a cold wind, tatters of grey moss fluttering. Birds hide among the leafless twigs. The only colour apart from dull grey and green is the shivering yellow of gorse flower.
In the mirror, Lyla’s face is rigid. I know this mood, what it means: she doesn’t want to speak. At its worst she can go into total and prolonged silence. Elective mutism. Another Asperger symptom. But I can’t let it go. ‘Lyla, this is very important. You say you saw someone I know.’ She is mute.
We turn on to the main road to Widecombe and Fernworthy, the faster road. And almost immediately, I slow. Dartmoor ponies, their rich black manes rippling in the breeze, are standing on either side of the tarmac. In this pose they always strike me as guardians of the moor, essential spirits of the place. ‘Lyla? Please?’ Nothing.
‘Lyla—’
‘It was the day you left me.’ Her blue eyes meet mine in the mirror, and they are piercing, ‘The day you left me alone. You must remember that day, Mummy.’
Her face goes still again, still and quiet and pale. Even angry. And I know if I ask one more question she will not say another word for hours, or days. Or a week. Yet I am anxious to interrogate her further. What is she trying and failing to say? Is it something so unspeakable she cannot bring herself to say it clearly?
The words already spoken pain me quite enough. She seems to be blaming me for the accident. I want to tell her: it wasn’t my fault.
Foot down on the brake, I bring the car to a total halt as another pony crosses the road. Heedless of our presence, living in a different world, the pony trots along the verge, then canters away – over the brown crest of a hill, its rich mane flowing like a dark flame on the wind.
The scene reminds me of my daughter: with her black hair streaming on a cold blustery day, running with the dogs, happy in herself. Alone with her thoughts and dreams, and as mysterious as the weather beyond Haytor.
Wednesday lunchtime
It’s taken us an hour to walk here, through the serried pine plantations of Fernworthy, out on to the expanse of brown moorland.
‘There,’ I say.
‘Where?’
I point to Grey Wethers, the two stone circles, barely visible in the distance, set on a slope, staring at the nothingness all around them. Grey Wethers is one of my favourite places on Dartmoor: there’s something poetic about the silent, twinned nature of these circles, raised three thousand years ago by men who knew how to use a landscape, how to adorn it, respond to it, with simple rings of grey moorland rock.
Grey Wethers is as beautiful, to me, as a palace or a castle. The only reason I don’t come here more often is that it requires a long and boring walk, first through regimented conifers, then hopping over quaggy ground, boots sinking into unsuspected pools of stagnant, cressy water, shins cracked on hidden moorland boulders.
‘What do you think?’ I say. ‘It’s kind of lovely, isn’t it?’
I scrutinize her passive face for clues. Who did she see at Huckerby? If it is someone I know, that makes it even more bewildering. I barely have any friends – let alone male friends – who live nearby; my old university friends are mainly in London, or scattered around the world.
So she must mean a relative of mine. And I have so few contenders. My brother is down at Salcombe, in my mother’s house. We like the distance between us; it prevents us squabbling. As for my father, he is long dead.
It keeps coming back to someone who looks like Adam, as Lyla said. The man on the moor. Or could it be Adam himself?
No, absurd.
In silence, we approach the nearest of the circles. The dogs are running ahead; for once Lyla is not interested in their romps and explorations.
Instead she frowns gently, puzzled, gazing first at the stones, then at the horizon, alert to something. Finally my daughter walks to the centre of the nearest stone circle. And sits down.
‘Are you all right?’
She nods. I sit down beside her, cross-legged. The cold wind has dropped and a feeble hint of January sun pierces the cloud cover. The turf beneath us is quite dry. Apparently it hasn’t rained here for weeks. Dartmoor weather is so strange. Adam says that on July days he can leave tourists sunbathing by a moorland river, then walk ten minutes up a tor – and be hit by driving snow; yet when he walks back, the kids in the valley are still swimming in the sunshine.
‘Shall we have a sandwich?’
Lyla says a quiet please. I unbuckle my rucksack and take out the picnic box and for several minutes we eat our peanut butter sandwiches in companionable silence, listening to the whirr of the gentle wind in the sedge, and the trill of a cold moorland stream in the distance. I can also hear the dogs, barking happily over the next shallow hillside, hunting out rabbits, or hares. Or digging up old human bones from Stone Age cairns. Kistvaens. Those chests containing ancient skeletons, where the bodies were cruelly bent to fit them in: knees pressed to chin, as if the burial was a torture in itself. Perhaps they buried some alive. No one is quite sure.
Setting down her sandwich, Lyla says, ‘I’m sorry for what I said about the man. I don’t think I saw anyone. Sorry, Mummy. I get scared?’
‘Ah … OK.’
Confusion settles upon confusion. I begin to fear that one day I may wake up, trapped, snowbound by all this strangeness. But Lyla is still traumatized by her mother nearly dying; confusion would be understandable. Expected.
Taking another bite of bread and peanut butter, she chews diligently, and says, ‘I like it here. I like the silence and the forests over there, so far away. I always like the stone circles.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I like Scorhill and Totterton and Sourton and Buttern Hill and Mardon, all of them, but they’re not the best ones. Do you know my favourite?’
‘No …’ I am wrapping the sandwich foil into a ball, putting it back in the box. ‘But tell me.’
‘Merrivale!’ she says, smiling brightly.
I smile in return. We’ve been to Merrivale several times: it’s definitely one of her cherished places on the moor. Merrivale, with its stone rows and burial cairns, arrayed along a bald and windswept crest of moorland.
‘Why do you like Merrivale?’
‘Because they called it Plague Market! I read that was its name. Do you know why it was given that name? I had to look it up.’
‘No.’
Her eyes turn to meet mine, unblinking. ‘During the Black Death, the moorland people would leave food in the stone circle. And later the coastal people, all the people who had the plague already, they would come and take the food, and leave gold and silver as a payment, in a trough full of vinegar, then they would go away. And that’s how they tried to stop it, stop the Black Death spreading.’ She blinks, once, and goes on. ‘Isn’t that amazing? A special plague market, on the moor, between the stones, where no one had to meet, so no one saw anyone else, like they were all ghosts. And all that gold and silver in the vinegar.’ Lyla frowns, toying with a blade of grass, ‘But … but it didn’t work, that’s what I read. The Black Death spread anyway, right across the moor. So all the people died. Even when you leave gold in vinegar, Mummy, it doesn’t work. Everyone dies.’
The anxious, fluttering wind carries the scent of newly chopped pine from the forest. I’m not sure whether to be disturbed by my daughter’s monologue, one of Lyla’s Aspergery lectures, or happy that she is, at least, communicating.
‘Have you finished with your drink?’
Lyla says yes and hands