Summary for the chapter in time of drought
Answers
Answer:
Yesterday we scattered Frances on the moor, placed her where coming over the fourth hill you can at last see Whitby Abbey and the sea, for her the start of childhood holidays.
The four of us – the old and older still – standing in heather that was tinder dry, spread gouts of ash that fluffed and breezed, so we consigned her to our memories.
Fred shook the final specks; I took the urn. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘Things were much better then. There were real communities. Most families lived close by and the lady two streets down did all the laying out.’ I want to challenge but the past is his safe place. He goes there as the present dries, knowing the ash will soon be his. We walk across a crumbling crust,layers of yesterdays, kicked up, becoming dust.
They love these parts, so I drive them round. Memories like sunshine bound across the moor. It’s never the same scene. Differently sad, we watch the land stretch out, and flex to touch a vivid sky .This winter’s been too long. But as we turn for home the thickening clouds begin to spill and spatter rain .The dust first dances then subsides. She’s gone; it will be spring; it will turn green again.
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