LITMIR.BIZ

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one that had taken my brother. I had just come to the point where news of my death reached Bathsheba Scantlebury—she was secretly shattered—when I saw that the hour was nearly two o’clock. God’s Work awaited just down the road, and so I gave myself a shake and roused myself to it.

      Old Ned Moyle had been failing badly these past few months. He was past ninety and no longer able to walk to church, so I’d fallen into the habit of taking the Communion bread and wine out to him. This meant a five-mile trudge along the cliffs to the fisherman’s cottage where Old Ned lived with his son, Young Ned, and then of course a five-mile trudge back, which was no bargain—let me tell you—when the weather was up. But on a fine spring afternoon, I confess I enjoyed it—a walk that was all sharp salt air and plunging ocean vistas, with prowling waves and secret coves where you could picture low-slung sloops at anchor under the black flag, and Reeking Scantlebury plotting his depredations, and Black Bess in the fo’cs’le feeding your kidneys to Beaky Norman.

      The Moyles lived in the sort of rough dwelling you’ll find all along the Cornish coast, clinging to the rock like barnacles. Their low stone cottage was set into the hillside, with a steep path winding past a desultory vegetable garden and down to the sea. The sun was sloping westward when I arrived. Young Ned was at work out front, mending his nets. “Why, it’s the young Reverend, coom to zee us,” he exclaimed, as surprised as he had been last Sunday afternoon, and each Sunday afternoon before that. Young Ned was well on the shady side of seventy himself—still as strong as a bull, but his memory was no longer what it once had been. The result was that life was full of surprises for Young Ned, and some of them were pleasant, which I suppose must count as a blessing.

      “Coom in, young Reverend,” he beamed, wringing my hand and leading me inside. It was cramped and damp but surprisingly clean, though full of clutter and fisherman’s paraphernalia. The stick that was Old Ned reclined in a cot by the window, covered with a tatty old shawl. I performed the Eucharist with my customary sense that someone else would be more convincing in the role, pausing as usual while Old Ned gummed the wafer and worked it down. Afterwards I stayed for a chat, which was identical to the chat we had enjoyed the previous Sunday, and all the Sundays preceding, the gist being as follows:

      YOUNG NED: “Well, Da. Here’s the young reverend.”

      OLD NED: “It’s the legs, you know. They’ve give out.”

      REVD BERESFORD: “I’m afraid God sends these things to try us.”

      OLD NED: “WHAT?”

      YOUNG NED: “E ZAYS, GOD ZENDS THESE THINGS!”

      OLD NED: “Aye, God zave the Queen.”

      (Brief interlude, in which are vague patriotic noddings.)

      YOUNG NED: “Well, Da. Here’s the young reverend.”

      Et cetera. The chat lingered, as it often did, owing to the excellent quality of Young Ned’s ale. We toasted the Queen, and the Prince Consort, and various heirs to the throne, and it was well past five o’clock by the time I rose and blessed Old Ned— something that always made me feel utterly fraudulent, but also oddly happy. Young Ned walked me out to the head of the path. It was clear there was something on his mind, and I waited while he hummed and hawed.

      “’E’s not entirely well, is ’e?” he said at length, with a sidelong look, as if half hoping that I might contradict him.

      “He’s an old man, Ned,” I said. Sometimes it’s best to stick with the blindingly obvious.

      “’Is legs’ve give out.”

      “His poor old legs.”

      “Aye. Them legs.”

      Young Ned stood pondering his father’s legs for a few moments, rocking from toes to heels, sucking ruminatively upon his teeth.

      “But it’s more than that, isn’t it?” he resumed. “I’m ztarting to think . . . ’e might be gone, one of these days. One of these days quite zoon.”

      There was such wistful look in his eyes—a man of more than seventy, about to be orphaned—that my heart went out.

      “We’ll all be gone one of these days, Ned. But here’s what I think. I’m pretty certain—I think I can say for a fact—that he’ll be here when I come back next Sunday afternoon. So we’ll raise a glass of your excellent ale, and we’ll toast Her Majesty and all her loyal subjects, and we’ll spend a splendid afternoon.”

      Sometimes when we open our mouths, the right words come spilling out. Young Ned began to nod, a happy look creeping across his weathered old face. “Well, young Reverend,” he said. “We’ll all look forward to that.”

      I LEFT WITH a feeling of warmth inside that wasn’t entirely due to Ned’s ale. For a few lovely moments I was buoyed by the sense that God’s business had just been carried out—and carried out by me—and that against all odds I might actually have a vocation for this after all. I imagined Toby and his angel smiling down in dewy-eyed approval, and all at once I felt a powerful urge to go searching for fallen sparrows. But this passed, for the weather was turning.

      It was later than I’d intended. Twilight was creeping across the hills, and with it came a rising wind and dark clouds massing overhead. I pulled my coat more tightly round myself and hurried; you didn’t want to be caught on the cliffs after dark, especially with a storm rising. I had reached the crest of the headland, just where the trail grew narrowest and the rocks plunged most precipitously into the sea below, when I heard the sound of hoofbeats behind me, emerging out of the roar of wind and waves. I looked back, and shouted in alarm, for the rider was already upon me.

      “Look out, you fool!”

      This being the rider’s shout, not mine. A moment later I was raising myself to hands and knees, winded and indignant, having sprawled for safety half a heartbeat before the hooves thundered past. Ahead, the horse was brought skittering to a stop.

      “I say, look where you’re going—you could have killed me!”

      “Then stay out of the damned road!”

      A great grey gelding shied and pranced, and I recognized the rider. It was Bathsheba Scantlebury, in tall black boots and a black riding cloak. She gave a little start as she recognized me in return.

      “Is that the curate?” she exclaimed.

      She brought the horse skittering closer, to be sure.

      “The Revd Mr Beresford—it is you. What the Devil are you doing up here on the cliffs, with a storm coming on?” Her hair was loose, and her colour was high with the wind and the gallop. Cocking her head, she eyed me with jaundiced appraisal. “I’d best not discover you’ve been poaching.”

      “P-poaching?”

      You try getting the word out without a splutter—an accusation like that, when you’re already fair dancing with the indignation of it.

      “This is all Scantlebury land. Lay a hand on a single pheasant, and I don’t care who you are—I’ll have you horsewhipped.”

      “You sulky supercilious bitch,” I cried—or at least, imagined myself crying. Indeed, I imagined stalking forward in seething masculine dudgeon, and saying other things besides, such as: “You’re the one who should be horsewhipped, Miss Scantlebury. I’ve half a mind to turn you over a knee myself—and I see by the wanton gleam in those eyes that you might jolly well like it!”

      But of course I said no such thing, being a man of the cloth.

      “In point of fact I’ve been to see a parishioner,” I said, clutching what tatters of dignity I could lay hands upon. “Not that it’s any particular business of yours. I just walked five miles to comfort the afflicted, and now I’m walking fives miles home again. That’s what a priest does, Miss Scantlebury, because that’s what the Lord expects of him. I am also called to feed the hungry,” I added, “and clothe the naked.”

      Damn. The

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