Father came home. But he was not happy. They dared not ask him the reason.

But something had come between them that had taken all pleasure away. Their father tried to behave as before, but they could not bear to humour him, so the atmosphere was silent and awkward. Alien.

They could not bring themselves to tell him what had happened at school. There was nothing for it but to go back again. Again and again. It was not as bad as the first time. Nobody said much after a while. Their old friends gradually approached them again. But only so far. There was a barrier now that no one had been aware of before. There was always something between them. An empty space. They no longer went and opened their hearts to anyone, although they had never had greater need of it until now.

There are they, and here are we.

But all he’s doing is polishing those arrows. Can that be any different from any other job? He goes straight to work, and comes straight home again afterwards. He doesn’t get mixed up in anything.

They told themselves so.

It was no use. The moment they said it they seemed to hear something from far away: a cry from some miserable soul being torn away from what was his. They were mature enough to feel this burden. The darkness seethed out of the centre, and the secret van went in and out of it and the arrows pointed towards it. Father is polishing them. What has he agreed to, then?

In agonizing moments they sat up and thought: Father is moving towards the centre. They will suck him in with them, now that he has begun to polish the arrows. That’s where he’ll soon be, not with the tortured ones, the shining ones – but with the others who sit there in the terrible gilded darkness.

No, no! they thought. It must be stopped.

How?

They had no idea. Only the wild hope. Father must not end up there, whatever happened. They did not think of it normally, only in the darkest hours. And they had to accept his gifts, now as before, and could not bear the thought of quarrelling with him. He wished them well and was their father.

They knew of other children with the same problem, but if they felt the need to contact them they did not do so. Something held them back. They were afraid of it too. One had to bear this alone, and hope against hope.

But now it has come to an outburst, because of Mary who has lost her father, shot against a wall somewhere. They are left sitting dumbly at the table after the arrow polisher has gone.

They are just as bewildered. They don’t understand him, they don’t understand this sudden crisis. Freda begins to clear the table. It’s best to be occupied with something.

The arrow polisher is on his way to his room. It makes him uneasy to see Frank and Freda so upset. He likes peace and quiet. If only I could work in peace, he thinks. If everyone could do that, all problems would be solved. But when it seems to be of prime importance to destroy peace and quiet….