The Telling Read Online Free

covered in thread and lint and Agnes had laughed and said it looked like it had snowed indoors.
    I managed to speak. “Is it often this bad?”
    Agnes’s mam shrugged. “Every time is different.”
    She turned to go on down the stairs, as if this was my question answered. I stood there, feeling cold. I had said that it would be all right.
    I could hear the women moving around in the kitchen, and low voices: Mrs. Skelton was awake and they were talking softly. I heard the clunk of stove-iron and clink of china as they made tea. I went down the stairs and straight outdoors. I needed air.
    Outside a fine soft rain was falling. I pushed my hair back, tucked my shawl over my head and lifted my face to the clouded sky. I tried to pray. I tried to thank God for her safe delivery, but my prayers melted in the rain. I leaned there against the doorjamb and I cried selfish tears. I couldn’t do without her.
    I heard the racket of clogs on the wash-house lane, voices; it could be my mam back with the other hands from Storrs Farm. I wiped my palms across my cheeks and ran for home.
    I came in and started talking brightly to Dad, saying how Agnes had had a boy, that they were calling it William Stephen and what was the point giving a child the exact same name as its dad, he’d only get pet names all his life so you might as well think of something new to start with. I had my shawl off and was marching over to the fire to get the kettle on again so that it was hot for when Mam came in, and then I saw him.
    He’d been sitting in Mam’s chair. He was getting to his feet. He was dark-clothed and tall; a good span taller than my father. Tall as the Reverend, though lean, and his clothes seemed more like a working man’s. I don’t know what it was about his features—the dark eyes, the strong nose and heavy brows, the clean-shaven lip and chin—but something just kept me looking at him. As if his face were a puzzle, and I couldn’t work it out.
    Then I realized what it was. I’d never seen him before. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d come across someone that I had never seen before.
    “Ah, Lizzy,” my father said, “this is Mr. Moore.”
    I nodded. “Good evening.”
    He dipped his head, returned the greeting. His voice was strangely accented; he was not a local man. I reached up to smooth my hair and became suddenly conscious of my hands, of how chapped and rough they were, calloused as an old hedger’s. I tucked them behind my back. I’d never, not until that moment, thought of my hands as anything but cold or sore or deft or fumbling. I don’t think I’d ever thought about my hair at all. I couldn’tthink what to say. My father leaned back in his seat, grinning. Mr. Moore didn’t say anything, just looked at me, and didn’t smile. The silence continued. I began to think he was expecting something from me. He was in working clothes, but his stature and carriage were that of a gentleman. Was he waiting for me to curtsey? I glanced back at Dad. He nodded at me, his lips pursed. I turned to Mr. Moore, looked him in the eye, and curtseyed. He held my gaze, watching as I bent one knee, wobbled, scraped my clog toe along the flags and dipped my head stiffly. I have never made a graceful curtsey in my life. For a moment, his face was sober, his brows knotted. Then he laughed, his face breaking up into creases.
    “You mistake me,” he said.
    I felt my cheeks colour. “So it seems.”
    He stopped laughing then. My face burned.
    Dad made a clumsy joke about the refinements of the establishment, and I turned away, and went to tidy up my work, and clear the leftovers of his tea, and all the time I was blushing, fiercely conscious of myself, of how ungainly and uncouth I must seem. I slipped upstairs, and washed my face in yesterday’s water. I loosened my hair, gave it forty strokes, plaited it and pinned it up again. I looked at my hands, the yellowed calluses on the palms, the nails stained dark and rough. I soaked