The Strange Affair of Adelaide Harris by Leon Garfield Page A

Nicholas’s in particular. They were not likely to do better elsewhere . . . even though the actual building stood in need of repair. Exposed as it was to the winds from the sea, even the house of God was subject to the elements. The roof leaked. Money was required to restore it. And where should such money come from? From those who would benefit. From this very congregation who prayed and expected their prayers to be answered.
    Here Mr. Hudson paused so that the equity of the arrangement might sink in. Harris felt in his pockets and wondered how much he could afford on the chance of a quick return. He had reached the final pit of despair in which anything was worth trying.
    He had a shilling and a sixpence. Strenuously he wrestled with his conscience, arguing that Mr. Hudson would never know that if he gave the sixpence, a shilling had been withheld. But God would know, said a pious voice within. “Yah!” snarled Harris,whose faith was a rubbery commodity and tended to shift out of the way under pressure. “Who cares?”
    He fished in his pockets and came upon a battered brass button that a horse had trodden flat. He mused. Why the sixpence when the button would make as good a noise in the collecting box? After all, it was the thought that counted—and Mr. Hudson would certainly
think
it was money.
    When the service ended, Harris frowned and dropped the button in the box. The vicar smiled and wagged his clasped hands behind his back, and Bostock, seeing Harris’s gesture, sighed and put in a shilling, which was all he had.
    â€œWell!” said Harris, challenging the great host of heaven. “Now show me you’re really there! Where’s Adelaide?”
    The congregation had left the cool shadows of the church and were out in the pagan sunshine.
    â€œAnswer me!” muttered Harris, looking up defiantly at the golden pastures of the universe. “Or you’ll be the loser!”
    Thus Harris barbed his soul and aimed it at the sky—to bring down an angel, or nothing. That he himself had not been absolutely honest in this trial of faith did not disturb him in the least. On the contrary, he argued with Jesuitical subtlety that the Almighty now had every opportunity for displaying His vaunted understanding and forgiveness.
    He waited while round about he heard the clatter of gossip and the salty grumbling of fisherfolk as the Sunday town, in homespun and starfish ribbons,jostled him out of their homeward way. But nothing came to him from the invisible God. Instead, sturdily stumping across the graveyard, came Bostock. He had left his family, gone out of his way to raise his hat, with furious blushes, to the wild, slender Miss Harris, and come to join his friend.
    Harris, who was at the very crisis of belief, looked depressed, and Bostock wondered how he might cheer him up. He did not like to see Harris miserable.
    â€œI expect she’ll turn up somewhere, Harris,” he mumbled, and laid his hand timidly on his friend’s narrow shoulder.
    Harris turned. “Bosty, old friend,” he whispered. “There ain’t no God.”
    The words struck Bostock like a blow in the stomach. They were so strange and unexpected.
    â€œThe sky’s empty, old friend,” went on Harris grimly. “There’s just us, Bosty.”
    â€œWhat, you and me?” Bostock was shaken to the depths of his soul.
    â€œNo,” said Harris irritably. “Mankind. All of us down here. We’re all there is, Bosty. The rest is—is air.”
    â€œAre you sure, Harris?” asked Bostock pleadingly. He knew he hadn’t the intellect to question his friend, but at the same time he did not want to abandon his own beliefs without a struggle. They meant a great deal to him, and had it been anyone else but wise old Harris who’d shaken them, he’d have clouted him without more ado. “How—how do you
know
?”
    Harris frowned. He did not care to admit