Ingenious pain, Andrew Miller [little red riding hood ebook .txt] 📗

into the blossom cups. It had looked so odd at first, a boy on tiptoe with his tongue in a flower. Later, when Sam had gone, he was tempted to do it himself. He was afraid, however, afraid of being seen.

'Almighty God, Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Maker of all things. Judge of all men: we acknowledge and bewail our manifold

sins and wickedness which we, from time to time, must grievously have committed . . .'

In the midst of the words he has a clear mental image of the excellent Mrs Cole in her jacket of fragrant steam, working her knives, her spit, her fire. Today, he thinks - the thought like a triumphant blast on the trumpet - we have a pig's face! A pig's face, a knuckle of veal, and asparagus from Mr Askew's asparagus bed . . .

'Grant us therefore gracious Lord, so to eat the flesh of thy dear son, and to drink his blood, that our sinful bodies may be made clean by his body . . .'

What old bread this is. Trust there shall be no surprises. Blessed are the weevils.

''The Lord be with you'

''And with thy spirit!

''Lift up your hearts!

''We lift them unto the Lord!

The light, dusty streams ending in coloured spangles on the stone floor, fails suddenly with the passing of a cloud. The Reverend loses sight of the rear of the nave but is dimly aware of the door opening and swiftly closing, of the presence of a figure in the aisle. He recites the Lord's Prayer. Then: ''The peace of God be always with you!

'And with thy Spirit!

Lady Hallam plucks at her gown, rises, approaches the rail. Dido is a little behind her, then Astick with Sophie, his peevish daughter. Behind Sophie, Dr Thorne, adjusting the crotch of his breeches.

The cloud departs. Light unfurls the length of the aisle, and as the Reverend breaks the bread for Lady Hallam, he sees who it is who has entered the church, knows her immediately, yet distrusts himself, sure that it cannot be her, not here, not here in his church. She who belongs irrevocably elsewhere.

A gentle clearing of the throat. He looks down. Lady Hallam

raises her eyebrows, not unkindly. For the space of three beats of his heart, he is lost, cannot at all remember where he is, what he is about. Then he lays the bread in her cupped hands.

''The body of our Lord, Jesus Christ . . .'

With her eyes Dido asks: Who is she? He leans down by her ear, whispers: 'Her name is Mary. A foreigner. Sit with her.'

Others also question him with their eyes. Thome grins as if there were something intrinsically lewd in the advent of a strange woman. The service acquires a new vigour. Conjecture and counter-conjecture are threaded from pew to pew through the forms of prayer, behind the din of bad singing. Necks, not very discreetly, swivel to view this unlikely intruder. The Reverend hears, quite distinctly, the word 'gypsy'.

''The peace of God that passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God . . .'

At last the door is thrown open. Richer air reaches the Reverend as he drinks off the remaining wine. Were it possible he should like to pour himself another, though it is poor stuff as wine. He wipes the lip of the goblet with a cloth and walks, swiftly, down the aisle, vestments billowing behind him. To Mary he gives a long look, a quick nod. To Dido he says: 1 shall be back as soon as I may. Will you stay here?'

Dido asks: 'Can she understand us?'

Both look at Mary, who is gazing without much interest at St George slaying the dragon in the east window. It is as if she comprehends there must be some to-do, some wonder, that only afterwards will they do what she wants of them.

'Mayhap,' says the Reverend. 'You might try some questions.'

A movement of yellow by the door catches his eye. He turns, goes. Dido looks at the side of Mary's face, the high cheekbones, the eyes the colour of soaked wood. She does not feel alarmed by her. Oddly, she finds her presence reassuring.

In the churchyard, a dozen parishioners tarry by the path, reading famiUar names off crooked gravestones. Now and then they look towards the door of the church. Lady Hallam smiles a welcome at the Reverend, remarks on the size of the congregation.

'One more than I had expected,' says the Reverend.

*Why, yes, indeed,' says Lady Hallam, as if she has all but forgotten the incident. Thorne comes up. He and the Reverend shake hands.

Tine service, Reverend.'

The Reverend nods, mutters his thanks. That grin again. Thorne, receiving a cool glance from Lady Hallam, goes off, swinging his cane like a cat twitching its tail.

'I wonder', says the Reverend softly, 'if you can possibly guess who she is?'

'Oh, I think that I may. We spied each other as I came out. What eyes she has! Quite as you described her in your letter from - where was it now - Riga?'

'Riga it may have been. I confess, Lady Hallam, I have never been more surprised by anything in my life, though I believe she has a talent for surprises.'

'She will require a great deal of explaining.' A broad smile; amused and sympathetic. 'Your best course may be to explain nothing at all. You know that you and your sister may count on me for every assistance.'

'I know it. You are very kind to me. To us.'

'I am your friend. Now I shall go, and seek to draw the curious after me. Call on me soon.' She offers her hand, he takes it; one, two . . . That elusive third second.

'Well, Mary,' says the Reverend. 'You have given us quite a shock.' Mary reaches into the pocket of her apron, takes out some manner of rolled leaf and pops it into her mouth, chews it like a quid of tobacco.

'Mary, do you know