Bears Discover Fire

“Uncle Anthony?” The child was holding out her arms.

Mr. Fox was startled, thinking she was about to hug him; then he saw what she wanted and handed her the dog. “You can pet him,” he said. “His name is Anthony too.”

“Really?”

“Since no one ever calls us both at the same time, it creates no confusion,” said Mr. Fox.

“Can he walk?”

“Certainly he can walk. He just doesn’t often choose to.”

A whistle blew and the ferry left with its load of Britons for America. Mr. Fox saw Harrison at the bow, holding his greasy bag with one hand and the rail with the other, looking a little sick, or perhaps apprehensive. Then he took his niece and great-niece for a stroll along the Boardwalk. The girl, Clare—she was named after her grandmother—walked ahead with Anthony, while Mr. Fox and his niece, Emily, followed behind. The other Americans had all drifted into the city looking for restaurants, except for the male teenagers, who were crowding into the amusement parlors along the Esplanade, which had opened for the day.

“If the mountain won’t come to Mahomet, and so forth,” said Emily, mysteriously, when Mr. Fox asked if she’d had a nice crossing. Her brown hair was streaked with gray. He recognized the coat now; it had been her mother’s, his sister’s, Clare’s. He was trying to think of where to take them for lunch. The Finn at the Pig & Thistle served a pretty fair shepherd’s pie, but he didn’t want them to see where he lived. They were content, however, with fish and chips on the Boardwalk; certainly Anthony seemed pleased to have chips fed to him, one by one, by the little girl named for the sister Mr. Fox had met only twice: once when she had been a student at Cambridge (or was it Oxford? he got them confused) about to marry an American; and once when she had returned with her daughter for a visit.

“Her father, your grandfather, was an Air Raid Warden,” Mr. Fox told Emily. “He was killed in action, as it were, when a house collapsed during a rescue; and when his wife (well, she wasn’t exactly his wife) died giving birth to twins a week later, they were each taken in by one of those whose life he had saved. It was a boarding house, all single people, so there was no way to keep the two together, you see; the children, I mean. Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m talking all in a heap.”

“That’s okay,” said Emily.

“At any rate, when Mr. Singh died and his Inn was sold, my room was reserved for me, in accordance with his will, in perpetuity, which means as long as I remain in it. But if I were to move, you see, I would lose my patrimony entire.”

“I see,” said Emily. “And where is this place you go for tea?”

And so they spent the afternoon, and a rainy and an English afternoon it was, in the cozy tearoom with the faded purple drapes at the west (formerly east) end of Moncton Street where Mrs. Oldenshield kept Mr. Fox’s complete set of Trollope on a high shelf, so he wouldn’t have to carry them back and forth in all kinds of weather. While Clare shared her cake with Anthony, and then let him doze on her lap, Mr. Fox took down the handsome leather-bound volumes, one by one, and showed them to his niece and great-niece.

“They are, I believe, the first complete edition,” he said. “Chapman and Hall.”

“And were they your father’s?” asked Emily. “My grandfather’s?”

“Oh no!” said Mr. Fox. “They belonged to Mr. Singh. His grandmother was English and her own great-uncle had been, I believe, in the postal service in Ireland with the author, for whom I was, if I am not mistaken, named.” He showed Emily the place in The Eustace Diamonds where he would have been reading that very afternoon, “were it not,” he said, “for this rather surprisingly delightful family occasion.”

“Mother, is he blushing,” said Clare. It was a statement and not a question.

It was almost six when Emily looked at her watch—a man’s watch, Mr. Fox noted—and said, “We had better get back to the pier, or we’ll miss the ferry.” The rain had diminished to a misty drizzle as they hurried along the Boardwalk. “I must apologize for our English weather,” said Mr. Fox, but his niece stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “Don’t brag,” she said, smiling. She saw Mr. Fox looking at her big steel watch and explained that it had been found among her mother’s things; she had always assumed it had been her grandfather’s. Indeed, it had several dials, and across the face it said: “Civil Defense, Brighton.” Across the bay, through the drizzle as through a lace curtain, they could see the sun shining on the sand and parked cars.

