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Unknown Binding
Published January 1, 2018
After the war, after he was out, Martin Heath did almost nothing for several months. He was still young but his dreams - nocturnal and diurnal - belonged to an older man, a man much damaged and long steeped in blood. Death operated the film projector inside his head.
He was attracted to the place, felt a sort of affinity with it, as soon as he saw it. Burra Hall was, he supposed, a mere hundred years old, if that, but occupied its leafy cleft in the moor as if it had always done so; as if in fact, it had been formed by the same geological upheaval that had created the rocky hill behind it and the heaped, harsh slabs that capped it.
They sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table. Annie ate quickly, keeping her eyes on the task. Martin had never eaten a meal alone with a woman other than his mother. It was interesting that Annie's hair was disobedient and he could not tell how old she was. Younger than himself, probably. She was, he thought, very attractive, though it was hard to judge the attractiveness of a woman eating cabbage.
Martin walked the length of the car. Christ, he thought, must be eighteen feet if it's an inch. And as tall as himself. Must weigh three tons, at a guess. Its bonnet and bodywork pale, off-white. Ivory>, that would be it. Roof, wings, running boards black. The rear of the machine a voluptuous concave curve. He felt a shameful desire to press himself into it.
Sheepstone, the son of a miner, had grown up in a cluster of low cottages on a wind-strimmed hillside. His family had shared an outdoor privy with their neighbours. He had acute memories of queuing for a shit in the cold hard rain. As that boy, the idea that the rich suffered tribulations would have been incomprehensible. As a man, the knowledge that they did had sometimes afforded him a certain satisfaction.
It did not do so now. He felt dismayed.
He couldn't decide whether to return to Trinity or not. Then, in the middle of January, the matter was taken out of his hands.
A raging polar winter did what Hitler had failed to do: it invaded England, crushed it, brought it to a standstill. Snow levelled its contours and imposed a terrible silence. Army troops worked alongside prisoners of war to dig out railway cuttings which, the following day, filled again. ...
Martin and his mother spent most of their day in bed, nursing warmth. When the electricity did come on, they heated canned foods and ate them hurriedly. Now and then, wearing lots of clothes, they played cards by candlelight. The radio came and went unpredictably. Like everyone else, they presumed this waywardness of the weather would be short-lived.
It was not. Britain's paralysis continued through February. There were rumours of cannibalism in the north of Scotland. ...
Martin waited. And continued to wait.
