The Telling

barely there, and I couldn’t be easy in her company. I couldn’t read: I couldn’t face my books; I couldn’t bear that he was there to watch me trail along their well-trampled tracks again.
    One evening, my mam said I looked like I was ailing, and she got the tonic down from the dresser, and poured me an eggcupful. The next morning, she got up with me, and saw that I had something to eat, and another dose of tonic before I left for work. I welcomed the touch of her hard hand on my chin as she tipped the treacly mixture into my mouth. It tasted good: rich, sweet, of aniseed and other herbs; it made me shake my head and shudder, and it softened the edges of the day, helped me drift into sleep at night.
    I heard them talking one evening, my mother and father. I was working a basket, turning it in my lap to weave the withy through the frame. I must have looked as if I were dreaming, or dozing, or dazed after taking my tonic. They had their heads close together, closer than they ever usually were, whispering. I heard Mam say, she , and again, she , the hissing sound of it carrying better than the other words. I kept my eyes on the basket and my hands moving, pretended not to notice. Mam nodded towards me, still speaking quietly to my dad.
    ‘Well, the lad needs some encouragement,’ he said out loud.
    Mam shushed him and glanced at me, and we looked at each other a moment, and then she looked away.
    The next evening, after tea, Mr Moore and my dad and Mam were all in the kitchen. It was still light and would be for hours yet. The boys were out playing. Mam and I were at the baskets, Dad read his paper and Mr Moore a book, which I took care not to let my eyes linger on. There was a knock; the kind that does not expect an answer; the door opened. I could hear the children playing out, and fiddle music from up the street. Thomas came in.
    He said a general good evening, and pulled the door shut behind him, cutting off the children’s calls, the music and the evening air. He seemed stiff and strange. His eyes skimmed over Mr Moore, lingered on my dad, and then rested on my mam. He didn’t look at me. Mam dipped her head, almost a nod. Thomas’s expression seemed to ease for just a moment, then to screw even tighter. He turned to me, and cleared his throat.
    ‘The evening’s fine, will you come out walking for a while?’
    I noticed Mr Moore lift his head and look at Thomas, then at me.
    I glanced down at the unfinished basket. ‘I have too much work to do.’
    ‘Leave it,’ Dad said abruptly, making me flinch. ‘The baskets can wait.’
    Dad got up from his chair, lifted the basket from my lap and took it over to the stack under the stairs, leaving me without excuse or defence. Mam raised herself from her chair and went to the chest. I stood up to protest. She brought my Sunday bonnet out, and over to me, and set it on my head, and smoothed the ribbons. She tied them under my chin. I could smell the lavender from the chest. She didn’t meet my eye.
    I was at a loss. Finding myself so conspired against, it was impossible to resist without giving real offence. Mam gave me a little push on the small of the back, and I crossed the room towards Thomas. As he opened the door for me, I glanced back, and caught Mr Moore’s dark gaze. I had a sense that it lingered on me after I had turned away.
    Thomas and I walked in silence; I was astonished at what had so easily been managed between them. The evening was a soft one, grey and cool. We walked down to the shilloe beds, side by side, a basket’s distance apart. Thomas skimmed stones, and I watched them bounce and ripple across the river. The heron flapped away, legs trailing.
    ‘Will you come to the Harvest Dance with me?’ Thomas asked, brushing his hands.
    I watched the heron rise above the hornbeam trees, its slow wing-flap dragging it higher and higher into the air, away.
    I said, ‘If you want me to.’
    *
     
    When I got back, Mr Moore was still sitting in the kitchen. He glanced up when I came in. Thomas had followed me in, and came to stand by my side. My father regarded us both, somehow differently, as if a change had been effected which was for him a source of pride. For a moment I just stood there, conscious of Mr Moore’s enquiring gaze, as Dad folded his arms and looked fondly on me and Thomas, and Thomas stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, and grinned.
    ‘Where’s Mam?’ I asked.
    ‘Evening milking,’ Mr Moore replied unexpectedly.