‘You know I do love it,’ said Martin shyly. ‘I worship the soil.’ He hesitated and then said with a laugh: ‘Funny: Sometimes I absolutely wish I were dead so that I could be buried in it and have it all over me and inside me for ever and ever.... Look at the way those slopes overlap....’ His eyes fastened on them, with a hungry expression.
Then this was Martin’s secret bread. It was his land that nourished him at the source, and made of him this man with an individual dignity and simplicity at the core of his ordinariness. She made an effort to come nearer to him in mind.
‘Yes ... I know Martin.’
He turned joyfully.
‘I always tell you everything, Judith. I suppose it’s because I know you’ll understand.’
‘Which bit do you want to be buried in, Martin?’
‘I don’t care—as long as I’m well inside it.’
‘Would you ever commit suicide?’
‘Would I what?’
‘Commit suicide. To—to get there quicker.’