The Telling

haring off around the side of the church, to the pace-egging on the mound. I took Dad’s arm and Mam took his other and we went to watch.
    Children were scrambling to the top of the mound, hooting and calling, and the Reverend Wolfenden climbed up to join them, in his black clothes looking like a rook against the blue sky.
    I scanned the crowds, searching for him. I caught sight of him standing a little way off, his back to me; I caught a breath. Then he turned, leaning down to listen to one of the older Webster girls, and I saw that it wasn’t Mr Moore. It was just David Airey, back from Claughton for the holiday, besieged by the spinsters of the parish. He spoke a word privately to Rebecca Brown, making her blush and laugh; and I realized I should have known that it wasn’t Mr Moore when I’d seen him so crowded about with women. In all the time Mr Moore had been with us, from Lent to Easter, I’d never once seen him in the company of women. Mr Moore worked, and he ate, and he sat up in his room till late with a candle burning, and whenever we passed each other, he’d just nod, and slip past, with the barest of civilities. He often had a book with him, but I’d never had a chance so far to see what it was. And now I thought of it, in all these weeks, from Lent to Easter, not once had he walked to church with us; he was hardly likely to join us today. He was a Methodist, no doubt; or a Catholic. Something of the shine went off the day.
    The pace-egging started. The children came forward in turn to where the Reverend stood, to roll their decorated eggs down the side of the mound. The eggs were dyed pink and yellow and green, stuck with petals or bits from the scrap-basket, inked with patterns. They rolled and bumped down the grass, and settled against tussocks or in hollows. Some made it to the foot of the mound and rolled out on to the smoother slope of the grass below. I stood with my father, my arm still hooked through his, but after a while, he unlinked our arms so that he could fiddle with his coat button, and when the button was corrected, he didn’t offer me his arm again. I craned my neck to look for Sally, to see how she was getting on. She had a duck egg; I’d boiled it for her, carefully, so that it wouldn’t crack. She’d kissed me, said that this year she was bound to win, her egg was so big and strong and beautiful. I watched her come forward and throw. She lobbed it high; it hit the ground, and bounced, and bounced again, then hit a stone, and stopped dead. She tossed her head, gave a laugh, and walked away. I felt a rush of tenderness for her. When the contest was concluded, and Gilbert Mason had taken the prize, I went to find Sally’s egg. It had not smashed, not really; the force of her throw had crushed it against the stone. Fragments of shell were still held together by the silky skin inside, but the white flesh beneath it was crushed and broken into pieces. Ted came bouncing up and begged it off me: he’d already eaten his. I knew Sally would want nothing to do with it now. I gave it to him, and he walked away, peeling it and biting into the flesh.
    I saw Thomas. He saw me too and smiled. I looked away, hoping he would think I hadn’t noticed him. But he made his way towards me, threading between dark Sunday coats and Sunday hats and fresh Sunday dresses. He was there, rosy, eager, asking how the pace-egging had gone for us. I smiled for him.
    ‘Did Sally roll this year?’ he asked. ‘Or is she too much the lady now?’
    ‘She did. The last time, I reckon.’
    He nodded, and smiled broadly. The sun was glowing through his ears, making them pink. I could smell his smell; warm, grassy, of the byre. He asked if I was going on the walk, and I nodded, and he asked if he could walk with us, and I said I supposed so, and I glanced over at my mam, but she was talking to Aunty Sue.
    *
     
    It was the usual Easter way, down the Glebe and across the hay meadow, through Thrush Gill woods and down the slope to the parish marker, where we would spread rugs and eat our dinner. My brothers and sister raced ahead with the other children, playing games of tig across the open spaces, dogs barking and leaping around them. Now and then they’d start a hare, and the dogs would turn on a pin and go flying after it. We’d watch the chase across the hillside, watch each dog in turn slow and then wheel around and turn back, knowing themselves outrun, returning to the children’s games.
    I carried the