The Telling

faltered, and his dark head turned, and he saw me. He stopped and regarded me with an expression of puzzled concern. I smiled uneasily.
    ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.
    I glanced from him to his companions; they’d stopped too, a little way ahead, and were waiting for him. I didn’t know what to say. Mr Moore followed my line of sight and registered my concern.
    ‘Go on, I’ll see you there,’ he called to them.
    The men exchanged a glance and went on down the hill; we watched them cross the beck, then begin the slow climb up the hill towards the village. I was glad they were not local men. We were alone: Mr Moore in sunlight, me in the shade of the tree.
    ‘Is something wrong?’ Mr Moore asked again, and came towards me, into the shade. His face was blued by the shadow; there was a bloom of wood-dust on his skin. I felt an edge of anxiety at what I’d done, putting myself here, alone, with a man. He was studying my face.
    ‘Elizabeth,’ he said. I could feel the warmth of his body near mine; his shirt was damp with sweat. ‘You’re pale as buttermilk.’
    He took my elbow and gently steered me towards the bole. I let myself be guided back and sat down on my shawl where it was still spread. He crouched down in front of me and dropped his tool bag on to the grass. There were clear lines, free of dust, at the corners of his eyes. He must have worked in full sun that day, squinting against the glare, at the clouds of dust.
    My mouth was dry; the words came out strangely: ‘Who are you?’
    He said, ‘You know who I am.’
    ‘I don’t, I really don’t. You live in our house, you share our bread, you dole out your books like they were barley sugar, and all the time you keep yourself to yourself, you don’t say a word, and no one knows a thing about you, not really.’
    He tilted his head, his brows raising; he seemed to accept this. He shifted, sat down at the edge of my shawl.
    ‘Was it Paradise Lost ?’ he said. ‘Did it upset you? It is rather extreme; I shouldn’t have started you so soon on that.’
    I shook my head, looking at the man who had made the bookcase , and who had made those pictures out of words. The wolf that legislates for the lamb. The high grille obscured with passing feet. The loom, the heap of straw. The baby that sucked its mother’s blood.
    ‘You said you were a carpenter.’
    ‘I am.’
    I shook my head. ‘I read your book.’
    He frowned, puzzled, fumbling for my meaning. ‘My book?’
    ‘The one you’ve been writing in. The ledger.’
    He raised his hands to his face, wiping his fingers across his dust-stuck sweaty skin. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
    ‘The only book in the entire collection that I forbade you,’ he said. ‘When I laid out every other for you, even put out the ones I thought you particularly would enjoy on your own shelf for you to read, you took the one book you were forbidden and you read it?’
    I spoke low, ashamed: ‘Yes.’
    He looked at me in silence. I was too young, I remember thinking: I was too young for this, far too young to deal with him. He looked tired, hot, and older than I’d thought him, the wood dust smeared into his sweat. Then his face broke into creases and he laughed.
    ‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘Good for you.’
    He took a bottle of beer from his bag and uncorked it. He offered it to me, and I took a sup, and passed it back: the beer was soft and malty on the tongue. He drank, then pinched the dampness from the corners of his lips with thumb and forefinger.
    ‘Reverend was asking me about you,’ I ventured. I felt lighter for the confession.
    ‘When was this?’ he asked.
    ‘The day after the first meeting.’
    ‘What did you tell him?’
    ‘Not much. I didn’t know anything. But I was wondering, how did he know?’
    ‘Know what?’
    ‘That you’re a Chartist,’ I said, trying out the word, ‘and an agitator and a democrat and a viper.’
    ‘Is that what he told you?’ he shook his head, half-laughed again. ‘D’you think I’m a viper?’
    ‘I could think of better words.’ He glanced at me, almost smiling. ‘But the thing is, he seemed to have heard of you already. He knew about you.’
    ‘You stick your head above the parapet, and people notice. And take shots at it.’
    He set the bottle upright between us and leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him. I felt strangely at ease, as if this was as it should be: someone seeing us would think we