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

establish that the place had not only restaurants, but also a police station, a fire station, a pharmacy, a library, and a variety of shops, pubs and teashops. There was even an old antiquarian bookshop, which we couldn’t resist paying a visit to, as a notice pinned to the rickety door announced that four-footed friends were especially welcome.
    We did the shopping at a leisurely pace, then went for a little stroll by the cheerfully babbling brook that was the Barle – oh, I am so pleased to be able to write ‘cheerfully babbling brook’, I think it enables me to redress matters somewhat – and I found it difficult to understand where all the water was coming from. To round things off we ate some venison pie with a large helping of peas at The Bridge Inn – well, Castor had to be satisfied with a handful of doggy treats produced willingly from a store under the counter.
    I noted that there is a considerable difference between being a single middle-aged woman and a single middle-aged woman with a dog. Castor’s company, as he lies there under my table in the pub, gives me some sort of natural dignity and legitimacy that I find difficult to explain. A sort of undeserved blessing that one can make the most of. I would not be able to cope with the situation I find myself in were it not for his reassuring presence and support – certainly not. Nevertheless I am of course very unsure if everything will end up happily, whatever that cliché might mean, even with this formidable companion by my side. But at least it helps me to get by in the short term. Minutes, hours, perhaps even days. Presumably that is also how a dog thinks and makes its way through life. One step at a time. They obviously have an advantage on that score.
    In fact he was Martin’s dog to start with. Martin was the one who insisted that we needed a pet when the children had flown the nest – and by a pet, he meant of course a dog, nothing else. He grew up with lots of pooches around the house; in my well-organized childhood there was no room for such extravagances, I don’t really know why. I had to make do with unreliable cats and a handful of aquarium fish that soon died off, that was all. Oh, and a brother as well. Not to mention a younger sister – I would prefer to write my way around her, giving her as wide a berth as possible, but I can see that it wouldn’t work.
    He’s seven years old, getting on for eight, Castor. A Rhodesian ridgeback. I had never heard of them when Martin first brought him home. I think he had a vague dream of the dog lying at his feet in his study at the university, and perhaps also accompanying him when he delivered his lectures. But of course, that never happened. I was the one who took Castor on courses, and to the vet’s. I was the one who looked after all the practical details involved in owning a dog, and I was the one who took him for long walks every day.
    Because I was the one who had time.
    Or to be frank, who made the time: but there was never any argument about it. I enjoyed doing it, it was as simple as that. To go wandering through woods and fields for a few hours every day with a silent and loyal companion, with no other aim than doing just that – walking through the countryside in silence – well, after only a few weeks that was an occupation I came to regard as the most important and meaningful aspect of my life.
    Perhaps that says something about my life.
    When I drove back to Darne Lodge – following the elevated route over the moor – the mist had dispersed altogether and the views extended for miles. I wound down the side window and thought I could just about make out the sea in the distance, or the Bristol Channel at least, and I was overcome by a feeling of being very solitary, totally insignificant and passed over. In many ways it is easier to live somewhere without horizons, in the mist and in a confined space. At least I am well aware that I need to stick to simple and practical