“I know you didn’t.”
“Why don’t you come, anyway? It will not be for long, probably.”
“Shall I?”
A cow bugled dejectedly. He thought that the neck would be stretched out with the mouth half open as though it were going to vomit. Idiotic cows.
“No, I can’t leave Father.”
“Well, don’t say now that I didn’t ask you.”
“But you never meant me to go.”
Another cow answered from a long way off, and they exchanged dull grief across the hedges and the meadows. The hedges would be black at this time of the year, and the trees bare. The plough creaked leisurely, how slow everything was.
“I’m not blaming you. You’re not the sort that are meant to stay. Your sort can get rid of anything that displeases them, as Father says.”
“June, do come.”