The Village by the Sea by Paula Fox Page B

uncomprehending. She couldn’t speak yet. She looked around the dining room, into its shadowed corners. She was looking for something; she didn’t know what it was. Then her glance rested on the Monet poster.
    â€œEmma—tell me!” Uncle Crispin said urgently.
    â€œShe smashed our village,” Emma sobbed. “It looks bombed. There’s nothing left.…”
    â€œShe?”
    But he knew who she was. Emma could tell by the way his eyes narrowed, his mouth shut tight. He looked grim.
    â€œShow me the beads,” he said. She held out her hand. He touched them one by one. Suddenly, she snatched her hand away, shook it so the beads dropped onto the floor. She went quickly to the poster, her hands raised to rip it from the wall.
    â€œEmma! No!” he ordered her.
    The desire to destroy it was so strong she thought she could feel it tearing in her hands.
    â€œDon’t touch it,” he said. “I don’t care about the poster. I care about you.”
    She turned back to him.
    He had put the cup of tea down and drawn out a chair. “Sit here,” he said.
    Her arms fell to her side. She felt weak. She did as he said.
    â€œI can’t explain anything,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t ask you to forgive her. One of the tutors I had as a boy was much given to adages. Do you know what an adage is?”
    She shook her head. She was barely listening to him, thinking of the destroyed village, of the place where it had stood which would, in a few days, look just like any other part of the beach.
    â€œAn adage is a way of summing up a kind of wisdom in a few words … like ‘haste makes waste’ or ‘a stitch in time saves nine.’ They’re boring, I know, but so often true. This tutor I was speaking about always spoke in adages. I recall a few. One was this: ‘Envy’s a coal comes hissing hot from hell.’”
    He was staring at her. His face was partly in shadow, the kitchen light falling on his white hair.
    â€œEmma,” he called softly as though she were far away. “I’m the only person Bea doesn’t envy. That is because I’m married to her. Do you understand what that means?”
    She heard herself sigh.
    â€œIt means she knows about herself,” he went on. “That hot coal is inside her. She feels it more terribly than anyone else. She feels helpless—that’s why she says those dreadful things.”
    â€œShe did something this time,” Emma said. “She didn’t just say something.”
    â€œYes,” he said. “You can’t imagine how funny and nice she can be … when we’re alone here.”
    Emma felt terribly tired. She didn’t want to hear anything more from Uncle Crispin. “She hates me so,” she said, thinking that would put an end to the talk. Then she could go to bed and sleep.
    â€œNo!” he said fiercely. “It’s not you she hates. It’s the world. She feels left out.”
    â€œIt would have blown away in a storm,” Emma said. “Or a high tide. People would’ve stepped on it.” She looked up at the Monet poster. She remembered her aunt saying, “the silliness of human beings against the force of nature.” But human beings were a force of nature, too.
    â€œI was taking her a cup of tea,” Uncle Crispin said sadly. “She is very unhappy. I didn’t know what was wrong. She’ll regret what she’s done forever.”
    Emma didn’t quite believe that. All she wanted now was to be in her room. The morning was near.
    â€œYou’re going home today,” he said. “Listen. You were so happy building your village. You mustn’t forget that.”
    The skin on her cheeks felt tight with dried tears.
    â€œI guess I won’t,” she said. She got up and left the dining room, aware that he continued to stand next to the table, perhaps looking at the chair where