Every summer evening, we village kids used to meet down at the creek. Most days, you could strip off and have a swim, or if you didn’t feel like that, just lie on the grass and drink Coke out of paper cups, and talk. The creek was a great place, really private, with high banks and tall trees growing right to the edge of the water. All of us used to come—from the smallest Grant kid to Mary, my sister, who at eighteen, and apprenticed to a hairdresser in town, considered herself rather above us all. Last summer was a…

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