EIGHTEEN
Not only losing his lands, but subsequently his head.
Hector Whitehead felt tired and headachy. He had drunk too much—far too much—of the beer he had brought up to the fields for the reapers, but had not sweated out of his system as they had been able to do.
The glare from the high sun was not helping his headache either, which seemed to be located right behind his eyes. He pulled his hat down tighter over his forehead to try and cut out more sunlight, but without much effect. ‘Bloody fool,’ he told himself. ‘Ought to know better at your age, but you never learn.’
Every year it was the same at harvest time: too much beer under the heat of the sun and it always, always gave him a blinding headache. ‘Stick to port, that’s the best thing … stick to port … that only gives you the
