By Graham Swift
Jack Luxton former Devon farmer, now owner of a beach caravan park gets the scoop that his brother Tom, now not visible for years, has been killed in Iraq. For Jack and his spouse Ellie this may have a probably catastrophic effect and compel Jack to make a vital trip: to obtain his brother's is still, but additionally to come back to the land of his prior and confront his such a lot mystery, troubling thoughts.
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Extra resources for Wish You Were Here
It looked so small, my torso. I almost wept to see a major general's torso beside mine, and Mr. Berânek the hotelkeeper's, but when I thought of the company I was in I laughed and felt better. The boss pulled on another string and said, I'm making a suit for this one here, the Minister of Education, and the smaller one here is the Minister of National Defense. I got such a lift from all this, I gave him two hundred crowns extra, a small gesture from a small waiter who was leaving the Golden Prague Hotel and going to work in the Hotel Tichota, somewhere in Strancice, where the salesman from the third-largest firm in the world, van Berkel's, had recommended me.
Ah, but go to bed now, you've got to be up early, my boy. And he took the bottle and drank the whole thing at once, and I heard the water splashing into his stomach like rainwater down a drainpipe and into a cistern, and when he turned onto his side, you could actually hear the water shifting to find its proper level. I never liked the salesmen who sold food and margarine and kitchen utensils. They would bring their own food with them and eat it in their rooms, and some of them even brought little camp stoves that ran on alcohol, and they'd make potato soup in their rooms and throw the peels under the bed and expect us to polish their shoes for nothing, and then when they were checking out they'd give me a company lapel pin for a tip, and for that I had the privilege of carrying a crate of yeast out to the car for them, because *5 they'd bring the yeast from the wholesaler they represented and then try to sell it on their rounds when the occasion arose.
Our guests didn't like him, or rather they did, but that didn't stop 33 them from playing practical jokes on him all the time. It wasn't just that he was always taking his coat off and putting it on again in the restaurant, he'd also take off his galoshes and put them on, depending on his mood, which would change every five minutes because of this search for the New Man, and when he'd taken them off, the guests would pour beer or coffee into them, and then they'd all watch the poet out of the corner of their eyes, missing their mouths with forks full of food while he put his galoshes back on, and the coffee or the beer would slosh out, and he would thunder for all the restaurant to hear: You evil, stupid, and criminal sons of man!
Wish You Were Here by Graham Swift