He remembered that it had been different when his first book had come out two years ago. They had read that; they had snatched at all the reviews of it and read it again, trying to see what it was that they had missed.
They had taken each other aside, and it had been:
"Anthony, do you understand Michael's poems?"
"Dorothy, do you understand Michael's poems?"
"Nicky, do you understand Michael's poems?"
He remembered his mother's apology for not understanding them: "Darling, I do see that they're very beautiful." He remembered how he had wished that they would give up the struggle and leave his poems alone. They were not written for them. He had been amused and irritated when he had seen his father holding the book doggedly in front of him, his poor old hands twitching with embarrassment whenever he thought Michael was looking at him.
And now he, who had been so indifferent and so contemptuous, was sensitive to the least quiver of his mother's upper lip.
Veronica's were the only eyes that were kind to him; that did not hunt him down with implacable suggestion and reminder.
Veronica had been rejected too. She was not strong enough to nurse in the hospitals. She was only strong enough to work from morning to night, packing and carrying large, heavy parcels for the Belgian soldiers. She wanted Michael to be sorry for her because she couldn't be a nurse. Rosalind Jervis was a nurse. But he was not sorry. He said he would very much rather she didn't do anything that Rosalind did.
"So would Nicky," he said.