The Telling

at her eyes and lips, all caught up in concern. I loved her for this gentleness.
    ‘Our bed,’ she said, and made to hook an arm under my arm. ‘Come on.’
    I shook my head and pressed my eyes tightly shut. For once, the last thing that I wanted was to be alone with my thoughts. She let me stay there, in her chair, and busied herself with the dinner. After a while, she brought me a cup of mint tea, soothing to the nerves.
    He came down for his dinner. I could not look at him.
    Mam excused me, saying I was poorly, and I could feel his eyes on me a long moment. I would not look at him. He retired to his room after dinner; he did not come down again.
    In the beginning God created the Heavens, and the Earth.
    And the Earth was without form, and void, and Darkness was upon the face of the deep: and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
    And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
     
    Light spilled down through the gaps in the ceiling. I crooked my arm over my eyes, and listened to Sally breathe. The Spirit of God moved upon the waters. Warm shallow waters full of tiny drifting creatures, swimming with fishes and the rocks crusting with mussels and caddises. Water that ground and pounded at the rock seabed, and crumbled it to sand.
    No; it was lifeless water, dark water, empty water, until verses twenty and twenty-one.
    And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may fly about the earth in the open firmament of heaven.
    And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth which the waters brought forth abundantly after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that it was good.  
     
    So fast, in a blink, with just a word.
    Mr Moore was up there, his face as still as stone, leaning over his book, his hand raised to support his head, his fingers splayed in the dark curls of his hair. The ink on his fingertips. Writing. Writing his book.
    *
     
    Monday morning. The vicarage kitchen was white with flour, full of the warm yeasty smell of breadmaking. I had my sleeves rolled and was kneading dough on the deal table, under Mrs Briggs’s close scrutiny. I knew I would be called to account that day; the Reverend would send for me. My thoughts twisted like a wool-scrap on a twig. I leaned my body into the work, pressed and folded and pressed again the warm fleshy dough. If only I had told the truth when the truth was simple and safe; if only I had told the Reverend about the books when I had yet to see what temptation into error they contained. My arm was haunted by the pressure of his hand; I would almost have thought to see its print upon my bare flesh. My thoughts were haunted by the echoes of his words; they fell into the rhythm of my work. He had denied God, he walked alone in darkness; he needed guidance; he needed the Reverend’s help. But would the Reverend really help a man he had called a viper? And yet, and yet, I kept returning to what he had professed, without hope of redemption or reward: we must love one another . Every time I tried to think ahead, I could see my rough hand extended to knock on the library door, I could hear the Reverend’s voice calling me in, I could see the door swinging slowly open, and me moving silently into the room; I could see the books glinting with gold, and the Reverend sitting in his chair, his waistcoat stretched into creases, and I could see his lips parting to form the words of his first question, but after that, nothing: images tumbled into confusion, thoughts would not come clear. I could not see myself speaking; I could not begin to think what I would say.
    It happened, as I knew it must. The bell rang above our heads, making me jump. Mrs Briggs said, ‘Scrape that slather off your hands, get washed.’
    ‘Can’t Maggie go?’
    ‘And have her come back straight away saying it’s you they’re wanting? And don’t answer back.’
    *
     
    There were green willow boughs in the hearth: no pretence even that a fire was to be lit. The day was warm and the room full of golden sunlight. He was standing at the open window, basking in the warmth. I had knocked and he had told me to come in: he knew that I was there. I came to a halt in the middle of the carpet. I was conscious of the tick of the library clock, the warm blaze of sunshine on my face, I didn’t know what I would say.
    The window gave on to shrubbery-patched lawns, the boundary wall, the fields