to complain and then boast about their own children.
In his few months away from home, Fenno had become assertively self-sufficient; this must be what Maureen saw as so “awfully serious.” But when Paul looked at Fenno, he saw a fledgling intellectual with interests all his own. He loved the jungle, especially the parrots and the monstrous insects; in Mexico City, Paul bought him a pair of high-powered binoculars. Paul was genuinely proud, but he was sad, too, when he noticed a new habit in Fenno, a habit of maintaining a solitary distance even in company—quietly, not belligerently—for half an hour or more. Paul felt his own presence erased at such times. At Tikal, when they emerged together behind the guide from the hot green tangle into the clearing around the pyramid, Paul realized how much he missed Maureen, how much he wished that she were here to share his amazements; Maureen with her quick eye and tongue, her capering passions. She would lower her voice to a whisper in awe but probably never stop talking. He knew that she embroidered silences for both of them, but not till he spent so much time alone with Fenno did he feel what it must be like for someone to be alone with him, with Paul.
Returning home, Paul saw Maureen as livelier, younger than ever. This was the way he felt about her when he returned from any trip, but now the extreme distance he had traveled made the illusion that much more acute. That winter and spring, he noticed for the first time how frequently she was away from home. If she wasn’t driving the twins to some sporting event or lesson, she was over at the farm. Colin Swift’s foreman had chosen a second pup, Rodney, to keep for himself and train with Flora.
In the evenings, Maureen spoke effusively about her new arrangement, how the collies were progressing. She spoke about them respectfully, each as an individual with, already, full-blown talents, tics, unique ways of thinking. A breeder of Australian shepherds had written to say he’d like to visit in May; he’d like to watch her work the dogs. A farmer up north had called to ask the stud fee for Roy, who’d placed well at the nationals last summer. Colin, she said, was working hard with his flock. She had misjudged him; he was anything but a snob. “Nauseatingly posh exterior, I’ll give you that. But under all that varnish a heart of gold. And entertaining. He tells the most extraordinary stories—mostly about the war. In Africa . . . just imagine.” She stared pointedly at Paul. “You never do, you know. I hadn’t realized, but you never talk about the war—tell stories.”
“Maybe I haven’t got stories.”
Maureen looked at him as she would look at one of the boys when he made a flimsy excuse to get out of a chore. “Paul, everyone with a mouth and a memory has stories.”
“Colin Swift wears the war by not replacing his arm. You see the wound a mile away. Make that choice and you’re compelling the world to ask, ‘Dunkirk? Sicily?’ Compelling them to hear your stories.”
“I’m talking about you,” said Maureen angrily. “It’s almost like you were never there.”
Paul looked into the fire. “Maybe I wasn’t dismembered, Maureen, but I believe I was there.”
“That was rude, I’m sorry.” She took their plates to the kitchen. He listened to her rinse them in the sink, listened to her, slowly, take out new plates for the pudding. When she brought it out, she said, as if they’d never mentioned the war, “Colin’s a good student. I have to say I’m surprised. But then Flora’s a keen little bitch. We’re working her on the get-by, with her dad of course, and Rodney. But Flora—she’s caught on like it’s in her blood. Well it is, of course . . . but for a pup she’s so sure: she trusts you completely, she looks at you as if she reads your mind, she
knows
. You can see it in her ears . . . I had Roy part a ewe, and the way that girl watched,
listened
. . .” Maureen talked quickly, on
In his few months away from home, Fenno had become assertively self-sufficient; this must be what Maureen saw as so “awfully serious.” But when Paul looked at Fenno, he saw a fledgling intellectual with interests all his own. He loved the jungle, especially the parrots and the monstrous insects; in Mexico City, Paul bought him a pair of high-powered binoculars. Paul was genuinely proud, but he was sad, too, when he noticed a new habit in Fenno, a habit of maintaining a solitary distance even in company—quietly, not belligerently—for half an hour or more. Paul felt his own presence erased at such times. At Tikal, when they emerged together behind the guide from the hot green tangle into the clearing around the pyramid, Paul realized how much he missed Maureen, how much he wished that she were here to share his amazements; Maureen with her quick eye and tongue, her capering passions. She would lower her voice to a whisper in awe but probably never stop talking. He knew that she embroidered silences for both of them, but not till he spent so much time alone with Fenno did he feel what it must be like for someone to be alone with him, with Paul.
Returning home, Paul saw Maureen as livelier, younger than ever. This was the way he felt about her when he returned from any trip, but now the extreme distance he had traveled made the illusion that much more acute. That winter and spring, he noticed for the first time how frequently she was away from home. If she wasn’t driving the twins to some sporting event or lesson, she was over at the farm. Colin Swift’s foreman had chosen a second pup, Rodney, to keep for himself and train with Flora.
In the evenings, Maureen spoke effusively about her new arrangement, how the collies were progressing. She spoke about them respectfully, each as an individual with, already, full-blown talents, tics, unique ways of thinking. A breeder of Australian shepherds had written to say he’d like to visit in May; he’d like to watch her work the dogs. A farmer up north had called to ask the stud fee for Roy, who’d placed well at the nationals last summer. Colin, she said, was working hard with his flock. She had misjudged him; he was anything but a snob. “Nauseatingly posh exterior, I’ll give you that. But under all that varnish a heart of gold. And entertaining. He tells the most extraordinary stories—mostly about the war. In Africa . . . just imagine.” She stared pointedly at Paul. “You never do, you know. I hadn’t realized, but you never talk about the war—tell stories.”
“Maybe I haven’t got stories.”
Maureen looked at him as she would look at one of the boys when he made a flimsy excuse to get out of a chore. “Paul, everyone with a mouth and a memory has stories.”
“Colin Swift wears the war by not replacing his arm. You see the wound a mile away. Make that choice and you’re compelling the world to ask, ‘Dunkirk? Sicily?’ Compelling them to hear your stories.”
“I’m talking about you,” said Maureen angrily. “It’s almost like you were never there.”
Paul looked into the fire. “Maybe I wasn’t dismembered, Maureen, but I believe I was there.”
“That was rude, I’m sorry.” She took their plates to the kitchen. He listened to her rinse them in the sink, listened to her, slowly, take out new plates for the pudding. When she brought it out, she said, as if they’d never mentioned the war, “Colin’s a good student. I have to say I’m surprised. But then Flora’s a keen little bitch. We’re working her on the get-by, with her dad of course, and Rodney. But Flora—she’s caught on like it’s in her blood. Well it is, of course . . . but for a pup she’s so sure: she trusts you completely, she looks at you as if she reads your mind, she
knows
. You can see it in her ears . . . I had Roy part a ewe, and the way that girl watched,
listened
. . .” Maureen talked quickly, on
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