The Telling

cloud of evening cool air, going past us with a nod and up the stairs, and joining the crowd in our old bedroom. The press of weight on the boards above us, the low rumble of voices, were like a gathering storm.
    Then Thomas came back down, and lifted the two fireside chairs.
    ‘It’s a pity you can’t come Lizzy,’ he said, sidling back past us. ‘It’d be just your kind of thing.’
    ‘Indeed.’
    ‘I’ll tell you all about it afterwards.’
    ‘I wouldn’t want to trouble you.’
    ‘It would be no trouble at all,’ he said, his cheeks reddening. Then he went upstairs, the chair backs tucked up under his arms, the seats hanging like panniers at his sides, and we were left with a blank expanse of cold stone floor, a rag rug, and the boys’ creepy-stools.
    When Mam came in, Sally and I were sitting back to back, on the rug, working on our baskets, and I was envying the Wolfendens their carpets. She sat down with us, beside the stove, leaning against the wall. I got up and fetched a blanket, folded it and slipped it between her and the bare stone, to make her more comfortable. She didn’t comment on what was going on, and I wouldn’t ask, not in front of Sally, who already knew. At first, there was just the weight and restlessness of the men on the boards above our heads, the general grumble of voices, and the creak and tap of the willow as we worked it. Then Mr Moore began to speak and all the other voices fell silent. Sitting there below, half drunk with tiredness, it seemed not so much a sound as an absence of sound, as though a dark space was opening up above our heads. I couldn’t make out the words.
    My mam was nodding with sleep. Sally was leaning heavily against me; I thought she was drowsing too; there was no sound from her of work. I set down my basket and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, smelling the willow on my skin.
    ‘I am sick to death of this green wood,’ Sally said, making me jump.
    Mam’s head sprang up. ‘What?’
    Then Sally said the same thing again, and they got to talking, and there was no hope of hearing anything distinct from above. At ten o’clock the men came down, and Thomas brought the chairs with him, and he stood there while we swallowed yawns and rubbed at our faces. He made some comment about things being very interesting, and making a person think, and he was dying for me to ask him about what had taken place upstairs, but I wouldn’t. I wanted rid of him, of them all. I just needed to sleep. Sally yawned; a big natural unsmothered yawn, like a dog, not caring who saw. Thomas finally noticed that he was keeping us from rest and said goodnight.
    Sally and I made our bed up on the rug, and lay down. She fell instantly and deeply asleep, and began to snore.
    A light continued on upstairs; it filtered down between the floorboards. I lay awake, looking up at it, my eyes gritty with fatigue. Dad knew, and Mam knew, and Sally knew, and Thomas knew, and everybody knew what was going on, everybody but me. It was not a pleasant feeling, to be alone in the dark.
    I turned on my side, drew the blankets up to my chin. Mr Moore could not stay for ever. The work would finish, and he would go on somewhere else, and we would have our room again.
    *
     
    I must have drifted through work that morning, half asleep; I don’t remember much of it, but then hardly any of it requires me to think, and so is easily forgotten. I was polishing the copper pans in the kitchen, watching the image of my face spilling back and forth over the curve of the milk pan like grain tipped from palm to palm, when I realized Mrs Briggs was speaking to me. I looked over at her. She was frowning, her hands on her hips. Her hands were white with flour; scraps of dough were stuck to them and peeling off on to the flags, as though she were suffering from some awful malaise of the skin. She seemed more puzzled than cross.
    ‘Don’t you hear me talking to you? You’re wanted in the morning room. Wash your hands before you go.’
    The door into the morning room stood open. Soft southern light fell through high windows, so that the room seemed full of misty sunshine. Mrs Wolfenden had had this room fitted out for her particular use. Papered walls, delicate furnishings; a sofa in a golden brocade, a carpet in a creamy shade that just sucks in the dirt; all seemed to gather up and hold the morning light, as if in a golden cup. Mrs Wolfenden sat on the sofa with her sewing. Wearing a yellowish poplin,