has left the village, then there would be no impediment.’
‘Mr Armstrong would be an impediment?’
‘Did you know the man?’
‘No.’
‘I am sorry to say that Ethan Armstrong is an atheist and a revolutionary. A man should keep his marriage vows –made in this church – but it does not surprise me that he has gone.’
‘You think he has just left without a word to anyone? Isn’t that rather strange?’
‘Strange men do strange things, Mrs Shackleton. He does not allow the children to attend Sunday school here or at the chapel. They go to the Quaker children’s meeting and I believe he would stop that if he could. A most ungodly socialist.’
‘But many socialists are Christians.’
‘He is worse than a socialist.’ She looked round. As though fearing the saints’ images on the stained glass might overhear and be shocked, she lowered her voice. ‘The man is a communist.’
‘All the same I’d like to try and find him, or discover what happened to him.’
‘Of course. And so would I. That is why I told the sergeant that I saw Mrs Armstrong by the quarry in the afternoon when I took my walk. I was trying to be helpful. I believe she went to plead with him not to abandon her, but that her pleas fell on stony ground.’
‘You think he has left his wife and children?’
‘It’s just the kind of thing to be expected of a man like that, a communist. Of course, Ethan Armstrong is not dead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘God would not call him. God would not want him.’
Well, there we have it: the secret of eternal life. Become a communist and live forever, because there will be no place for you in heaven or hell.
‘Are you sure it was Mrs Armstrong that you saw?’
‘She wears a most distinctive tartan cape.’
‘What time of day was this?’
‘I take a constitutional after my afternoon nap. It would have been about four o’clock. I walk by the mill, across the river, along the side of the railway track and back across the other bridge. That’s where I saw her.’
‘Did she see you?’
‘She had her back to me, walking towards the quarry.’
I began to see why Mary Jane had asked for my help. The sergeant did not believe Harriet. Miss Trimble told a tale of Mary Jane about to be abandoned by her husband. If this was a taste of village reaction, Mary Jane must feel very alone.
Miss Trimble brought a white calfskin-bound missal from her pocket.
A marker, a card printed with a prayer, fell from the book. I retrieved the marker, handed it to Miss Trimble, and watched as she flicked through the Sunday by Sunday entries, turning the pages more slowly until she reached Easter. She opened the book at the order of service for the Seventh Sunday after Easter: Whitsuntide. This was when Harriet expected to wear her new clothes, and, perhaps, to walk in procession. Miss Trimble inserted the marker. ‘Please give Mrs Armstrong this when you see her. She’ll understand.’
Six
It was eight-thirty when I arrived back at the cottage. I knocked and opened the door.
Harriet sat at the table. She paused, a spoonful of porridge halfway to her mouth. The fair-haired boy beside her glanced up at me, a puzzled look in his slate-blue eyes. The pale almost translucent skin gave him the appearance of a flower fairy who belonged in the leaves of a bluebell.
Harriet said, ‘Mam’s upstairs. You can have some breakfast if you want.’
‘I’ll wait, thanks.’ I smiled at Austin. ‘Hello.’
He mumbled something into his porridge.
Harriet said to him, ‘This is Mrs …’ She changed her mind, or forgot my surname. ‘You can call her Auntie Kate.’
Another mumble from Austin. Perhaps he was as reluctant to be familiar towards me as was his sister.
‘To help us find out about Dad,’ Harriet answered his mumble.
I caught his next words. ‘Was the goblins there?’
She must have told him she’d been to the quarry.
‘There ’int no goblins. That’s just a story to keep kids
‘Mr Armstrong would be an impediment?’
‘Did you know the man?’
‘No.’
‘I am sorry to say that Ethan Armstrong is an atheist and a revolutionary. A man should keep his marriage vows –made in this church – but it does not surprise me that he has gone.’
‘You think he has just left without a word to anyone? Isn’t that rather strange?’
‘Strange men do strange things, Mrs Shackleton. He does not allow the children to attend Sunday school here or at the chapel. They go to the Quaker children’s meeting and I believe he would stop that if he could. A most ungodly socialist.’
‘But many socialists are Christians.’
‘He is worse than a socialist.’ She looked round. As though fearing the saints’ images on the stained glass might overhear and be shocked, she lowered her voice. ‘The man is a communist.’
‘All the same I’d like to try and find him, or discover what happened to him.’
‘Of course. And so would I. That is why I told the sergeant that I saw Mrs Armstrong by the quarry in the afternoon when I took my walk. I was trying to be helpful. I believe she went to plead with him not to abandon her, but that her pleas fell on stony ground.’
‘You think he has left his wife and children?’
‘It’s just the kind of thing to be expected of a man like that, a communist. Of course, Ethan Armstrong is not dead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘God would not call him. God would not want him.’
Well, there we have it: the secret of eternal life. Become a communist and live forever, because there will be no place for you in heaven or hell.
‘Are you sure it was Mrs Armstrong that you saw?’
‘She wears a most distinctive tartan cape.’
‘What time of day was this?’
‘I take a constitutional after my afternoon nap. It would have been about four o’clock. I walk by the mill, across the river, along the side of the railway track and back across the other bridge. That’s where I saw her.’
‘Did she see you?’
‘She had her back to me, walking towards the quarry.’
I began to see why Mary Jane had asked for my help. The sergeant did not believe Harriet. Miss Trimble told a tale of Mary Jane about to be abandoned by her husband. If this was a taste of village reaction, Mary Jane must feel very alone.
Miss Trimble brought a white calfskin-bound missal from her pocket.
A marker, a card printed with a prayer, fell from the book. I retrieved the marker, handed it to Miss Trimble, and watched as she flicked through the Sunday by Sunday entries, turning the pages more slowly until she reached Easter. She opened the book at the order of service for the Seventh Sunday after Easter: Whitsuntide. This was when Harriet expected to wear her new clothes, and, perhaps, to walk in procession. Miss Trimble inserted the marker. ‘Please give Mrs Armstrong this when you see her. She’ll understand.’
Six
It was eight-thirty when I arrived back at the cottage. I knocked and opened the door.
Harriet sat at the table. She paused, a spoonful of porridge halfway to her mouth. The fair-haired boy beside her glanced up at me, a puzzled look in his slate-blue eyes. The pale almost translucent skin gave him the appearance of a flower fairy who belonged in the leaves of a bluebell.
Harriet said, ‘Mam’s upstairs. You can have some breakfast if you want.’
‘I’ll wait, thanks.’ I smiled at Austin. ‘Hello.’
He mumbled something into his porridge.
Harriet said to him, ‘This is Mrs …’ She changed her mind, or forgot my surname. ‘You can call her Auntie Kate.’
Another mumble from Austin. Perhaps he was as reluctant to be familiar towards me as was his sister.
‘To help us find out about Dad,’ Harriet answered his mumble.
I caught his next words. ‘Was the goblins there?’
She must have told him she’d been to the quarry.
‘There ’int no goblins. That’s just a story to keep kids
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