Bethany by Anita Mason Page B

apparently made a full recovery and was running about with the other dogs, we discovered the second lump. We knew then that she would die. There was no question of further surgery – she would not survive it, and in any case it seemed obscene to go on cutting parts out of an ageing animal. We did what we could to make her last days more comfortable, without relaxing the strict diet we kept her on in the hope that nature might still effect a last-minute cure. Alex, having recently read that violets had been known to cure cancer, searched for and picked them every evening and fed them to her. Gradually she declined, until she could only walk with the greatest difficulty.
    The shift, subtle but unmistakable, into the last phase occurred about ten days after the group had been formed, and on that day Alex and I moved Esther into our bedroom. She lay on her blanket, patiently waiting. At intervals Alex would carry her outside so she did not foul her blanket. Simon watched, but said nothing.
    The house was shipshape, we turned our attention to the land. Almost overnight, it seemed to me, the monster I had loved and struggled with became tame and obedient to command. Plants were hoed and thinned, seedlings were planted out, weeds were cut before they seeded instead of a week afterwards, little things I had always meant to do were done when I got home from work, big things I had never hoped to do became a real possibility. There was order. The plants glowed with health and pleasure. I wondered how I could ever have thought a solitary battle with fourteen acres preferable to the rewards of co-operation.
    Alex was finding the same thing. I was well used to the spectacle of Alex, begrimed and oil-stained, emerging from underneath an ailing vehicle, cursing because she had been able to diagnose the fault but did not have the tools to correct it. This would not prevent her from trying, and I kept out of the way on those occasions because her wrath over a recalcitrant nut was apt to descend on anything in the vicinity which moved. But now it was Pete who lay on his back under the truck, while she passed him tools and made tactful suggestions, and gave me, as I passed, a grin which I perfectly understood.
    The new sink was functioning, the Flymo worked, the truck could now be used for getting in the hay crop, and there was an acre under intensive cultivation. Soon we would start on the major tasks. One of the first was repairing the roof of the red barn. A gale had ripped off three of the galvanised sheets and dislodged one of the rafters: replacing it, while perched on a ladder, was far beyond the combined strength Alex and I possessed. And beyond that loomed the most formidable job ofall: rebuilding the end of the house. Perhaps they would not want to undertake it. Yet if the group were serious in its aims the house must be completed. Not only for us, but for anyone else who, seeing the approaching deluge, sought shelter.
    In the evenings we rested from our labours and talked. We would sit in the parlour, and if it was chilly there would be a log fire in the big fireplace. Simon would light some joss sticks and the air would be heady with incense. I had to overcome an initial prejudice against joss sticks, which I had always found to perfume the houses of habitual pot-smokers, and which I associated with the mental flabbiness that seems to accompany prolonged use of cannabis. In Simon’s company the association rapidly weakened and I found myself enjoying the heavy scent. If no one else was in the room I would go up and sniff the blue smoke that curled from the glowing tip of the stick. I realised as I did so how much my lungs still craved tobacco. The smoke made me lightheaded: it seemed to be able to affect my state of mind. I wondered briefly whether it might be addictive.
    Those early summer evenings we sat and talked about all manner of things. Having a taste for the abstract I was naturally more pleased when the conversation