The Telling

this without fear. They were just books; books the two men had in common; whatever the Reverend’s suspicions of Mr Moore, they must be dispersed by this. And if there was no guilty secret here, then there was no need to hasten back to the vicarage with the news. I settled myself down on the floor, took up a volume, and opened it.
    THE LIFE AND
STRANGE SURPRIZING
ADVENTURES OF
ROBINSON CRUSOE,
OF YORK, MARINER:
who lived Eight and Twenty Years, all alone in an un-inhabited Island on the  Coast of AMERICA, near the Mouth of the Great River of
OROONOQUE,
Having been cast on Shore by Shipwreck, wherein all the Men perished but himself.
WITH
An Account of how he was at last as strangely deliver’d by PYRATES
     
     
Written by Himself.
     
    I closed it, looked at the cover, turned it around. It was embossed in black on the tan leather: Robinson Crusoe. The same name as my chapbook, the same story briefly told; but it could not be the same. My chapbook was barely thirty pages, and this was hundreds. I opened it again, flicked through titles and blank pages till I reached the start of the story.
    I was still there, lying on the floor, leaning on my elbow on the rug, utterly lost in the book, the sun hot on my head, the sand soft under me, the call of strange birds, turtles clawing up the beach, when I heard the front door slam. I dropped the book and fled to the boys’ room. I thumped at pillows, shook out covers, folded clothes and slammed the chest shut, making as much noise as possible. Then I came downstairs, trying to look unconcerned, but it was only Sally, lolling in Mam’s chair like a moppet.
    ‘I am done for,’ she said.
    I made her tea, and she drank it, and looked at me over the rim of the white cup. ‘You’re home early,’ she observed.
    I just shrugged. ‘I’m something of a favourite with the Wolfendens,’ I said. ‘They gave me a half holiday.’
    *
     
    Mr Moore came home late, his face lined with fatigue and damp with sweat, his skin stuck with wood dust. Mr Oversby had kept him busy, and worked him hard, it seemed. He went straight upstairs, and my heart quickened with anxiety: I had left without thinking, without tidying, without putting the books away.
    When he came down, there was nothing to suggest that he had noticed anything amiss. His skin was shiny with washing, and his hair curling wet; he brought a book with him and took his customary seat. He did not speak, and did not seem either particularly to notice or ignore me, just sat at the hearth and read until it was time for tea. He ate his tea with us, and afterwards Mam went off to the evening milking, and Sally went to sew with Mrs Forster, and the boys went out to play, and Dad hadn’t come home anyway, he must have been on an evening’s work at the public, and so we were alone in the house, me and Mr Moore.
    I took up my basketwork, and sat by the window for the light. He stayed in his seat by the low smoulder of the kitchen fire. It was quiet, just the creak and tap of my work, the soft sounds of our breathing, the turning of his page. Once he gave a little huff of laughter, making me start and look at him, at the dark curls on his bent head; he was so lost in his reading that he did not seem to have noticed that he’d made any sound. I wanted to ask him what it was; I wanted to ask him about Robinson Crusoe; I wanted to confess what Reverend Wolfenden had asked me to do, and laugh with him about the strangeness of it all. I kept glancing up at him, my lips opening on the words, but not daring to speak. The willow creaked as I wove it. He turned a page, let a breath go. There was no other noise.
    The bell struck for the quarter hour. Shortly after that, he closed the book and heaved himself out of the seat. I watched him stand, watched the creases in his dark woollen waistcoat unfold; I watched him pass, the unknown book still clamped in his hand. His movements were fatigued and stiff. My hands fell still, the basket a palisade of sticks in my lap; I listened to every creak of the stairs, every footfall overhead, thinking I’d seen the last of him for the evening, and regretting it.
    The footsteps went on; he had not settled to anything. I heard him moving about, as if traversing the room from the bed to box and back again. Then the footsteps crossed the room briskly, the door was opened, and he was out on the landing again, crossing it, coming back downstairs. My chest seemed somehow to compress, as if there was a knot at