reasons
keeping an eye on him. The future was everywhere in his age, as if they
would dam his generation in and repel its angry wave so that the flood
of discontent flowed away from it, leaving it Olympian and safe! They
had discovered a way of moving among the ages of man.
Bush tried to speculate about the future, gave up, and slipped out of
the house for a walk. He could not reason constructively since he had
been placed under Franklin's training orders. His life was about to be
turned upside down. Indeed, he hardly understood what was going on.
In the nights he thought he heard his mother's voice.
He tried to think about Ann, but she seemed as remote as the Devonian in
which he had found her. He tried to think about his father, but there
was nothing new to think. He thought about Mrs. Annivale, whom he had
now met, but that made him uncomfortable. Mrs. Annivale was not half as
horrible as he had pictured her. She was, he judged, no more than his own
age and still had something of youth about her. She smiled pleasantly,
was friendly and natural, seemed genuinely to like his father, and her
mind did not seem too entirely banal. But she was no business of his.
He turned back. There was nowhere he wanted to go to, and the dirty, empty
streets repelled him. He recalled that in his wrecked studio there was a
box of clay he used for modeling; perhaps he could interest himself with
that, although every spark of inspiration felt dead.
When the lump he was molding into shape began to resemble Franklin's head,
he gave up and went indoors.
"Had a pleasant day?" Mrs. Annivale asked, coming downstairs.
"Just great! We went over to see Mother's grave this morning and this
afternoon I've had a good read of some two-year-old magazines."
She looked at him and grinned. "You talk quite a bit like your dad.
He's asleep, by the way -- I shouldn't wake him. I'm just going round to
my place to get my grater; I'm going to make you a cheese pud tonight.
Why don't you come round with me? You haven't seen my place yet."
Moodily, he went with her. Her house was bright and clean and seemed to
contain very little furniture. In the kitchen, Bush asked, "Why don't you
move in with Father and save rent and everything, Mrs. Annivale?"
"Why don't you call me Judy?"
"Because I didn't know it was your name. Father always calls you
Mrs. Annivale to me."
"Formal! I hope you and I don't have to be formal, do we?" She was
standing idly near him, looirng at him, showing her teeth a little.
"I asked you why you didn't move in with my father."
"Suppose I said I fancied younger men?" There was no mistaking the tone
in her voice or the look in her eye. Everything was convenient, he told
himself. Her bed would be clean, his father was asleep next door, she knew
he was off next week. Unbidden, his betraying body told him it liked
the idea.
Hastily, he turned from her. "Then that's jolly sweet of you to look after
him, Judy."
"Look, Ted -- "
"Got the cheese grater? We'd better go and see if he's okay." He led
the way back, feeling a fool; so evidently did she, judging by the way
she chattered. But after all . . . well, it would have been like incest.
There were some things you had to draw the line at, however much of a
moral wreck you were!
Although such was not the case, Judy Annivale seemed to imagine she had
offended Bush and was tiringly pleasant to him. Once or twice, he had to
take refuge in his studio with the half-formed bust of Franklin. And on
the day the truck was due to come for him, she followed him down into
the studio.
"Beat it!" he said. He saw death in the lines round her mouth.
"Don't be unsociable, Ted! I wanted to see what you were doing in the
art line. I used to think I was artistic once."
"If you want to play with my clay, go ahead, but just don't follow me
around! Are you trying to be a mother to me or something?"
"Do you really think I've been showing you signs of motherliness,
keeping an eye on him. The future was everywhere in his age, as if they
would dam his generation in and repel its angry wave so that the flood
of discontent flowed away from it, leaving it Olympian and safe! They
had discovered a way of moving among the ages of man.
Bush tried to speculate about the future, gave up, and slipped out of
the house for a walk. He could not reason constructively since he had
been placed under Franklin's training orders. His life was about to be
turned upside down. Indeed, he hardly understood what was going on.
In the nights he thought he heard his mother's voice.
He tried to think about Ann, but she seemed as remote as the Devonian in
which he had found her. He tried to think about his father, but there
was nothing new to think. He thought about Mrs. Annivale, whom he had
now met, but that made him uncomfortable. Mrs. Annivale was not half as
horrible as he had pictured her. She was, he judged, no more than his own
age and still had something of youth about her. She smiled pleasantly,
was friendly and natural, seemed genuinely to like his father, and her
mind did not seem too entirely banal. But she was no business of his.
He turned back. There was nowhere he wanted to go to, and the dirty, empty
streets repelled him. He recalled that in his wrecked studio there was a
box of clay he used for modeling; perhaps he could interest himself with
that, although every spark of inspiration felt dead.
When the lump he was molding into shape began to resemble Franklin's head,
he gave up and went indoors.
"Had a pleasant day?" Mrs. Annivale asked, coming downstairs.
"Just great! We went over to see Mother's grave this morning and this
afternoon I've had a good read of some two-year-old magazines."
She looked at him and grinned. "You talk quite a bit like your dad.
He's asleep, by the way -- I shouldn't wake him. I'm just going round to
my place to get my grater; I'm going to make you a cheese pud tonight.
Why don't you come round with me? You haven't seen my place yet."
Moodily, he went with her. Her house was bright and clean and seemed to
contain very little furniture. In the kitchen, Bush asked, "Why don't you
move in with Father and save rent and everything, Mrs. Annivale?"
"Why don't you call me Judy?"
"Because I didn't know it was your name. Father always calls you
Mrs. Annivale to me."
"Formal! I hope you and I don't have to be formal, do we?" She was
standing idly near him, looirng at him, showing her teeth a little.
"I asked you why you didn't move in with my father."
"Suppose I said I fancied younger men?" There was no mistaking the tone
in her voice or the look in her eye. Everything was convenient, he told
himself. Her bed would be clean, his father was asleep next door, she knew
he was off next week. Unbidden, his betraying body told him it liked
the idea.
Hastily, he turned from her. "Then that's jolly sweet of you to look after
him, Judy."
"Look, Ted -- "
"Got the cheese grater? We'd better go and see if he's okay." He led
the way back, feeling a fool; so evidently did she, judging by the way
she chattered. But after all . . . well, it would have been like incest.
There were some things you had to draw the line at, however much of a
moral wreck you were!
Although such was not the case, Judy Annivale seemed to imagine she had
offended Bush and was tiringly pleasant to him. Once or twice, he had to
take refuge in his studio with the half-formed bust of Franklin. And on
the day the truck was due to come for him, she followed him down into
the studio.
"Beat it!" he said. He saw death in the lines round her mouth.
"Don't be unsociable, Ted! I wanted to see what you were doing in the
art line. I used to think I was artistic once."
"If you want to play with my clay, go ahead, but just don't follow me
around! Are you trying to be a mother to me or something?"
"Do you really think I've been showing you signs of motherliness,
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