The rain had eased to a misty drizzle, hardly more than an annoyance. From the kitchen Hamish could see a corner of his wheat crop. It had fallen over under its own weight. Wet wheat was only good for stock feed, hardly worth the cost of harvesting. There was still the occasional pregnant drop exploding on the iron roof but the percussion was hardly enough to disguise the irritation of the approaching vehicle. Hamish predicted the identity of his visitor, the bank manager. Barry had called the other day. Said he'd bring out the paperwork, documents confirming the bank as mortgagee in possession. Three generations of hard work pissed away. Hamish didn't know if Megan was in denial or just bloody stupid, he suspected the latter. Up until the eleventh hour she was still ordering shoes from Milan and bags from Madrid. He gave up protesting years ago having lost the will. Loss of income wouldn't worry his wife but the loss of social profile cash provided could damage her. Thoughts of...

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