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a calamity （john hardly knew what he meant by this—was what they had already suffered not a calamity？ was it possible that worse should be in store？ somehow he thought so）； then he knew someone who would have a few discreet cases of claret out of the cellar and give him a bob or two in return。
‘we’ll be all right for a bit；“ he told the missus； over a cigarette； one night in the kitchen。 ”probably manage four months if we’re careful。 don’t know what we’ll do then。 we’ll have to see。“
it was a self…forting pretense at conversation； he’d given up expecting straightforward answers from the missus。 but the habit of talking to her was too long in him to be given up lightly。 so he continued to sit across the table in the kitchen； sharing his thoughts； his dreams； his worries with her。 and when she answered—random； rambling drifts of words—he puzzled over her pronouncements； trying to find the connection between her answer and his question。 but the labyrinth inside her head was too plex for him to navigate； and the thread that led her from one word to the next had slipped through her fingers in the darkness。
he kept food ing from the kitchen garden。 he cooked； he cut up meat on the missus’s plate and put tiny forkfuls in her mouth。 he poured out her cold cups of tea and made fresh ones。 he was no carpenter； but he nailed fresh boards over rotten ones here and there； kept the saucepans emptied in the main rooms and stood in the attic； looking at the holes in the roof and scratching his head。 “we’ll have to get that sorted；” he would say with an air of decision； but it wasn’t raining much； and it wasn’t snowing； and it was a job that could wait。 there was so much else to do。 he washed sheets and clothes。 they dried stiff and sticky with the residue of soap flakes。 he skinned rabbits and plucked pheasants and roasted them。 he did the washing up and cleaned he sink。 he knew what needed to be done。 he had seen the missus do it a hundred times。
from time to time he spent half an hour in the topiary garden； but le could not enjoy it。 the pleasure of being there was overshadowed by worry about what might be going on indoors； in his absence。 and besides； to do it properly required more time than he was able to give it。 in the end； the only part of the garden that he kept up was the kitchen garden and the rest he let go。
once we got used to it； there was a certain fort in our new existence。 the wine cellar proved a substantial and discreet source of household finance； and as time went by； our way of life began to feel sustainable。 better really if charlie were just to stay absent。 unfound and unreturning； neither dead nor alive； he could do no harm to anyone。
so i kept my knowledge to myself。
in the woods there was a hovel。 unused for a hundred years； overgrown with thorns and surrounded by nettles； it was where charlie and isabelle used to go。 after isabelle was taken to the asylum； charlie went there still； i knew； because i had seen him there； sniveling； scratching love letters on his bones with that old needle。
it was the obvious place。 so when he disappeared； i had gone there again。 i squeezed through the brambles and hanging growth that masked the entrance into air sweet with rottenness； and there； in the gloom； i found him。 slumped in a corner； gun by his side； face half blown away。 i recognized the other half； despite the maggots。 it was charlie； all right。
i backed out of the doorway； not caring about the nettles and the thorns。 i couldn’t wait to get away from the sight of him。 but his image stayed with me and； though i ran； it seemed impossible to escape his hollow； one…eyed stare。
where to find fort？
there was a house i knew。 a simple little house in the woods。 i had stolen food there once or twice。 that was where i went。 by the window i hid； getting my breath back； knowing i was close to ordinary life。 and when i had stopped gasping for air； i stood looking in； at a woman in her chair； knitting。 though she didn’t know i was there； her presence soothed me； like a kind grandmother in a fairy tale。
i watched her； cleansing my eyes； until the vision of charlie’s body had faded and my heartbeat returned to normal。
i walked back to angelfield。 and i didn’t tell。 we were better off as we were。 and anyway； it couldn’t make any difference to him； could it？
he was the first of my ghosts。
it seemed to me that the doctor’s car was forever in miss winter’s drive。 when i first arrived in yorkshire he would call every third day； then it became every other day； then every day and now he was ing to the house twice a day。 i studied miss winter carefully。 i knew the facts。 miss winter was ill。 miss winter was dying。 all the same； when she was telling me her story she seemed to draw on a well of strength that was unaffected by age and illness。 i explained the paradox by telling myself it was the very constancy of the doctor’s attention that was sustaining her。
and yet in ways invisible to my eyes； she must have been weakening quite seriously。 for what else could explain judith’s unexpected announcement one morning？ quite out of the blue she told me that miss winter was too unwell to meet me。 that for a day or two she would be unable to engage in our interviews。 that with nothing to do here； i may as well take a short holiday。
‘a holiday？ after the fuss she made about my going away last time； i would have thought the last thing she would do would be to send me an a holiday now。 and with christmas only a few weeks away； too！“
though judith blushed； she was not forthing with any more information。 something wasn’t right。 i was being shifted out of the way。
‘i can pack a case for you； if it would help？“ she offered。 she smiled apologetically； knowing i knew she was hiding something。
‘i can do my own packing。“ annoyance made me curt。
‘it’s maurice’s day off； but dr。 clifton will run you to the station。“
poor judith。 she hated deceit and was no good at subterfuge。
‘and miss winter？ i’d like a quick word with her。 before i go。“
‘miss winter？ i’m afraid she…“
‘won’t see me？“
“can’t see you。” relief flooded her face and sincerity r