“Do you still live in, you know…” Mr. Fox hardly knew how to say the name of the place without sounding vulgar, but his niece came to his rescue. “Babylon? Only for another month. We’re moving to Deer Park as soon as my divorce is final.”

“I’m so glad,” said Mr. Fox. “Deer Park sounds much nicer for the child.”

“Can I buy Anthony a good-bye present?” Clare asked. Mr. Fox gave her some English money (even though the shops were all taking American) and she bought a paper of chips and fed them to the dog one by one. Mr. Fox knew Anthony would be flatulent for days, but it seemed hardly the sort of thing one mentioned. The ferry had pulled in and the tourists who had visited America for the day were streaming off, loaded with cheap gifts. Mr. Fox looked for Harrison, but if he was among them, he missed him. The whistle blew two warning toots. “It was kind of you to come,” he said.

Emily smiled. “No big deal,” she said. “It was mostly your doing anyway. I could never have made it all the way to England if England hadn’t come here first. I don’t fly.”

“Nor do I.” Mr. Fox held out his hand but Emily gave him a hug, and then a kiss, and insisted that Clare give him both as well. When that was over, she pulled off the watch (it was fitted with an expandable band) and slipped it over his thin, sticklike wrist. “It has a compass built in,” she said. “I’m sure it was your father’s. And Mother always…”

The final boarding whistle swallowed her last words. “You can be certain I’ll take good care of it,” Mr. Fox called out. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Mother, is he crying,” said Clare. It was a statement and not a question.

“Let’s you and me watch our steps,” said Emily.

“Woof,” said Anthony, and mother and daughter ran down (for the pier was high, and the boat was low) the gangplank. Mr. Fox waved until the ferry had backed out and turned, and everyone on board had gone inside, out of the rain, for it had started to rain in earnest. That night after dinner he was disappointed to find the bar unattended.

“Anyone seen Harrison?” he asked. He had been looking forward to showing him the watch.

“I can get you a drink as well as him,” said the Finn. She carried her broom with her and leaned it against the bar.

She poured a whisky and said, “Just indicate if you need another.” She thought indicate meant ask. The King was on the telly, getting into a long car with the President. Armed men stood all around them. Mr. Fox went to bed.

The next morning, Mr. Fox got up before Anthony. The family visit had been pleasant; indeed, wonderful; but he felt a need to get back to normal. While taking his constitutional, he watched the first ferry come in, hoping (somewhat to his surprise) that he might see Harrison in it; but no such luck. There were no English, and few Americans. The fog rolled in and out, like the same page on a book being turned over and over. At tea, Mr. Fox found Lizzie confessing (just as he had known she someday must) that the jewels had been in her possession all along. Now that they were truly gone, everyone seemed relieved, even the Eustace family lawyer. It seemed a better world without the diamonds.

“Did you hear that?”

“Beg your pardon?” Mr. Fox looked up from his book.

Mrs. Oldenshield pointed at his teacup, which was rattling in its saucer. Outside, in the distance, a bell was ringing. Mr. Fox wiped off the book himself and put it on the high shelf, then pulled on his coat, picked up his dog, and ducked through the low door into the street. Somewhere across town, a horn was honking. “Woof,” said Anthony.

There was a breeze for the first time in days. Knowing, or at least suspecting what he would find, Mr. Fox hurried to the Boardwalk. The waves on the beach were flattened, as if the water were being sucked away from the shore. The ferry was just pulling out with the last of the Americans who had come to spend the day. They looked irritated. On the way back to the Pig & Thistle Mr. Fox stopped by the cricket ground, but the boys were nowhere to be seen, the breeze being still too light for kiting, he supposed. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he said to