Pocket watch and key on the upper thigh

The snow shut the pass on Tuesday and it has not lifted since, so we are eleven at table and the mutton stew is on its third day. Mr Abernethy in the front room has wound his silver watch every evening at six, the way he always has, though the hall clock stopped the night the drifts reached the step. He says a man who keeps his own time is never truly lost. I have stopped arguing with him.

This morning he came down to the kitchen in a state, asking whether I had seen his watch chain. He had lost it somewhere between the stairs and the fire, and the brass key he keeps on it for his trunk was missing too. I found them both under the settle. The chain had caught itself round the key's ornate bow and knotted there, so the two of them lay together like a rosary someone had dropped in a hurry. I untangled it slowly, because I did not want to tear the beads, and he watched my hands the whole time without saying a word.

When I gave it back he turned the watch over and read the back of the case, which I had never once bothered to look at. It said his wife's initials and a date from before the war. He asked me to hold on to it until the thaw, in case the snow took him in the night the way it nearly took the coachman's horse. So it is on the mantel beside me now, ticking, and I will wind it at six like he does.

It is nearly six. Come home when the road is clear, and bring the key to the linen press with you, since I believe you still have it in your coat.