The Indifference of Tumbleweed by Rebecca Tope Page A

child was barely formed. The loss is less severe than that of many others. The boy that was shot, I mean particularly.’
    â€˜That is truly a tragedy,’ he acknowledged. ‘In the precise meaning of the word, indeed. A desperate loss or damage wrought by the victim’s own frailty. As is depicted in so many ways in the works of William Shakespeare.’
    My knowledge of Shakespeare extended to a handful of sonnets and the story of
Romeo and Juliet
, but I accepted his learning as being something of value.
    â€˜I have no personal experience, of course,’ he went on. ‘However, it does seem to me that there is a sudden emptiness that can only be painful for both sets of parents.’
    It was such dangerous ground that again I veered away, in my mind. What was the fellow thinking of, to approach such a topic? My instinct was to get away from him, and yet I had a degree of trust that kept me at his side.
    â€˜My interest lies in the spiritual aspect,’ he said. ‘At least – in the inner realms of pain and anguish. The body might be bruised and weakened, but the
spirit.
How much more injured must it be?’
    This was an improvement, I realised with relief. Even my parents could not object to a discussion of matters ethereal or religious. Although it did not sound as if Henrywas quite meaning the latter. ‘Of course, you being Irish, you might already understand something of my drift,’ he continued. ‘The Irish are more forthright in giving expression to their emotions than are many other people.’
    â€˜Oh?’ Somewhere I detected in myself a hint of offence, or perhaps merely an echo of jokes made against my countrymen in every corner of Boston, which I still remembered with childish pain. The strengthening prejudice against the Irish had been one prime motive in my father’s decision to shift to Providence and then to migrate to new lands in the west, in the hope of finding a better attitude in the motley mixture of backgrounds we would find ourselves amongst.
    Henry appeared oblivious to my concern. ‘By comparison with the English or German ways, at least. And the Scots, of course. But Mr Fields is of mixed descent, and his wife - whatever she might be, she is certainly not Irish.’
    â€˜Indeed not,’ I agreed.
    â€˜Consider, then, the consequences for the unhappy couple. I have no apprehension of the detail, but the loss of the child is common knowledge, and there are tales of a kick which precipitated that loss. And yet, no one in this party has spoken of it since the day it took place. Is that not strange?’
    â€˜Mr Bricewood,’ I began, having summoned my courage, ‘I cannot understand the import of your words. What is it that you are attempting to say? I am in agreement with you that the loss is grievous for the Fields family; the associated behaviour regrettable, to say the least. Mr Fields is wretched with self-reproach, and his wife, I suppose, is cool and unforgiving. I may well be wrong on that point, but it would seem to fit her character. She is a woman given to complaint, and now she has something to complain about. And yet she has made no approach to Mr Tennant, to my knowledge, made no accusation of deliberate injury against her husband…’
    â€˜Wait!’ Henry begged. ‘Why would she do such a thing, even if it were legally admissable for a wife to accuse her husband as you suggest?’
    â€˜Is it not?’ I enquired, struck by my own ignorance.
    â€˜A wife belongs to her husband, as a slave or a dog belongs. Surely you understand that?’
    â€˜I had not considered the matter in such terms,’ I admitted.
    The conversation was circling around some mysterious central point, I suspected. Henry was perhaps testing me, making soundings as to how much he might venture to say. There was a suppressed urgency in his manner, and he too, like me, sent frequentglances to all sides, to be sure