With my very best wishes, M
That is more or less word-for-word what I wrote in my notebook this morning. I read it through twice, then send it off.
There has been no response as yet from Soblewski, so I put the draft of my message to him on one side and go over to my own mailbox.
I write to Synn:
Dear Synn. I hope the New Year has begun well in New York. We have had a quiet and relaxing time down here in the relative warmth, but I have to tell you that your dad isn’t all that well. He’s been downcast since quite a long time before Christmas and says he simply can’t concentrate and do any work — I think he’s sinking into a state of depression, more or less. Being so far away from home doesn’t make things any easier, and I’ve begun to wonder if we ought to cut short our stay here in Morocco. I just wanted you to know that — we haven’t made any decisions yet, we’re taking each day as it comes.
Best wishes, Mum
And to Gunvald:
A Happy New Year, Gunvald! I hope all is well in Copenhagen — or are you still in Sydney? I can’t remember what your dad said. In any case we’re having a calm and relaxing time in Morocco, but I have to tell you that your dad is having some problems. I know he would never admit as much to you, but he’s simply not able to work at all and I think he might be depressed — clinically depressed, I mean. If you write to him you don’t need to mention that I’ve told you this, but I know he would appreciate a few uplifting lines from you. Look after yourself wherever you are, and very best wishes from Mum.
I send both messages, then scribble a few lines to Violetta, assuring her that of course she doesn’t need to pay rent for the months when she won’t be living in the house. I say I’m sorry to hear about her mother’s illness, and understand completely that she feels she must go home. She doesn’t need to do anything about finding somebody to live in the house — we might well decide to go home rather earlier than originally planned. Martin hasn’t been feeling very well lately.
Feeling satisfied with these carefully worded messages, I tell Margaret Allen I hope she has a pleasant weekend, and say that I might well drop in again on Monday.
49
Friday the fourth of January. A sunny day with the temperature a few degrees above zero — when we leave Darne Lodge that is, halfway through the morning. I’ve consulted the map and decided to head for Rockford. Castor hasn’t expressed any objections.
It is a hamlet comprising about fifteen houses, stretching along the bank of the East Lyn River. We get there after walking alongside the river from Brendon, and it has felt like a spring morning from the first stride: small birds are fluttering around in the bushes, and the ground seems to be swelling. It’s a few minutes past one, the pub is open and so we go in for lunch.
We find that the pub is hosting an art exhibition: there are twenty or so small oil paintings hanging on the walls, all of them depicting the moor. Ponies in the mist. Gates. Gorse bushes. The artist herself is also present, sitting at a table with her paint brushes and tubes, carefully dabbing paint onto a little canvas on an easel in front of her.
‘Jane Barrett,’ says the landlady when I place my order at the bar. ‘She lives here in the village. She’s pretty good — what she doesn’t manage to sell herself we usually buy for the pub. Mind you, she sells more or less everything. If you’re interested in a painting of the moor, now’s your chance to acquire one. She’s not very expensive either.’
Castor and I sit down at the table next to the artist’s.
We introduce ourselves and I say that I recognize her name.
‘Really?’ she says. ‘I suppose you must know a bit about Exmoor, then?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I say. ‘But there’s a little grave almost next to where I’m living. The lady lying there is called Elizabeth Williford Barrett.’
‘Well, I’ll be. .’ Her face lights up and she puts down her paintbrush on a rag. ‘So you must be living in Darne Lodge. It’s my grandma lying there. What an amazing coincidence!’
She smiles broadly. She is a powerfully built woman about forty-five years old, the type my father would no doubt have said was full of go. A mop of red hair, tied up with an even redder ribbon. A paint-stained woollen jumper reaching down to her knees. Lively eyes. She looks every inch a creative artist.
‘Yes, we live there,’ I say. ‘My dog and I. We’ve been there for a few months, but we’ll probably be leaving at the end of January.’
‘It’s a lovely place to live,’ says Jane Barrett, stroking Castor. ‘You couldn’t have found anywhere better. No matter what your work is, I have no doubt that you are. . well, protected.’
‘Protected?’
‘Yes. For one thing you have my grandma on the other side of the road, and for another she has made sure that the house is disinfected.’
I smile somewhat tentatively. ‘Do you mean that. .?’
I simply don’t know what to say next, but it doesn’t matter. Jane Barrett likes talking. ‘Maybe you don’t know what kind of women we are in my family. There must always be a witch on the moor, and nowadays it’s me. My grandma’s grandmother is the most notorious — the witch in Barrett’s bolt-hole. . Have you heard of her?’
I say that not only have I heard of her, I’ve even visited the bolt-hole.
‘Really?’ exclaims Jane, astonished once again. ‘But they haven’t put the place in the tourist leaflets, have they? Although it wouldn’t surprise me. .’
‘I went walking around those parts with a friend who was born in Simonsbath,’ I explain. ‘He was the one who knew about her, and explained it all to me.’
She nods and takes a drink of tea from the cup on her table. ‘I’ll tell you one thing: I’m pretty sure my mother was conceived in your house.’
‘Your mother?. . Elizabeth?’
She laughs. ‘No, Elizabeth is my grandmother. But she’s the one who was responsible for the conception. Half of it, at least. She lived in Darne Lodge with a young man at the end of the thirties, before he was conscripted for service in the Second World War. Grandma was pregnant with my mother, and gave birth in the spring of 1941. And at about the same time the man died somewhere in Africa. Killed by a German bullet. Mother and daughter Barrett continued living in Darne Lodge until they were thrown out by the owner, or whatever it was that happened. .’
It strikes me that Margaret Allen must have missed out the odd chapter in the history of Darne Lodge, unless I wasn’t listening intently enough.
‘Anyway,’ says Jane, ‘Grandma Elizabeth made sure that the house was properly protected. No dodgy goings-on were going to make it difficult for people to come to Darne Lodge. All right, I know that people have died there and that things have happened, but that’s another story. Have you felt safe, living up there?’
I think that over, then say that yes, I have.
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I write books. I’m an author.’
She shakes my hand. ‘I thought you were an artist. You can sense things like that — especially if you are a witch.’
She leans back, sticks her thumbs in her armpits and laughs. ‘It runs in the family, and things keep repeating themselves,’ she says slightly mysteriously. ‘We Barretts only give birth to girls. One for each generation. And we keep the name Barrett. But you’ve probably seen that it says Williford on Grandma’s grave.’
I say that I have seen that, and think I know the reason for it.
‘Exactly,’ says Jane. ‘That rich farmer bastard who raped her mother. My great grandmother. And do you know, I also have a daughter. . she’s only seventeen. As pretty as the dawn, and shortly before Christmas she came home and introduced me to a boyfriend. His name is James Williford. . The choice here on the moor is a bit limited, you might say. It smells of incest, don’t you think?’