Out of the Ashes Read Online Free PDF Page B

saying how terrible it
is, how sorry they are, how they’re thinking of us. Auntie Liz was in tears, and Jay says it was horrible of her to have quarrelled with me like she did that day (I’d forgotten all
about it long ago) and she said how much she misses me. I miss her too – lots. Gran says she wishes she could be with us, to help us. But I’m glad she’s not. Three of us being
silent, being so full of sadness is enough. She’d only make it worse. Besides, we can manage on our own.
    Mum sent me to the end of the lane to pick up the post and the milk this morning. The policeman was still there, still smoking. He said he was sorry too. Then he gave me a bit of a talking-to. I
don’t remember much of what he said, something about a light at the end of the tunnel. He was trying to be nice. And I could see he was upset for us, really upset, not pretending.
    Mum says it’s the first time since she’s been married that she’s ever had to buy milk. The post is mostly cards, most with flowers on, the kind of cards people send when
someone in the family has died. The cremation will be in Front Field as soon as they’ve built the funeral pyre.
    The burning can’t come too soon for any of us. There’s already a horrible stench about the place. Mum said I mustn’t go near the sheds where they killed the cows and the pigs,
nor out into the Front Field where the sheep are lying. She doesn’t want me to see them. And I don’t want to see them either. Imagining them is bad enough. Most of the day Dad sits at
his desk smoking and saying nothing. There’s no work for him to do any more. No milking. No feeding the animals. No cheesemaking. He hasn’t been back into his cheese store to check the
cheese. I don’t think he can bear to look at them.

 
Friday, March 16th
    Tonight when Dad didn’t come in for tea I was worried, and I went out to look for him. I heard him before I found him. He was in with the cows in the barn, sitting on a
bale of hay, with his head in his hands. Hector was lying at his feet. Dad was talking to Grandad just like he had before. I remember exactly the words he said: ‘Tell me why, Pop. Tell me
why. Will you tell me what I’ve done to deserve this?’
    His cows lay all about him, with their eyes staring, stiffened and swollen in death, and everywhere a terrible stillness.
    Mum was right. I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have seen what I’ve seen. It’ll be locked in my head for ever.

 
    Monday, March 19th
    Yesterday evening they lit the fire at last. I looked out of my window and remembered the last bonfire we’d had on the farm, on Front Field in about the same place. It
was Millennium night, and everyone had come and we’d had sausages and cake and cider. And Dad had sung ‘Danny Boy’, because everyone had asked him to. It’s his favourite
song in the world. This is a very different sort of a fire. This one belches out clouds of horrible stinking smoke, and it will burn for days, they tell us. But then it’ll all be over.
I’m longing for that, longing for the smoke and the smell to be gone, for us to be left alone, for the pain to be over.
    On the television there are always more and more cases, two more in the village, Barrow Farm and Fursdon. If it goes on like this there’ll be no farm animals left.
    It’s strange how you can get used to things though – even to a nightmare. We’ve been trapped on the farm, quarantined, forbidden to leave for nearly a week now, but I
wouldn’t want to leave even if I could. I spend my days mostly with Ruby and Bobs. Except for the hens and the ducks, they’re the only animals left alive on the farm. I go riding along
the water meadows as far as I can from the smoke, and from the men in white overalls.
    This morning I saw Mr Bailey down there doing some fencing. We waved at each other. I couldn’t hear what he said at first, but then he shouted it again. ‘I said, don’t you
worry, girl. Things’ll look up,