The Telling (26 page)

“Silence!”

A hush fell at once. There was an uneasy shuffling of feet and adjusting of clothes and prayer books. Then the door creaked
open. I kept staring straight ahead. There was the sound of three pairs of leather soles on the stone floor; my breath caught in my throat. Mr. Aitken and Mr. Forster stopped at the bottom of the aisle, and I felt Mr. Moore walk up the aisle, and pass me, and then I could see him, the dark shape of his head, his dark jacket worn thin at the cuff and elbow. He was in his everyday clothes; he didn’t acknowledge Sunday’s distinction in dress. He halted just ahead of me, at some distance from the pulpit; he did not have to crane his head back to meet the Reverend’s eye. I watched between the backs of the people in the pews in front. I could see one of Mr. Moore’s hands as it clenched into a fist, the knuckles livid, then uncurled. I heard him take a slow thin breath. I wished I could go to him and stand at his side, let him see that he did not stand alone. I loved him. The world expanded in a moment; it seemed vast. I loved him.

“I bring you here today,” said Reverend Wolfenden, “to reveal what kind of a man you are, so that you may no longer deceive these good and simple people.”

Mr. Moore’s voice came out dusty-sounding, as if it had lain long unused. “You didn’t bring me. I brought myself.”

“Admit you are a Chartist, and an Atheist.”

“I have never made a secret of either.”

“Admit that you are a criminal; that you have been transported.”

His hand clenched again, the dark fingers pressing tight, nails pushing into the flesh of his palm, the white scar stretching livid. “I served my sentence.”

“But clearly learned nothing from the experience.”

“My wife and child died while I was in Hobart Town.”

He stood alone in the centre of the aisle, as if he were part of church ritual, as if this had been going to happen, as if this always happened, like the Eucharist or Benediction. All the time that he had lived with us, every moment that I had known him, when he had laughed at me, when he’d shared his beer with me, when he’d left or retrieved a book; all the time that wound, that loss, had been bleeding in his side. It made me ache for him. It made me reconsider everything that had passed between us.

A man’s voice called out from the congregation, “What did you do, then, lad?”

Mr. Moore turned to him. “I injured a policeman.”

Matthew Williams called out from behind me, “Why did you do it?”

Mr. Moore turned to answer him. His eyes caught on mine and I smiled; a slight attempt to reassure him, but the smile trembled, and threatened tears. I looked down, at my rough hands still gripping the black prayer book.

“See,” said Reverend Wolfenden, “a wolf in sheep’s clothing! A violent criminal in our midst, taken into your homes, you see how—”

But no one was listening to him anymore. Mr. Moore was addressing Matthew Williams.

“It was a peaceful meeting,” Mr. Moore said. “They had no right to break it up. The police said that they shot over the people’s heads, but a girl was wounded in the ankle, and I don’t see how you can shoot over people’s heads and still wound someone in the ankle, unless you’re such a criminally bad shot that you have no business to go armed.” He took a breath, and the breath shook, and I realized he was not nearly as calm as
he appeared. “She is a cripple now,” he said. “She walks with sticks.”

“This man,” the Reverend said, “this
man
—”

My gaze shifted back to him, to the pulpit. I felt faintly surprised to see that he was still there.

“This man,” Mr. Moore said, turning back towards the Reverend, “is just a man, and not a devil. I’ve committed no deception here, and certainly no crime. I’ve done nothing but offer my books and my opinions; no one is obliged to accept either; I do not evangelize. I happen to believe that intellect is not commensurate with wealth: that the poor may read, and learn, and think, as well as the finest gentleman in the country, if they’re given the opportunity, and that’s all I seek to do, to give that opportunity. These are peaceful ends, pursued by peaceful means, and still no crime, even in this day and age. Men of my class have their fill of duties, and precious little in the way of rights; but I believe we still possess the right to be left alone.” His voice had grown tired. He said, “I simply wish to be left in peace.”

The Reverend’s lips moved soundlessly. Then he swept his right arm grandly in front of him, taking in the whole of the congregation. “Cast him from you; cast him from your homes. This man is a criminal.”

“He’s paid more than amply for it, by the sound of things,” said Joe Stott.

