The Telling

haven’t done the hem yet.’
    Then the band started up on the green. It was faint enough due to the distance, but the music seemed to buzz around me, and I wanted to bat it away, like a wasp. An annoying tune, bright and cheerful.
    ‘You’d better get it finished then,’ he said.
    ‘It doesn’t matter.’
    ‘Your mother will have your hide.’
    ‘I know.’
    His fingers interlocked, separated. Nails pinched at a scrap of skin, pushed back cuticles; just like that first night, his hands were restless, never still.
    ‘That boy will be lucky to get a look in.’
    I shook my head, vexed by the distance between his thoughts and mine.
    ‘With you in your new dress,’ he said, ‘every man there will want to dance with you.’
    ‘I wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘Anyway, they won’t. It doesn’t matter.’
    His eyes were so clear and direct that although I was colouring I could not look away. I was still holding the bowl of damsons; I hadn’t thought to put it down. I knew I must look bad-tempered and ridiculous; it didn’t matter. I took a step towards him, into the room.
    ‘You must go, Mr Moore.’ The subject finally broached, words kept tumbling out. ‘There was a boy hurt last night, up at Storrs; Sammy Tate.’
    ‘Sammy? Is he all right? What happened?’
    ‘I don’t know, I don’t know. But you must leave now, as quickly as you can, you must get out of here before they blame you for it.’
    He blinked. ‘I can’t leave you.’
    And though everything was just as it had been, the bookcase, the bed, the table and chair, and him sitting there looking pale and tired and like a child, it was as though the sun had come through clouds and lit everything differently, and everything seemed transformed. He shifted himself to the edge of the bed and got up. The wooden frame creaked just like it used to.
    ‘I know you hate to sew,’ he said. ‘I know you have no patience for it. Every time you’ve picked up that dress to work on it, your face has been a picture of vexation, and you don’t know it but you look so – your skin, and the cotton in a heap in your lap, it’s the perfect colour for you, that boy isn’t entirely witless. And the light catches in your hair, and maybe you don’t know that there’s a tint of red there, and you sit there squinting at your work, and your forehead’s all furrowed and you’re muttering under your breath.’ He took a breath then and let it go thinly, between narrowed lips. ‘It’s been breaking my heart every day, watching you, knowing that you’ll wear the dress for another man. For him.’
    I felt that I was standing in openness and sunshine and air, the sky great above me, the prospect limitless. He came closer.
    ‘Not even a man; a youth, a boy . I have to ask you, I’m sorry, but I have to know. Are you going to marry him?’
    Up on the green, the band lost their timing, the individual instruments stumbling to their separate halts. For a moment there was peace.
    ‘My parents think I should.’
    ‘And so you will?’
    ‘I have to do something, I can’t go on living here for ever. It’s been far too crowded since they let out my room.’
    His face went as grey as ash. ‘You can’t resign yourself to this, to being a beast of burden, a brood mare –’
    ‘Do you have a better idea?’
    I couldn’t help but smile. He caught my smile and answered it.
    ‘Yes.’
    I didn’t know why there were tears. I moved towards him, and his arms were open to receive me, and there was a moment’s space between us, and my eyes were on a level with the open neck of his shirt, the brown skin and soft curls of hair. Then he put his arms around me and drew me to him, and I reached my arms around him, and his body was warm; I felt the warmth of him, and rested my head against his shirt, and pressed myself tightly to him, and I could hear the thud of his heart, and feel his breath press against me, and I could hardly breathe for happiness.
    Each type of wood has its own particular scent. Where woodlands are old and mixed it is not always easily determined, but where only one type of tree is planted for timber or coppiced for charcoal or basketwork, or where one tree stands alone, distinct and separate from all others, the individual scents are unmistakable . In sunshine, after rain, sycamore has a greenish sappy scent, beech trees smell sweet and nutty. Shelter under an oak from a shower, and you will become conscious of the fragrance all around you, a wholesome