He left the damp darkness of the trees to tramp uphill into the sunlight. Already it was hot and he sought somewhere cool; he changed course and headed for the rocks on Jagstone where he lay down in the brown dry grass and allowed himself to succumb to memory.
Katya, he wondered if the ache in him would ever be dulled, if only he had never gone there; if only he had never been a newsman, if he had stayed at home and run the farm, what an easy untroubled life he could have had. If, if, if. So many might-have-beens.
But that wasn't what he wanted, the easy life served up for him. At least he’d travelled and seen the world for what it was — which had seemed mostly a hard and awful place. Colleagues had told him more than once he would have been better off as a farmer. “You’re too soft for this Jimmy, you take it too much to heart. Too sensitive, lad, you need a strong stomach for this bloody mess.”
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