7 SCRATCHING THE TOES OF HIS BEST BROWN SHOES

5/7 scratching the toes of his best brown shoes. A couple of dogs, one large, black and smooth-haired, the other smaller with a long block and white coat, played on the edge of field, running round , jumping at each other and sometimes rolling over and over together, totally content in each other’s company. Joe watched them for a moment or two and walked on. Twenty minutes later he was on the riverside and half-way round the circle he had set out to walk from the town and back again. On his way he had passed several couples and one or two family groups returning from their Sunday evening walk, but now there was no one bout except one man resting on the grass between the path and the river bank. When he realized that is was his father, his surprise was so great that he stopped. Then his father, who had been leaning on his arm and looking into the river, looked round, but did not seem surprised to see him. “Hello, Joe,” he said dully. He went back to staring at the river. The fact that he was wearing his best clothes somehow added to the strangeness of his sitting there alone like this, and as Joe looked at him, he was conscious for the first time of a sense of his father and son. He saw, for the first time, his father’s world, while his father belonged in the centre of his, Joe’s world. And things were far from well in his father’s world, he knew. He moved a few steps nearer, and his father did not look at him. “They’re all at home, wondering where you are,” said Joe.