“Take him to the Old Hall,” the Reverend urged. “Lock him up.”

No one moved.

Someone cleared their throat: “I’ve never really understood; what is an Atheist?”

Someone else tried to silence the speaker, but other voices
broke out again all over, addressing questions to each other, answering them, calling out to Mr. Moore. I heard someone else talking about the Charter, saying that they would sign it soon as look at it. Reverend Wolfenden stood bolt upright in the pulpit, his white surplice like a marble column. Mr. Moore stood in the aisle, addressed from all sides, having his sleeve plucked and more questions thrown at him before he could answer the earlier ones. All sense of ritual was shattered. The Reverend made his way down the pulpit steps, through the chancel, and out through the vestry door. Mr. Aitken and Mr. Forster slipped away through the main door. I don’t think anyone else noticed them go. I knew that this could not be forgiven, this could never be got over. The whole church was in commotion. People were talking at the top of their voices, elbowing, pushing to get past each other to get to Mr. Moore. He stood trying to answer someone, trying to lay out an argument, while all around was bedlam. He finished speaking, his questioner nodded, satisfied. The noise did not abate, but for just a moment there was stillness around him; for just a moment everyone was engaged with someone else. He turned his head and looked at me. I managed to form a smile. He gave me only an abrupt upward movement of the head, not quite a nod, as if in agreement, or understanding, but of what, I didn’t know, and my expression began to falter, and I saw his change again; a questioning, concerned frown. Then someone laid a hand on his shoulder, dragging his attention away. The aisle swarmed with people heading for the door; he was carried by the swell.

The crowd thinned and clumped in the street. The men went ahead and the women followed after. The children fled, glad for their parents’ distraction and the opportunity for play; as we trudged up the dusty street their shouts and laughter rang out from the fields. I didn’t know where we were going: I don’t think anybody really did. We were just leaving church, and following whoever went before. Up ahead, I saw my father leaning against the wall in front of the Old Hall. He was half slumped, scuffing the gravel, making a trough with his toe. His head went up as the first group approached; he pushed away from the wall and moved out into the street, attaching himself to Mr. Moore. He received only the slightest of acknowledgements. A nod from Mr. Moore and a word from one or two of the men. My dad muttered something back.

I looked around for my mam. She was just behind me, her face pale and lined and somehow fallen-looking. I offered her my arm, but she shook her head.

“As if things weren’t hard enough every day without this,” she protested. “What has he done? What has he gone and done?”

I saw the same look on every woman’s face. They had fed these men, and washed their clothes, and mopped up their crumbs and slops of tea; they’d borne their children, they’d nursed their colds, they’d sat yawning across the fire from them night after night, and year upon year, and never once in all that time had one of them done anything that could have presaged this. Church was broken up, and Sunday was all out of kilter, and there was no knowing what would follow next.

“What’s got into your Frank?” Aunty Sue demanded. Mam just shook her head, her face pinched with shame. I peered ahead,
trying to catch sight of Mr. Moore’s tall dark shape between the moving bodies.

“He’s over that side,” Mam said. My cheeks flushed and I glanced at her, and then at where she was looking, and I realized that she meant my dad.

We passed over Brunt Hill and came down the slope towards home. The men were stopping there, gathering at the foot of our steps, as if of one accord, as if it were the obvious and natural thing to do. My Mam stiffened at my side; we slowed, and stopped a little way off from the crowd, a little way up the hill.

“Oh Lord,” she said. “Oh Lord, preserve us.”

“Let’s have him then,” a voice called.

“Aye, let’s hear from Moore; proper-like.”

Mr. Moore moved through to the front. He climbed the steps; his expression was resolved, but he was pale. I offered Mam my arm again, and this time she took it. She was glancing around her, scanning the faces of the women. She turned to me and whispered, “Where’s our Sally?”

“She went with the Forsters, remember?”

Mam nodded at this, her chin dimpling as she pressed her lips together.

“For the best,” she said. “She’ll be all right.”

Mr. Moore spoke. His voice was faint from where we stood.

