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I did not confront him at first, hoping as I did that his withdrawal was only a matter of some stray mood, or some necessary passage of the artist through the shadow of his own internal moon. At the time I had no other way to explain it, this mysterious and almost total absence, and I was not yet willing to admit that what I was seeing was nothing more unusual than another end to another love affair. I suppose I had ended so many of them myself, the sudden cooling of the flame, the awkward period afterwards when one tries to rekindle what has died forever, the petty arguments and the ultimate escape, that I refused to believe that it could happen to me in reverse. Besides, I was convinced even then, even in my confusion and anxiety, that Paul had not stopped loving me. Something else was going on, I was sure, something that had nothing to do with me. Paul’s withdrawal was not a sign of lack of love, but of some interior struggle that I could not understand without some kind of. He dug down to where it was and excavated it for the pile of ‘finds’ to be left at the gate.He had to call it a day with still a quarter of the field to cover. He inserted a marker peg at one end of his final traverse, and added a second at the end of that line. It would tell him where he finished, when he returned to continue.Getting home after the long walk, he was told by Jessica that he should have phoned home, and she would have come to collect him. He retorted, “You are getting big in the middle, Jessica and not as young as the others. I didn’t want to put you to more trouble, when I could walk and get exercise.”“I am not that big that I can’t drive, as you saw when I took you there. Phone next time: your presence is required more here, than having you spend ages walking home.”“Very well, love.”She persevered. “Did you find anything interesting?”“Not this time. Plenty of old iron, but that’s all.”Sunday morning was a visit to a church service with his ladies. They went to the.
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