Read Online Three Junes by Julia Glass - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julia Glass
Tags: Fiction
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Colin Swift—wasn’t he master of Swallow Run, that character out of Fielding who seemed to change from one outlandish costume to another?—had been killed in his car in the morning fog, overtaking a lorry.
Colin’s funeral, a populous military affair, was on the front page of the
Yeoman
not far below a story on a series of IRA arrests. That week, the boys had to be packed up again. After their departure—never a smooth or easy parting—Paul went around the house retrieving bats and balls and shoes from under the furniture; picking up books where Fenno had left them, cast off in restless, open-faced tumbles, on windowseats, staircases, dining room chairs. As he set everything back in the proper shelves, he saw himself as the one in charge of restoring order, the one who comes after but never the first.
The next Saturday morning, so early the sun was still below the privet, Paul awoke to the hunting horn. No sound of hounds, which was odd—just the horn playing “Gone Away.” It was still summer, too early for opening meet. He realized that it must be a ritual, a requiem to the departed master. The horn changed melodies then—if melodies they could be called, all variations on the same inharmonious drone, much like the wail of bagpipes. This one was urgent: first steady, then quivering—a sob—then trailing away. Then came the huntsman’s voice, a long desperate wail like a war cry.
Maureen was not beside him in bed. This was not unusual, but Paul rose and went to the window, to see if she was out by the kennel.
She stood barefoot in the middle of the lawn, facing the fields, listening. The sun, as it cleared the top of the hedgerow, flashed on her still figure, showing her legs through her white cotton nightdress. Paul turned away from the window and went to the cupboard to find a clean shirt, moving slowly, with deliberate indecision.
In the kitchen, he saw Maureen at the scullery sink. She might have been preparing the dogs’ food, but she just stood there idly, staring out the window. Paul thought of the time he had found her there, equally motionless, drowning two of Betsey’s pups. But this time, when he put his hands on her shoulders and leaned around to see her face, it was clear that she had been crying. Paul stepped away from her, took the kettle from the cooker and filled it. He carried it back and lit the gas. He took two cups from their hooks. He willed himself not to speak first.
She said, without turning around, “I’ve been . . . ”
Paul saw how the dew had seeped up her nightdress all the way to her thighs. He saw blades of grass slicked to the backs of her heels, the wet haloes on the slate floor around her feet. He waited for her to say
unfaithful
or
deceiving you,
but of course she did not. She said, “ . . . out to check on the dogs. I thought I heard Betsey whining.”
“You were listening to the horn.”
“Yes. ‘Gone to Ground.’” She had turned around and was rubbing her eyes. She went to the cooker and cupped her hands over the kettle. “I’m dead tired. Do you mind if I go up and sleep just another hour?”
“I thought we might talk.”
“Please, Paul.” She looked him straight in the eye, plaintively. “Another time, whatever it is, I promise we will.”
Paul stepped aside and let her go up the back stairs. His heart felt like a flock of sheep outrun yet again by a good cunning dog, forced neatly into a cramped square pen.
THREE
A LTHOUGH THE FERRY IS NOT SCHEDULED to leave until eleven—and will almost certainly leave a good deal later—Paul’s suitcase is down in the lobby, his room key turned in, by eight o’clock. He wears a blue shirt which he washed by hand the night before and hung in an open window to dry. The sea spray and sun on the boat will smooth out the wrinkles acceptably. Such are my tiny preoccupations, Paul thinks grimly as he leaves the hotel: that I look as unwrinkled as possible.
He takes the more circuitous route to the harbor,
Colin’s funeral, a populous military affair, was on the front page of the
Yeoman
not far below a story on a series of IRA arrests. That week, the boys had to be packed up again. After their departure—never a smooth or easy parting—Paul went around the house retrieving bats and balls and shoes from under the furniture; picking up books where Fenno had left them, cast off in restless, open-faced tumbles, on windowseats, staircases, dining room chairs. As he set everything back in the proper shelves, he saw himself as the one in charge of restoring order, the one who comes after but never the first.
The next Saturday morning, so early the sun was still below the privet, Paul awoke to the hunting horn. No sound of hounds, which was odd—just the horn playing “Gone Away.” It was still summer, too early for opening meet. He realized that it must be a ritual, a requiem to the departed master. The horn changed melodies then—if melodies they could be called, all variations on the same inharmonious drone, much like the wail of bagpipes. This one was urgent: first steady, then quivering—a sob—then trailing away. Then came the huntsman’s voice, a long desperate wail like a war cry.
Maureen was not beside him in bed. This was not unusual, but Paul rose and went to the window, to see if she was out by the kennel.
She stood barefoot in the middle of the lawn, facing the fields, listening. The sun, as it cleared the top of the hedgerow, flashed on her still figure, showing her legs through her white cotton nightdress. Paul turned away from the window and went to the cupboard to find a clean shirt, moving slowly, with deliberate indecision.
In the kitchen, he saw Maureen at the scullery sink. She might have been preparing the dogs’ food, but she just stood there idly, staring out the window. Paul thought of the time he had found her there, equally motionless, drowning two of Betsey’s pups. But this time, when he put his hands on her shoulders and leaned around to see her face, it was clear that she had been crying. Paul stepped away from her, took the kettle from the cooker and filled it. He carried it back and lit the gas. He took two cups from their hooks. He willed himself not to speak first.
She said, without turning around, “I’ve been . . . ”
Paul saw how the dew had seeped up her nightdress all the way to her thighs. He saw blades of grass slicked to the backs of her heels, the wet haloes on the slate floor around her feet. He waited for her to say
unfaithful
or
deceiving you,
but of course she did not. She said, “ . . . out to check on the dogs. I thought I heard Betsey whining.”
“You were listening to the horn.”
“Yes. ‘Gone to Ground.’” She had turned around and was rubbing her eyes. She went to the cooker and cupped her hands over the kettle. “I’m dead tired. Do you mind if I go up and sleep just another hour?”
“I thought we might talk.”
“Please, Paul.” She looked him straight in the eye, plaintively. “Another time, whatever it is, I promise we will.”
Paul stepped aside and let her go up the back stairs. His heart felt like a flock of sheep outrun yet again by a good cunning dog, forced neatly into a cramped square pen.
THREE
A LTHOUGH THE FERRY IS NOT SCHEDULED to leave until eleven—and will almost certainly leave a good deal later—Paul’s suitcase is down in the lobby, his room key turned in, by eight o’clock. He wears a blue shirt which he washed by hand the night before and hung in an open window to dry. The sea spray and sun on the boat will smooth out the wrinkles acceptably. Such are my tiny preoccupations, Paul thinks grimly as he leaves the hotel: that I look as unwrinkled as possible.
He takes the more circuitous route to the harbor,
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