“Haste is the hallmark of the shoddy workman; everyone knows that. To overcome that impatience is the first lesson of a youth’s apprenticeship. This wood will not work unseasoned; it will crack and splinter. When it is ready, it will be stronger than iron, but we must give it time. We must be patient.”

There was silence for a moment, then a blackbird sang in the horse chestnut tree.

“We should each of us go to our homes,” Mr. Moore said. “We
must
each of us go to our homes, and weather out this storm, and hope that it passes over without harm, perhaps leaving us even a little better seasoned for the work.”

He came down the steps; a hand was placed on his arm; he was instantly folded into the debate.

Some men were already trailing away and women were skittering off to catch up with their husbands. A crowd remained on the street, locked in argument. Mrs. Bibby approached her husband, put her hand on his arm, and was shrugged off. Her failure was conspicuous. Women started to drift home alone. Men remained.

We couldn’t get indoors without passing through the crowd. My father was among them, his arms raised in angry gestures. Mr. Moore was talking to him in low, placatory tones. My mam and I pressed through the throng, my mam’s face as pale as china clay.

Inside, she fell into a chair. I bustled about to make her tea; she sat there mute as a fish. The quietness in the house made me feel sick and empty. The commotion in the street was awful. Mr. Moore came in a little later. There was still noise outside. His skin was grey, his face haggard-looking. He took the teacup I offered him.

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said, and sank down in my father’s chair, and drank the tea, and did not speak.

My brothers did not come home, nor did my father. There was no talk of a meal. Work was not even picked up. Books stood unread on the shelf. The street fell silent as it grew late, and dark.
At about nine o’clock, Mam got up and fetched a batch-cake from the pantry and cut lumps off it, and told me to get the kettle on again.

She addressed Mr. Moore with more than usual carefulness. She blamed him, it was clear to me she did.

“What will come of it?” she asked.

Mr. Moore glanced first at me, then at her. “Let us hope that nothing comes of it at all.”

Mam looked at him narrowly. “Hope isn’t good enough.”

Mr. Moore nodded. “I agree.”

The boys tumbled over the threshold around quarter-toten: they were flushed and happy, smelling of outdoors and woodsmoke: they must have had a bonfire, as if it were a holiday. They were hardly in the room before Mam started scolding. They dived onto the remainder of the batch-cake, broke it in half and started stuffing it into their mouths; Mam went for her wooden spoon. They hammered up the stairs, giggling and choking and spraying crumbs, and she went after them. There was laughter and shouting from up there, and then talk, and then silence; she can’t have beaten them. When I went up later, she was lying between them on their bed, their fair heads resting close to hers, and they were sleeping, all three of them, cuddled together, stuck with cake crumbs, worn out by the strangeness of the day.

So I was left alone with Mr. Moore. He was sat by the dimly glowing hearth, still as a monument, his face turned from me. No one had thought to light a candle or to tend the fire. I was leaning against the kitchen table, chewing on a thumbnail, not looking at anything, feeling sick and hungry and impatient, as if there were, somehow, something I could do, could I but think what.

“I am so sorry, Elizabeth.”

My name again on his lips; I took my hand from my mouth, looked around at him; in the dim light I could not make his expression out.

“It’s not your fault,” I said.

“If I hadn’t…your father…”

“He’s been spoiling for a fight for years.”

I think I caught the ghost of a smile, but it didn’t linger.

“They will read the Riot Act,” he said. “If this doesn’t resolve itself swiftly, they will read the Riot Act and they will send for troops. There’s a company of Militia at Skipton; they’ll ask for a detachment to be sent.”

“For my dad?”

“Maybe.”

“For you?”

He inclined his head.

“But you’ve done nothing.” I was indignant, and then flushed with shame: I hadn’t been able to feel indignant on Dad’s behalf.

“The state of the country,” Mr. Moore said. “A tiny percentage of the population owns the vast majority of the country’s wealth. That suits them, but at the same time it’s terrifying; they are so outnumbered and have so much to lose. The idea that we might act in concert is appalling, that we might work towards something grander and more permanent than the filling of our bellies—they will crush this; they are too terrified to do otherwise.”

He raised a hand to his eyes, pressing them with his fingertips; the white line of the scar down his thumb moved with the movement of sinew and muscle.