The Telling

did you get the book?’ I asked.
    ‘I bought it from a dealer.’
    Reverend Wolfenden would be stalking down the aisle to the church door.
    ‘And where did the dealer get it from?’
    ‘It belonged to some gentleman’s library that was broken up after he died; see the initials?’ He reached over, closed the book, shifted it around to show me the spine. ‘D.F.C.? They’re his.’
    The bell tolled again; the air in the room seemed almost to hum with resonance. The congregation would be on its feet, shuffling into the aisles. The Reverend would stand at the open doorway , ready to shake a hand, to nod, to give a word of caution or approval. The cold waters of knowledge stifled me; I found it hard to breathe.
    ‘I shouldn’t have read it. You knew what was in it; you shouldn’t have let me.’
    He leaned back, looked at me a long moment.
    ‘You should take this in no way as an insult,’ he said, ‘but you’re talking bobbins. Think about what you’ve just said. It’s no business of mine to dictate to you what you can and cannot read. What are books for ?’
    The bell tolled out again; the room was full of it, my head was full of it. My thoughts had slipped their moorings and were dragged away. The congregation would be gathering at the church door; there would be polite Sunday talk. My mother would be approaching the Reverend’s station, dropping him a curtsey. He, his hands clasped in front of him, twisting his neck above his starched white collar, would crane his head down to her and say, Where is your elder daughter? Where is Lizzy?
    ‘What were you reading, when I came in?’ I asked.
    He glanced down at the open ledger. ‘It’s something I am writing.’
    ‘May I read it?’
    ‘I don’t think so. It’s my own account – unfinished, private –’
    He began to smile, realizing what he said.
    ‘You dictate that it’s not for me to read, then,’ I said.
    ‘Because it’s not very good, because I’d be ashamed to show you, not –’
    The bell tolled out once more. With the Reverend leaning so close, Mam would have to take a half-step backwards before she began to explain, her face reddening as if at a guilty conscience, as if she had known all along that I was skiving. In the conflict and muddle of my thoughts, one thing was clear and still: however much I might want it – the books, the peace, the conversation , the man in this room – I couldn’t have it.
    ‘This book,’ I said, pushing it across the table towards him. ‘Lyell’s book, it’s wrong.’
    He folded his arms, leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
    ‘I think you do.’
    ‘Wrong factually, or wrong morally?’ He held up a palm to stop me. ‘Bear in mind you’ve only got the first volume there; don’t judge too hastily, you can’t be sure what else he had to say.’
    ‘I regret reading even this.’
    ‘I certainly didn’t recommend it –’
    ‘It’s heresy.’
    ‘That’s a bit strong.’ He leaned back in his seat, folded his arms. He seemed to be enjoying himself considerably. It made me furious.
    ‘It doesn’t fit with the Good Book, with the Creation,’ I snapped.
    The church bell tolled again; the distance between one ring and the next had grown; the sexton would be letting the rope slip between his palms; letting the bell rock itself back to stillness.
    ‘Forgive me, it’s been a long time since I read Lyell, but as I recall, he shies away from the more radical implications of his theories. He never claims that the Bible is actually in error .’
    ‘There is no call to laugh at me, Mr Moore.’
    He leaned forward, regarded me with what seemed like honesty. ‘I assure you, I am not laughing.’
    ‘Anyway. There is no need for him to make such a claim. His argument is there throughout, running through everything like a bad thread. There is no place for Eden in this book.’
    Mr Moore inclined his head, seemed about to speak, but didn’t. It seemed to me that his calm demeanour barely covered a profound amusement.
    ‘What if you are to God as that shrew was to you,’ he said. ‘What seems countless aeons to us might seem just seven days to Him? So Genesis is not contradicted, just considered on a different scale. Would that work?’
    I stood up, my chair scraping back; ‘The Lord is not a housemaid , sir, and I am not a shrew.’
    He laughed outright; he shook his head and laughed. I thought, he’ll stop me, he’ll stop me leaving. He’ll say something that will