It seemed it was more of a command than a request. Mort fumbled in his threadbare pocket for his key and opened the door. He stepped inside and she followed.

 

For a man with a scruffy appearance who had lived most of his years on his own, Mort kept a surprisingly tidy house.

 

There had been two lovers over the 40 years he had lived there; one was a woman who moved in for a couple of years when he was in his 20s. She had moved on when she met one of the rare travellers passing through Upper Winden. She decided to leave Mort, his home and the village a mere two hours after meeting the stranger in the pub.

 

Another local woman, a widow, moved in with Mort when he was 35. She was turned 40. They were together 10 years, before one summer morning, she disappeared over a crag, a little to the west of Upper Winden. Mort later said they were out for a walk and stopped to take in the view.

 

She was found, the next day, one hundred feet below where they’d been standing. They found Mort at home, sitting where he’d been since arriving back from the previous day’s walk. Some said he was in shock, but plenty expressed concern with that explanation. “Why take in a view you can see every day?” they asked.

 

The flame haired woman looked around the room. ‘I’ll build the fire again,’ said Mort. ‘It’s almost out.’ He moved the hearth guard aside and placed two large logs on the embers in the grate. He looked down at the fire. ‘Expensive logs them are,’ he said to her. ‘Got a cart load from a mate 20 miles off. He dropped them last week when he came to the village on an errand. Never forgets old Mort, he don’t.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Well, actually he does – he was supposed to bring them last winter,’ he chuckled.

 

Mort suddenly remembered his manners. ‘Here, have a seat, by the fire.’ The logs began to crackle.

‘Does you want a drink. Tea? I have some beer, or a drop of whisky.’

 

The woman stood by the fire and faced the hearth. She gazed down at the logs. ‘Whisky, please. But a small one.’ She spoke without looking up.

 

Mort disappeared into the tiny kitchen at the rear of the small house. She heard him open and close cupboards and she heard the clattering of glasses and bottles. He returned to find her still staring down at the fire. He set down a bottle of Scotch whisky and two glasses on a small table, poked the fire and then poured two large measures and handed her a glass.

 

‘Thank you; she murmured softly. He removed his coat and hung it by the door. Again, it kept its human shape form, just as it had in the pub.

 

The woman sipped her drink and continued to stare at the fire. He watched her. He stared at her.

 

She was indeed the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Suddenly he asked: ‘This quest of yours; this whatever it is that’s made you come here – today. What’s it about?’ He stuttered slightly. The words didn’t flow. ‘Sorry, perhaps that’s me just been plain rude to you.’ He looked uncomfortable. He moved to the chair and slumped in it.

‘It’s not rude, Mort,’ she said, continuing to gaze at the flames. Without turning she added: ‘May I ask you something?’ Mort nodded. ‘Of course – but first I have to ask you summat important.’

 

‘What’s that,’ she asked, still gazing at the fireplace.

‘What’s your name.’

‘To you Mortimer, I’m Sophia.’

‘Ain’t never heard that one round before. Where’s it from?’

‘

I think it’s Greek, originally, or at least it is in the Greek translation of the Bible. It means Wisdom of

God.’ She was very matter of fact and threw her head back slightly and struck a pose mimicking her self-importance. ‘There, it must be true - I am a woman of wisdom.’ He gave her a withering look.

‘

Don’t look at me like that,’ she said light heartedly, ‘some people like to think a name has strong or important meaning. This one has a special meaning – at least some would say it has.’

 

She reached for her glass and sipped. ‘But it’s not important just now, here with you. I’m not important this evening, even this night. It’s you, Mortimer Cobb who is important… especially to me.’

​

Mort stared. He couldn’t make head nor tail of what she was on about. He couldn’t understand why she was in his home.

‘

What’s your biggest regret?’ Her question was sudden and unexpected.

 

Mort surprised himself. He spoke straight back to her. ‘In my whole life?’ He raised his voice slightly, still staring at her back.

 

She nodded and after a while he answered. ‘That’s easy. Staying here. Staying on the ridge when I could have gone somewhere else, done different things.’ He paused and sipped his drink. ‘I should never have stayed,’ he almost whispered, ‘in this hellhole.’

‘

That’s the problem isn’t it, with life, with the way we do things. With what happens to us or doesn’t happen to us. Who we stay with, who we lose.’ He saw her shoulders rise and fall; he heard her sigh.

