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and Returns Mrs. Beecroft :short story Leaves home for lunch, she found herself watching the birds again as they wheeled freely through the sky. She abandoned the batch of jam she was cooking, then pulled down her suitcase and packed it carefully. Leaving the preserving pan of jam simmering and the stove element glowing red, she carried her case down the driveway and walked towards the station. It was quiet as she stood alone on the station platform. When the train for town arrived she hefted up her suitcase and climbed aboard, carefully tucking deep into her coat pocket the Lotto ticket that Herbert had left on the desk in his den. The bus between Christchurch and AT EXACTLY THE SAME moment that Herbert Beecroft checked off the final number on his Lotto ticket and realised that he had won $1.2 million dollars, his wife finally admitted to herself that she hated him. As she let these thoughts stir round in her brain, she stabbed fiercely at the raspberry jam she was boiling on the stove. For thirty- two years, living with him on a small farm on the plains, she had done her best to be a good wife. Herbert's life revolved around his sheep, his dogs, the local pub, and rugby. His wife made his meals, bore his children – now gone, and wondered year after year why he wouldn't talk to her. He remained silent even when she attempted to engage him by talking about the sheep or the dogs or rugby or who might have been in the pub. Nothing seemed to touch him. As she stirred and reflected on Herbert's win, she looked 128 | www.hermagazine.co.nz out the window at the sparrows chattering absurdly in the summer evening, and she knew with the clarity of sunlight that there was a world beyond the farm. Over the next few days, that world burst into their lives with the Lotto win. The local community was buzzing with the big question, some of the local people were interviewed by an investigative journalist from television, and everyone wondered, silently and aloud, who the winner was. Herbert kept quiet. He did what he always did at the same times and in exactly the same way as usual. Perhaps he dreamed of a new tractor, maybe even a holiday. Mrs Beecroft waited for him to talk to her. The days went by. Eventually she made a phone call. The next morning when Herbert was bringing the sheep in for crutching and before he came Dunedin had been overbooked. Some careless staff member had sold eight duplicate tickets so there were no seats left for those people, who in this week before Christmas did not relish having their travel plans disrupted. The bus company located a small shuttle and the travellers piled aboard, some noticing with distaste that they had to sit in close proximity to each other. Mrs Beecroft had walked from the train station and was looking forward to a quiet but picturesque trip. She found herself sitting next to a much older woman who seemed not to want to talk, for which Mrs B was grateful. Yet there was something about the woman that looked familiar. Maybe she had been on TV? As the paddocks and rivers of Canterbury passed by the window, Mrs B stretched her legs a little. This was going to be alright. She smiled as her new life stretched before her, rather like the highway ahead where there seemed to be remarkably few bends turning off out of sight. She was happy because today she was going to visit a place that had been a very important and strangely happy part of her childhood. Her neighbour seemed to notice the smile. Rather tightly she asked, "Do you find these long trips enjoyable?" Mrs B answered that she hadn't been down