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Barbara Petrie 19 wild places were in his blood. He’d cycled there as a youth and spent long hours doing what he liked best: wandering in the wilderness, exploring the wide empty-looking land, the peat-layered ground, outcrops of gritstone. Φ In the upstairs bedroom of the house at Loam, Irena turned abruptly in her sleep. Ralph was woken from his dream. He sat up. He looked at her. Irena. His wife. How could she be happy with him? Now he looked with a curiosity unfamiliar to him. After long moments of disquiet he fell asleep. Φ For the first few weeks in the new country, Ralph Randal got out of bed before dawn and ran to the window, opened it, and childishly thrust out an arm. The sharp air seemed to grab it with pleasure. It was still spring but there were days when the sun had a real kick in it; Ralph felt it during his lunch break in the city (hot enough for him to roll up his shirt sleeves) or as he worked outside the garage at home on his bike. But being in the sun, he came to realize, caused his arms to itch. Soon it occurred to him that the old rash problem of his Army days had returned. Changing the oil on his motorbike was a messy business. One afternoon Ralph looked about in the shed for a vessel in which to drain it. On the top shelf stood an old container of something—he couldn’t tell what. He reached for it and brought it to the edge of the shelf, but as he was about to grasp it, it slipped. As it fell the cap came off and the substance brushed the blisters on his forearms. He winced. The container hit the floor and burst, spreading fine white crystalline granules everywhere. Ralph bent to pick up a broken piece that contained a label of red lettering partly obliterated. ‘DDT’, he read. Already the blisters on his upper hand were breaking. He must wash the stuff off, and quickly.

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