LITMIR.BIZ

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      Since the first minister had taken sick and fled the cove ten years ago, the bettermost and a few others had kept the faith, but most had gone back to their old ways. Before he went, the old minister had got Aunt Madgie to set up a Sunday school and that was when I learnt to read. The school came to an end, but we still had a Bible in our home and I’d spent many a summer evening reading the wondrous tales in those pages.

      Now we were to have a new minister. Meetings were held in Grace Skewes’ house, and the bettermost were paying towards the works on the chapel. I had no part to play in any of this. It seemed that even though Gideon owed his life to me, I was cast out into darkness. But what was I to do? We Blights could hardly pay towards his chapel – we had barely enough money to feed ourselves. And what else had I to offer?

      The first prayer meeting was held one night in an abandoned storeroom down by the quay. That night, when I set off down the lane, Tegen chased me and tried to hold me back. ‘If you go into that place tonight, it will remind all and sundry that we took that man into our house. To think of it – two unwed women! At least wait until the next meeting.’

      ‘Let them talk,’ I said, freeing my arm of her grip.

      She lowered her voice. ‘Loveday’s already after your blood. You know Johnenry jilted her after that night when you and he . . .’

      ‘Loveday can go hang.’

      ‘I’m telling you to stay at home for your own sake.’

      ‘No, you ain’t. You’re frightened of what folk might say about us.’

      ‘Oh, how can I talk some sense into you? Your head’s been turned by this fellow and it can only go to the bad.’

      We came to a standstill and stood in the lane a moment, face to face. ‘Stay at home, Teg, if that’s what you want, but I’m going along tonight. Nothing like this have ever happened in the village, and I ain’t missing out just to keep Loveday Skewes happy.’ I went on down the lane.

      ‘If you mean to go there in spite of all, then I’m coming too,’ she said, catching up with me.

      A minute later, we’d reached the old storeroom. We stepped into the dark and were almost deafened by the clamour of women’s voices. They were packed in like pilchards in a basket and I feared we would never find a place. The only light was the bilious glow of the smoking tapers hanging on the walls all around the barn. The pews were no more than planks laid across tubs, with a rough pulpit at the front and a makeshift Communion rail. On the men’s side, no more than half a dozen fellows had come. I elbowed Tegen in the ribs to get her to look at old Thomas, who was kneeling on his handkerchief in a great show of sanctity, his hands clutched under his chin in prayer.

      I knew without needing to look that heads were turning towards me. The pecking order was clear enough, with Millie Hicks and Grace Skewes in the front row and Loveday Skewes sitting primly alongside her mother in a brand-new bonnet of virginal white. Soon enough, a hush came over us and down the aisle marched Gideon in his black greatcoat. I only dared glimpse as he swept past, nodding at one or two hearers who caught his eye. All that could be heard were his footsteps on the mud, the hiss of the tapers and the odd creak of a bench. He stepped up to the pulpit and fiddled with his papers, bowing his head in silent prayer before resting his forehead on a huge Bible. I saw that the Ten Commandments had been pinned to the wall behind him. Eventually he lifted his head and put his hands before him as if groping for some hidden object in the air. His shoulders shook with strong emotion. I glanced at the women down my row and saw a row of mouths hanging open.

      Gideon began his prayer, his voice deep, his words filling the space up to the rafters. I took in hardly a word of it as my gaze was fixed on his flailing hands, which told me more of his passion than the dour words flying from his lips. When he was done praying, he took up a great hymn book and drew it towards him. He called out the hymn number and asked for Sister Skewes to come forward and line out the verses. Loveday Skewes stepped meek as a lamb up to the pulpit. This was the same Loveday who liked to blacken my name at every chance. There she stood, angelic, with her flaxen curls teased forward so they wriggled out from under her new bonnet. Being a dainty little thing, all that could be seen of her behind the lectern was the top of that white bonnet bobbing up and down. I noticed the minx wasn’t so worldly as to wear bows of ribbons in it.

      She read aloud the first two lines, tripping over every word, for the sake of them who weren’t able to read. This was the greater number of the hearers, although they tried to hide it by gazing at the roll of paper over the Communion rail where the words were shown. The minister tapped a tuning fork against the pulpit and it hummed for a moment before Loveday led the singing. She soon went off key, so that those of us with a better ear were left to steer the tune back to the proper pitch. The hymn spoke of God’s mercy but any who heard it were like to abandon all hope, with its endless shambling repeats, and wailing, and the lack of aught you would take for a tune. How I longed to let my voice surge above the throng, to adorn those dismal verses with a few pretty lilts. To make matters worse, the congregation had to halt after every two lines while Sister Skewes, in her brazen little bonnet, stuttered out the next couple of lines.

      When we were at last put out of our misery, the minister opened the Holy Book and began a reading on the Prodigal Son. His dark fringe fell over his face whenever he grew passionate, and he swept it back with his beautiful hand. Every woman’s rapt gaze was on the handsome stranger. I was afraid of catching his eye so I cast my gaze about until it alighted on the seamstress and scandal-monger, Millie Hicks, who sat on the end of the front row. She’d turned aside to face the pulpit, and I could see the garment spread over her lap, and how she set the stitches in it, turning the fray under her thumb as she made a seam of perfect straightness. When she heard that the Prodigal Son had realised the error of his ways, she shouted ‘Hallelujah!’ without missing a stitch.

      When, at last, the sermon was done, the fattened calf slaughtered and the Prodigal Son back at his father’s breast, the preacher invited others to exhort, to unburden their souls of whatever pressed heavily upon them. The first to stand was Abraham Isbell, who said that now he was under conviction he was so taken up with worship that he no longer had time to do any work. The minister got out of him that he had a family of twelve to feed, and advised him to temper his enthusiasm with due paternal duty. I’m sure I wasn’t alone in stifling a laugh. Abe had always been an idle gadabout.

      I was itching to get up and speak, but Tegen took hold of my arm. ‘Don’t you dare, now,’ she whispered.

      The next to testify was that old windbag, Henry Cutler, who all dreaded meeting in the lane for fear they would never make it home in time for dinner. He told of how he had awoken with a sudden conviction of his own sin. It happened about eleven o’clock at night on 1st April, and he would never forget that happy hour. By quarter past the hour he had gained a fearful understanding of the damning nature of sin and his many slights against God and was surprised the earth did not open up and swallow him. Alongside me, Tegen put her hand over her mouth to hide her yawn, and it must have been catching because half the women on the bench did the same.

      Henry droned on. The following day, he said, he wrestled with his soul from the moment he rose and knelt to pray, at just after five in the morning until dusk at just before seven-thirty. He pondered the Redeemer’s merits and saw that he must be eternally undone unless he took them to his heart, and this could only be obtained by faith in Christ. At about nine o’clock last night, Christ appeared within him and pardoned every last one of his sins, so that now he stood before us, his soul at liberty. He spoke of a great many other trifling matters besides, and each one was marked by the time of day or night that it took place as if he were more clock than man. Next the foolish dolt set about confessing each and every private shame he could recall, including at least one that did not bear repeating in mixed company. I would have died sooner than reveal the least of my own secret vices.

      ‘Glory, glory, glory!’ shouted old Thomas, whose knees must have been on fire by now after kneeling so long on his handkerchief.

      Next to speak was dear old Aunty Merryn. She told the minister she had been in the world sixty-two years last Michaelmas and had never yet been saved. Having left

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