Wish You Were Here

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The three of them had stood there, like the only life left, in the yard at Jebb Farm.

But Michael Luxton hadn’t put his arms round his two sons. He’d done what he’d begun to do, occasional y, only after his wife’s death. He’d looked hard at his feet, at the ground he was standing on, and spat.

AND JACK, who long ago took his last look at that yard, looks now from an upstairs window at a grey sea, at a sky ful of wind-driven rain, but sees for a moment only smoke and fire.

SIXTY-FIVE HEAD OF CATTLE . Or, to reckon it another way (and never mind the promised compensation): ruin. Ruin, at some point in the not-so-distant future, the ruin that had been creeping up on them anyway since Vera Luxton had died.

Cattle going mad al over England. Or being shoved by the hundred into incinerators for the fear and the risk of it.

Who would have imagined it? Who would have dreamed it?

But cattle aren’t people, that’s a fact. And when trouble comes your way, at least you might think, though it’s smal comfort and precious little help: Wel , we’ve had our turn now, our share.

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