​

‘It’s all about the unexpected and the unfulfilled, isn’t it?’ She turned to face him, placing her glass on the mantelpiece. He noticed she pulled her dress up an inch at the back.

 

He smiled and pointed. ‘I do that,’ he said nodding down at her thighs, ‘just to try and warm myself a bit.’ He blushed a little. ‘Not with a dress on, minds – never worn one. But when I have my nightshirt or just my underwear on.’

​

She shot him a glance and then smiled warmly. ‘It’s something that’s endearingly human, don’t you think. It makes no difference to me, but I’ve seen it done from time to time, and copied.’

 

She looked away momentarily and then back at him. ‘Actually, I think I was teasing a little as well – if I’m honest about it.’

‘

You should be careful who you’re teasing, especially with that body.’ Mort gestured towards her.

​

‘What would you have done?’ She was standing straight again. ‘If you hadn’t stayed here or

hadn’t been an odd job man – and even the pub buffoon?’

 

His angry expression subsided. He hesitated before answering quietly. ‘A writer. First, I wanted to

be a writer.’

‘First?’

 

He nodded. ‘Then I wanted to be a vicar.’

‘A vicar?’ She didn’t seem surprised.

He nodded again. Somehow, he was buoyed by his admissions. ‘And then all I wanted was a wife and kids.’ He let his head drop and sniffled, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘But this place gets a hold of you.

 

It exhausts you,’ he said looking up at her, ‘it takes all you got to give and wastes it.’ He sat forward in his chair. Suddenly, his face and voice filled with anger.

 

‘Sometimes it’s too bloody cold and too windy; often it’s too wet and extremely windy. When it’s hot and there’s no breeze, you bake. No trees for shelter, no water for cooling.

 

As they say, there ain’t bugger all.’ He thumped his fist on the arm of the chair. His anger raised again. ‘Have you come to my home, just to tell me what a failure I am… what a complete shit mess my life is… what

a complete bloody mess I’ve become.

 

‘Look at me, Sophia, I’m the village idiot, the stupid pub porker.’ His voice was losing its strong

northern accent, it’s use of dialect. She noticed the change.

 

‘You are not, Mort, you never were,’ she began slowly, ‘a failure. You may have failed from time to time, you may have tried to hide from time to time.’ she lowered herself to kneel at his feet and rest her forearms on his knees, ‘but you were never, ever a failure.’ She looked directly into his eyes.

 

‘There is an enormous difference between being a failure and failing to finish something that proved

too hard to accomplish. And, yes, you may spend a lot of time in life trying to do what others expect of you and find it too much. But we’re all guilty of that and it is nothing to do with being a failure.’

 

‘Why are you here?’ his voice was soft.

 

‘Would you believe me if I said it was to give you back some of the years that weren’t so kind to you?

 

Would you believe me if I said it was to wipe the memory of too much drinking, acting the fool,

being a spectacle?’

 

Tears were streaming down Mort’s face but somehow, at the same time as he was emotional, his face looked younger.

 

‘No one can do that.’

 

Sophia shrugged and nodded her head from side to side. ‘You might think that. I know differently.’

 

‘Huh.’

 

‘Huh,’ she mimicked back. ‘I am not here, with you and in your home, to make fun of your life. And neither are we together to dwell too much on the past.’ She leaned forward. ‘So, huh to you.’

 

Playfully he touched her nose. ‘You can’t do any of that, can you? Not really.’

 

‘I can do anything for you.’ Her eyes glistened.

 

‘Anything at all, anything that should be done.’

 

‘Well, can you convince that lot,’ he gestured to the door behind him, ‘that lot out there that I didn’t kill her.’

 

‘I know.’ She kissed two fingers and placed them on his lips. She wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

 

‘Trust me, I know.’ Mort felt exhausted. ‘Sleep now Mortimer Cobb. Sleep and be released.’

 

Mort’s eyes were heavy. ‘If I fall asleep, don’t run off with the silver.’ He forced a smile as his head

rested to one side. Sophia leaned against his knees and watched the fire burn out.

 

Outside the wind blew, snow circled in mazes around the ground, it wrapped around telegraph poles, under

vehicles and up against front doors.

 

Inside, the room grew warmer, warm enough to keep them comfortable for the night.

 

In the distance, she heard a pig scream as it ran out of the village and disappeared into the night.

 

But no-one saw it. No one else but Sophia heard it.

​