

I don’t understand what he means. ‘Try what?’

‘My cooking. You could come round to my place for a meal one evening, and see what I’m capable of.’

I’m taken completely by surprise, but at the same time must ask myself why. What is so remarkable about a single man inviting a single woman to dinner?

‘You’re doubtful?’ he has time to say before I can squeeze a response out of myself.

‘No! Of course not. . I mean, obviously I’d love to go to your house for dinner. Forgive me, it’s just that I’m a bit socially retarded.’

That makes him laugh. ‘We’re in the same boat, then. I. .’

He pauses and looks embarrassed for a moment.

‘Well?’

‘I really wasn’t at all sure if I would dare to invite you. But anyway, it’s done now.’

‘Are you saying it was planned?’

He smiles. ‘Of course. I’ve been thinking about it all the time since we first met. If you think I’m some sort of village Casanova, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. But I’m pretty good with fish, as I’ve already said.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for being so bold. But how is Jeremy going to take it? Will he accept that you are being visited by a stranger?’

Mark gestures with his hands and looks apologetic. ‘He’s not going to hug you enthusiastically. You’ll probably think he’s being antagonistic, but he will leave us in peace. He has plenty of private business to be getting on with.’

I think about the gesture Jeremy made when I saw him looking out of the window. I wonder if I ought to mention it, but decide that it can wait. ‘And dogs? Does he like animals? I won’t come without Castor, I hope you understand that.’

He bursts out laughing. ‘The invitation is for both of you. As for Jeremy, I think he prefers animals to humans. I’ve thought about buying a dog, but haven’t got round to it.’

And so we start talking about breeds of dog, about loneliness and the particular kind of darkness that embraces the moor at this time of year. He maintains that some nights, when there are no stars visible, heaven and earth can take on exactly the same shade of black — it’s simply not possible to distinguish between them, it’s as if one were living in a blind universe. Or as if heaven and earth had actually merged. Such nights can be dangerous for your state of mind, Mark says, even if you don’t go out on the moor to experience it. The phenomenon creeps into your house and under your skin. He remembers it from his childhood in Simonsbath — people just went out of their minds overnight.

‘And it’s at times like that you need to visit a good friend and have a bite to eat, is it?’ I ask.

‘Exactly,’ says Mark. ‘See a different face, just like I said. Shall we say next Friday? A week from now?’

We agree on that. Why wait for a whole week, I wonder, but I don’t say anything. He explains that I can drive right up to the house even though that doesn’t seem possible from a distance, and when we leave The Royal Oak Castor and I accompany him a short way up Halse Lane so that he can show us where we must turn off.

‘A mere three hundred crooked yards,’ he says.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Castor and I have already walked them, but in this direction, not towards the house.’

Then we shake hands and part.

*

I wish I could regard that as the end of the day, but unfortunately that is not possible. When we come down to the war memorial, where we have parked the car as usual, there it is again: the silver-coloured hire car. I can’t see the silver colour, of course, because this little central spot in the village is only lit up by a single street lamp which is hanging over the memorial, swinging back and forth in the wind, and its dirty yellow beam is inadequate — but there is no doubt that it is the same car. The same newspapers are lying on the dashboard, one Polish and one Swedish, and this time he has parked so close that I have to get into my car via the passenger door.

He? Why do I write he ?