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y stage of my life； and there has never been a time when reading was not my greatest joy。 and yet i cannot pretend that the reading i have done in my adult years matches in its impact on my soul the reading i did as a child。 i still believe in stories。 i still forget myself when i am in the middle of a good book。 yet it is not the same。 books are； for me； it must be said； the most important thing； what i cannot forget is that there was a time when they were at once more banal and more essential than that。 when i was a child； books were everything。 and so there is in me； always； a nostalgic yearning for the lost pleasure of books。 it is not a yearning that one ever expects to be fulfilled。 and during this time； these days when i read all day and half the night； when i slept under a counterpane strewn with books； when my sleep was black and dreamless and passed in a flash and i woke to read again—the lost joys of reading returned to me。 miss winter restored to me the virginal qualities of the novice reader； and then with her stories she ravished me。
from time to time my father would knock at the door at the top of ：he stairs。 he stared at me。 i must have had that dazed look intense reading gives you。 “you won’t forget to eat； will you？” he said； as he handed me a bag of groceries or a pint of milk。
i would have liked to stay in my flat forever with those books。 but if i was to go to yorkshire to meet miss winter； then there was other work to be done。 i took a day off from reading and went to the library。 in the newspaper room； i looked at the books pages of the national newspapers for pieces on miss winter’s recent novels。 for every new book that came out； she summoned a number of journalists to a hotel in harrogate； where she met them one by one and gave them； separately； what she termed her life story。 there must have been dozens of these stories in existence； hundreds perhaps。 i found almost twenty without looking very hard。
after the publication of betwixt and between； she was the secret daughter of a priest and a schoolmistress； a year later in the same newspaper she got publicity for hauntings by telling how she was the runaway child of a parisian courtesan。 for the puppet show； she was； in various newspapers； an orphan raised in a swiss convent； a street child from the backstreets of the east end and the stifled only girl in a family of ten boisterous boys。 i particularly liked the one in which； being accidentally separated in india from her scottish missionary parents； she scraped out an existence for herself in the streets of bombay； making a living as a storyteller。 she told stories about pine trees that smelled like the freshest coriander； mountains as beautiful as the taj mahal； haggis more delicious than any street…corner pakora and bagpipes。 oh； the sound of the bagpipes！ so beautiful it defied description。 when many years later she was able to return to scotland—a country she had left as a tiny baby—she was gravely disappointed。 the pine trees smelled nothing like coriander。 snow was cold。 haggis tasted flat。 as for the bagpipes…
wry and sentimental； tragic and astringent； ic and sly； each and every one of these stories was a masterpiece in miniature。 for a different kind of writer； they might be the pinnacle of her achievement； for vida winter they were mere throwaways。 no one； i think； would have mistaken them for the truth。
the day before my departure was sunday and i spent the afternoon at y parents’ house。 it never changes； a single lupine exhalation could re…ice it to rubble。
my mother smiled a small； taut smile and talked brightly while we had tea。 the neighbor’s garden； roadworks in town； a new perfume that had brought her up in a rash。 light； empty chat； produced to keep since at bay； silence in which her demons lived。 it was a good performance： nothing to reveal that she could hardly bear to leave the house； at the most minor unexpected event gave her a migraine； that she mid not read a book for fear of the feelings she might find in it。
father and i waited until mother went to make fresh tea before talk…g about miss winter。
‘it’s not her real name；“ i told him。 ”if it was her real name； it would be easy to trace her。 and everyone who has tried has given up for ant of information。 no one knows even the simplest fact about her。“
‘how curious。“
‘it’s as if she came from nowhere。 as if before being a writer she didn’t exist at all。 as if she invented herself at the same time as her book。“
‘we know what she chose for a pen name。 that must reveal something； surely；“ my father suggested。
‘vida。 from vita； latin； meaning life。 though i can’t help thinking ： french； too。“
vide in french means empty。 the void。 nothingness。 but we don’t ；e words like this in my parents’ house； so i left it for him to infer。
‘quite。“ he nodded。 ”and what about winter？“
winter。 i looked out of the window for inspiration。 behind my writer’s ghost； dark branches stretched naked across the darkening sky； and the flower beds were bare black soil。 the glass was no protection against the chill； despite the gas fire； the room seemed filled with bleak despair。 what did winter mean to me？ one thing only： death。
there was a silence。 when it became necessary to say something so as not to burden the previous exchange with an intolerable weight； i said； “it’s a spiky name。 v and w。 vida winter。 very spiky。”
my mother came back。 placing cups on saucers； pouring tea； she talked on； her voice moving as freely in her tightly policed plot of life as though it were seven acres。
my attention wandered。 on the mantel over the fireplace was the one object in the room that might be considered decorative。 a photograph。 every so often my mother talks about putting it away in a drawer； where it will be safe from dust。 but my father likes to see it； and since he so rarely opposes her； on this she cedes to him。 in the picture are a youthful bride and groom。 father looks the same as ever： quietly handsome； with dark； thoughtful eyes； the years do not change him。 the woman is scarcely recognizable。 a spontaneous smile； laughter in her eyes； warmth in her gaze as she looks at