The Fox's Walk Read Online Free

with the pieces of a large and complicated jigsaw puzzle. I struggled to fit the interlocking parts together without knowing what the eventual completed picture was supposed to look like. And the picture changed with each new observation I made. Soon after Edward was born, I realized it was a puzzle he would never solve on his own, and I made it my business to inform him of some important aspects and to shield him from others.
    Uncle Huberts cigarette case was a good example of a piece of the puzzle that I recognized as significant without knowing, or having any way of knowing, its import. I still remember that case and the way his graceful fingers took a cigarette from it, closed its silver lid, and tapped the cigarette lightly before striking a match. It was not until my uncle Sainthill’s personal effects were returned to his mother during an irony-filled Christmas visit by a fellow officer that I discovered the significance of these cigarette cases both as a gift and as a charm against the evil forces personified by a German bullet or shrapnel. The slim metal case, slightly curved to follow the outline of the body, was inscribed—usually by a woman—and kept in the breast pocket of the uniform of the man whose heart it was intended to protect. Did it ever save a life? Could it save a life? I don’t know. And without knowing this, either, I imagine that the officers—and surely for so many reasons this was a phenomenon only among the younger ones—knew the cases would provide little protection but felt safer having them anyway.
    Uncle Hubert: his moustache, his cigarette case (my father was clean shaven, regarding facial hair as an affectation and tobacco as a waste of money), his bantering tone with my mother, her difficulty in knowing what was a tease and what was not, and how he enjoyed testing her gullibility and humor. I remember, in particular, a Russian woman whom Uncle Hubert brought to visit.
    Edward and I were with my mother in the drawing room. Edward, sweet and fat, sat on Mother’s knee, and I perched on the edge of the sofa, brushed, curled, and uncomfortably dressed for tea. I don’t know if my mother was expecting Uncle Hubert in the sense that an engagement had been made, but she was ready for him or any other visitor who might call.
    The Irish maid announced Uncle Hubert.
    â€œMr. Bagnold to see you, ma’am, and Madame—” she hesitated as though she might attempt the name but changed her mind “—and Madam.”
    Uncle Hubert stood back at the door to allow a woman to enter. Although not as exotic as Mrs. Coughlan, of whom I still quite often thought, this was a creature who bore an encouraging similarity to her.
    â€œMary,” my uncle said, “this is Madame Tchnikov.”
    My mother, putting Edward down on the hearthrug, rose slowly and approached the visitor. I could see that the time she was taking was designed to allow my uncle to add something—an explanation of who this strange woman was, of why she was accompanying my uncle, above all of why she was being introduced to my mother. But Uncle Hubert merely smiled; he looked as though he had arrived with a treat—something on the order of an ornately decorated tin of sweet biscuits. I, at least, was appreciative.
    Tea was poured; small talk followed. The conversation remained general and superficial. Nevertheless, by the time my uncle and Madame Tchnikov left, we had gathered that she had lived in the Balkans, that she was of aristocratic birth, a refugee (someone close to her—not specified but referred to as
he
—had been political), and a widow. And that she had “suffered.” I was curious to see how my mother would describe the visit to my father when he came home. Most events I witnessed gained a valuable dimension when I heard them described to someone else. I remained the epitome of a well-behaved little girl, silent and without fidgeting, in order to hear