The Telling

all this, staying home to finish your dress. Without Mr Moore there to lead them on, the men have seen sense, it’s all cleared up, so you needn’t worry about your father. Or no more than usual, anyway. The worst he’s going to get today is drunk.’
    ‘But what about Mr Moore?’
    My mam shrugged. ‘We’ll be rid of him.’ She let go of my arm. She looked quietly happy. ‘It was only Sammy actually got hurt; a crack to the head was all; he’s never been the sharpest stick in the woodpile anyway; there’s no real damage done. It’s all forgotten. Or it will be soon.’
    I was lifting my hem to go, to rush back the way I’d come, to get to Mr Moore, but then Thomas was there; he took my other arm, and said, ‘You’ll dance with me Lizzy,’ and he drew me off into the dance.
    They were lined up for Strip the Willow; the band were playing the opening phrases of the new tune.
    ‘I can’t,’ I said, ‘I have to go.’
    Thomas didn’t seem to hear me. He was marching over, trailing me behind. He deposited me at the top of the line of women. It all happened so fast. Feet thumped the grass to the music: it lurched towards the cue, and Thomas grabbed my arm with his, clamped me to his side, and spun me down the lines of dancers. I was dragged along, dizzy and whirling, flung from Thomas to be spun by the other men, then grabbed hold of again by him, and spun some more. My toes barely touched the ground. We came to a dead stop, and Thomas let go of my arm. We stood, gasping, facing each other. Down the vacant strip of grass between us, the next couple whirled in the dance. Thomas stood there, his cheeks flushed, grinning at me.
    ‘Were you there when they read the Riot Act?’ I asked.
    His smile faltered and he looked away, towards the dancers.
    ‘What’s going to happen? What did they say?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter.’
    ‘What did they say?’ I asked more urgently, stepping towards him, suspicious of his uneasy smile. The dancers reached us; Michael Robinson slipped his arm under mine, and he spun me around and around, and I was almost flying, desperate to be set down, to be let alone, to get my head clear. He dropped me down again, facing Thomas, who was stamping his foot on the crushed grass, slightly out of time, and was gazing up the line of dancers as the next whirling couple bore down on us.
    ‘What did they say?’ I asked again.
    Thomas pretended not to hear.
    ‘What’s going to happen, Thomas?’ I could hear the irritation and impatience in my voice. ‘ What did they say ?’
    Thomas looked directly at me. His eyes were clear and cold and knowing. ‘The Reverend said we could repent, and be forgiven, but there are some that are irredeemable.’
    And then Richard Moss grabbed my arm, and spun me. And as I whirled around, ribbons flying, dress tangling around my feet, the pins pricking at my ankles, I saw them. The vision blurred, and then my back was turned, and then again, I saw the blur of red, the light glinting on metal, the dust rising from the dry road as they came. And through the beat of the music, and the clapping, and the dancers’ stamping, there was, beneath it all, and through everything, the beat of their marching feet. I was dropped, I staggered, sick and winded. My head seemed to catch up with me, and I saw them for the first time clearly. Foot soldiers; half a dozen of them; an officer on horseback. They were turning down the village street. Six men and an officer, and there was only one of him.
    I stepped out of the line. Thomas caught my arm. The music seemed to falter, slow.
    ‘They are coming for him –’
    ‘Stay in your place,’ Thomas said.
    The music picked up again; the next couple had taken hold of each other’s hands, and were spinning down the lines towards us. I pulled against his grip.
    ‘Stay in your place,’ he said again.
    I dug my nails into his fingers, twisted my arm out of his grip; he cursed and let go. I took one last look at the red coats, the glossy sheen of the horse’s flank. I knew a short cut. I ran.
    I bundled up my skirt to scramble over the stile into Gosses’ field. I raced through the stubble, not caring who saw me, not caring about anything but getting to him in time. My hair was falling loose; I was running faster than I’d run since I was a girl and we used to race each other over the hay meadow stubble, leaping over drifts of drying hay.
    I could hear Thomas’s heavy footfalls behind me. I didn’t care; he wouldn’t