Family Album by Penelope Lively

does need to do things with other boys; his friend Nick is really quite sensible; she wonders if they are giving Paul enough pocket money; boys that age are so hard to understand, of course one hasn’t had a boy of fourteen before.
    Charles hears most of this. He says tartly that he himself has been a boy of fourteen, and remembers the condition well. Paul will get over it, one trusts, most people do. In the meantime, it is just a question of stoicism all around. His hands return to the keys of the typewriter.
    Alison judders with irritation—an unfamiliar reaction, for her; you cannot be a good wife and mother and a prey to irritation.
    “Well, yes, dear,” she says. “Of course. I know that. But I do feel we should sometimes discuss things when there is a problem with the children, especially when it’s you who had the, well, the little bother with Paul this morning . . .”
    Charles cuts in. “Alison, I am working.”
    “Yes, I know that too,” says Alison recklessly.
    Charles takes a deep breath. He stares ahead for a moment, then turns to look at her. “Then why are you in my study?”
    Alison stares back. “Because I live here.”
    There is tension now. Something dark has stalked into the room.
    Charles lays a hand on the pile of typescript on the desk. “This book,” he says, “is . . .”
    “I know,” says Alison, cutting him off. “This book, and all the other books.”
    “I was about to say—this book, which I daresay you will not read—happens to be nearly finished. I am on the final, crucial, stretch.”
    “What’s it about?” says Alison.
    Second time today, that question. “It is about . . . concepts of youth, of the young.”
    Alison laughs.
    “An amusing subject?”
    “Oh no,” says Alison. “Just that it seems rather suitable.”
    They eye each other.
    “I have children,” says Alison. “And you have books. Except that of course you have children too.”
    “Of course.”
    The dark presence hovers.
    “Fortunately,” says Alison, “I love children. Any child.” Her gaze is now intent.
    Charles looks away. “Indeed you do.”
    When Alison came into the room she was panting slightly—bothered, disordered. Now, she has cooled; she is stiff, contained, she is not her usual self at all. No wonder that Charles seems uneasy.
    “Alison,” he says, “I realize you’re having a difficult day. These things will sort themselves out, I’m sure.”
    Alison smiles now—a small, unedifying smile. “Oh yes. Things do, don’t they? Even the most tiresome things. I’ll leave you to your book.”
    Alison goes. Charles blinks, frowns. He stares out the window, and then at the sheet of paper in the typewriter. Minutes pass. He begins again to type, haltingly at first, then more fluently. With an effort, he recovers his train of thought, and once again becomes impervious to the world. Half an hour goes by. He is unaware of Alison going up the stairs, and stopping for a moment to talk to Gina. He is unaware that Ingrid and the children have returned, loudly welcomed by the dog.
    In fact, Charles is deaf. He has to be. He has trained himself in deafness. Within his study, he switches over to deaf mode, and the house obediently recedes. He does not hear cries, shouts, the thud, thud of the stairs, the phone, the dog.
    Accordingly he does not, after a while, hear Ingrid’s knock. Nor does he hear when, eventually, she comes into the room. Just, he hears what she says: “Shall I bring you tea?”
    He does not look up. “Mmn? Oh—yes. Yes, do.”
    Presently, a mug arrives beside him. He types, halts for a moment, reaches for the mug, drinks, types on.
    Ingrid stands there. After a moment, she says, “I am a servant.”
    Charles does not at once hear that. Then an echo reaches him. In the echo, it is not quite clear if Ingrid has put a question or made a statement. Charles’s attention is caught by this ambiguity as much as by the content; he is something of a pedant. His hands leave the