The Telling

whole of the congregation. ‘Cast him from you; cast him from your homes. This man is a criminal.’
    ‘He’s paid more than amply for it, by the sound of things,’ said Joe Stott.
    ‘Take him to the Old Hall,’ the Reverend urged. ‘Lock him up.’
    No one moved.
    Someone cleared their throat: ‘I’ve never really understood; what is an Atheist?’
    Someone else tried to silence the speaker, but other voices broke out again all over, addressing questions to each other, answering them, calling out to Mr Moore. I heard someone else talking about the Charter, saying that they would sign it soon as look at it. Reverend Wolfenden stood bolt upright in the pulpit, his white surplice like a marble column. Mr Moore stood in the aisle, addressed from all sides, having his sleeve plucked and more questions thrown at him before he could answer the earlier ones. All sense of ritual was shattered. The Reverend made his way down the pulpit steps, through the chancel, and out through the vestry door. Mr Aitken and Mr Forster slipped away through the main door. I don’t think anyone else noticed them go. I knew that this could not be forgiven, this could never be got over. The whole church was in commotion. People were talking at the top of their voices, elbowing, pushing to get past each other to get to Mr Moore. He stood trying to answer someone, trying to lay out an argument, while all around was bedlam. He finished speaking, his questioner nodded, satisfied. The noise did not abate, but for just a moment there was stillness around him; for just a moment everyone was engaged with someone else. He turned his head and looked at me. I managed to form a smile. He gave me only an abrupt upward movement of the head, not quite a nod, as if in agreement, or understanding, but of what, I didn’t know, and my expression began to falter, and I saw his change again; a questioning , concerned frown. Then someone laid a hand on his shoulder, dragging his attention away. The aisle swarmed with people heading for the door; he was carried by the swell.
    *
     
    The crowd thinned and clumped in the street. The men went ahead and the women followed after. The children fled, glad for their parents’ distraction and the opportunity for play; as we trudged up the dusty street their shouts and laughter rang out from the fields. I didn’t know where we were going: I don’t think anybody really did. We were just leaving church, and following whoever went before. Up ahead, I saw my father leaning against the wall in front of the Old Hall. He was half slumped, scuffing the gravel, making a trough with his toe. His head went up as the first group approached; he pushed away from the wall and moved out into the street, attaching himself to Mr Moore. He received only the slightest of acknowledgements. A nod from Mr Moore and a word from one or two of the men. My dad muttered something back.
    I looked around for my mam. She was just behind me, her face pale and lined and somehow fallen-looking. I offered her my arm, but she shook her head.
    ‘As if things weren’t hard enough every day without this,’ she protested. ‘What has he done? What has he gone and done?’
    I saw the same look on every woman’s face. They had fed these men, and washed their clothes, and mopped up their crumbs and slops of tea; they’d borne their children, they’d nursed their colds, they’d sat yawning across the fire from them night after night, and year upon year, and never once in all that time had one of them done anything that could have presaged this. Church was broken up, and Sunday was all out of kilter, and there was no knowing what would follow next.
    ‘What’s got into your Frank?’ Aunty Sue demanded. Mam just shook her head, her face pinched with shame. I peered ahead, trying to catch sight of Mr Moore’s tall dark shape between the moving bodies.
    ‘He’s over that side,’ Mam said. My cheeks flushed and I glanced at her, and then at where she was looking, and I realized that she meant my dad.
    We passed over Brunt Hill and came down the slope towards home. The men were stopping there, gathering at the foot of our steps, as if of one accord, as if it were the obvious and natural thing to do. My Mam stiffened at my side; we slowed, and stopped a little way off from the crowd, a little way up the hill.
    ‘Oh Lord,’ she said. ‘Oh Lord preserve us.’
    ‘Let’s have him then,’ a voice called.
    ‘Aye, let’s hear from Moore;