Jeremiah was also quiet by nature, not as much from anxiety as from simple tranquil reserve: no desire to fill a space with words. Richard envied that, but it did not make his son easier to speak to. Suppers and breakfasts stuttered to desultory halts; he thought that Jer thought his father despised him, and the thought twisted like a splinter from a broken guard-rail in his heart, but he did not know how to fix it.
He could never find his boots in the morning if he put them down someplace different from the usual. He ate the same bread and cheese and bacon and porridge each day: routine, safe, recognizable. He noticed that his clothing was larger on his shoulders, coats growing bigger, the knit of one jumper gaining a hole; but he never seemed to be motivated enough to go into the villag
