Both, outsiders from the south of England here up North where the accents are thick and the daily rhythms slower. A carved shaft branched gracefully into whorls of stone raised upon a convex lid, at its head a hand holding a sacramental cup, a wafer poised at its rim.īoth Birkin and Moon whose name is Charles were in the Great War, both injured, Moon still carrying shrapnel in his leg, Birkin a face-twitch, the result of shell shock. So it was close on six when he signaled the Final Probe by sending up his shoes and socks in the bag and, excitement getting the better of him, began brushing away with rapid strokes, so rapid indeed that you could say the stone swam into sight. It is summer, 1920, and, as Tom Birkin watches, Moon has been digging into the North Yorkshire turf of Oxgodby for several hours, taking his time.
Carr’s exquisite short novel A Month in the Country, Moon finds the missing 400-year-old grave where, all along, he knew it would be.
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