I quickly blow-dry my hair, forking my fingers through it. This makes me look as if I had stuck two fingers into a wall socket, but as I’m going pull my Patagonia hat over it, that doesn’t matter. Wooly knee socks, corduroys, t-shirt, sweatshirt, woolen sweater, my Barbour coat, boots, scarf, mittens. Ready. No, I’ll need my new Goretex rain slacks. Now, ready. I get the bike out of the shack and set off along the road, slowly, with no acknowledged destination. It’s snowing harder now; the world is a dark, moonlit flurry around me, with a cone of light from my bike lamp always wobbling in front of me. Like a trekking version of Luke Skywalker, I slice into the whirling feathers with my battery-powered saber of light. There is no wind; the flakes are falling at a calm, unhurried but steady pace, and they look so much like feathers that I begin to feel quite cozy, pedaling through the darkness.
The main road is not a pretty sight. The few cars still out at this time have mushed the soft white blanket into a cold gray pulp; this is like snow in the city. I push my bike across as fast as I can, eager for the glistening quiet of the other side. When I turn off the lane toward the lake into the track that leads to the cottage, my heart beats faster, and not just because the absence of street-lighting and the snow-and-earth mix on the ground are making it hard to cycle. It has stopped snowing, except for a few forlorn flakes, but the only light is the egg-shaped moon, my bike lamp, and the expanse of white ground reflecting both. It has never occurred to me that winter could be lighter than summer. The cottage sits at the end of the track like part of the scenery of a stage production of Hansel and Gretel. Dim light glows from two of the windows. I’m only about thirty yards away from the cottage and its oblivious inhabitant, but it could be miles away. I don’t think I have the courage to knock on his door. I did it once before, at Notre Dame, but this time I feel even more pathetic, like a supplicant begging for consolation because I can’t come to terms with the life I have chosen for myself. If he had wanted to take me home, he would have suggested it.
I grab the bike and turn it round to push it back—and my movement sets off the barking and snarling of dogs in the darkness across the path. It’s a frightening sound in the dark silence, and it’s coming closer very fast.
“Andrew! Toby! Stay! Now!”
But they have reached me already. Immobile, I stand and let them sniff at my mittens and my legs; their tails are wagging, and I wonder whether they remember my smell and that I am a friend. And then he has caught up with them.
“I’m terribly sorry about this! Are you all ri—”
In the darkness, I only recognize him by his gait and his voice. I don’t know how he knows it’s me, motionless and dumb.
“What are you doing here?” This gruff question leaves no doubt that he has recognized me. My heart is beating so hard that I literally can’t breathe enough to speak. I swallow, inhale, swallow again.
“I came by bike.”
He doesn’t reply to this, not even to ridicule its idiocy. The dogs are still very excited, wagging their tails like mad and sniffing around, in comic contrast to the two humans, who might as well be frozen into statues.
“Were you going to come in?” His voice hasn’t softened. I decide not to attempt speech at all and only nod. In silence we trudge the short way up to the cottage. I’m still so breathless that I can hardly keep up with him. I don’t know what to say to him; I’m frightened of seeing his face, and very reluctant to let him see mine.
I don’t know what to do!
“Coat?”
Awkwardly I take off my jacket and stuff the hat, the scarf, and the mittens into the sleeves before I hand it to him. While he is feeding the dogs, I try to get my bearings. It’s obviously a cultured individual’s home, with shelves full of books, piles of books on tables and the floor, piles of paper, a large desk along a large window out back, presumably overlooking the lake, now an expanse of black