Wrecker

5

I knew the foreigner would be back. He came roundabout Lady Day, when the green catkins dangled from the branches and the magnolia blooms opened to bask in the sunlight. A season when even a foreigner was capable of finding the winding livestock track on the moor that leads to the cove. The mating season was upon us, and the gulls mounted each other on the harbour walls. Likewise, the women of Porthmorvoren fussed about the tall dark stranger in their midst. Work began anew on the chapel after more than ten years, and the sounds of hammering and sawing filled the air. Boatloads of bricks were brought into the harbour, and women carried baskets of pebbles up from the strand for the mortar.

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 it so long, she was now afeard the Redeemer would not hearken to her.

‘It is never too late to petition for the Lord’s mercy, sister, if we have faith and are fervent in prayer,’ said the minister, looking down on her in a kindly way. He told her to consider the Prodigal Son’s example. Any fool could see the old woman was afraid of dying, and only trying to comfort herself by pretending to a faith in her Saviour she did not feel in her heart. It seemed to me that the Prodigal Son was a bad example to some, for he was sure to embolden the blackest of sinners to try to make up for a lifetime’s sin by repenting at their last breath.

But I was shocked out of this reverie by the sound of hands clapping and looked up to see Abe standing on the bench with his arms raised. He had completely forgotten himself in the emotion of it all, and I had to hold onto the bench for fear of the madness taking hold of me too. Others were standing and hugging their neighbours, or shaking hands, even with their worst enemies.

The minister began his sermon, recounting in pitiful terms the great sacrifice our Redeemer had made for our salvation, coming down from his heavenly throne and letting himself be denounced, spat on, mocked with a crown of thorns, beaten senseless with a knotted rope and finally, when the human frame could surely withstand no more, nailed by his hands and feet to a cross on Calvary Hill to slowly die in agony. Every hearer was sniffling and wiping their eyes by the time he was done, grown men included. Next, the minister rounded on all of us, as if we’d been there in the crowd that called for Barabbas to be freed instead of the Jesu. He asked how we had repaid Christ’s sufferings. Nobody dared to raise their head and answer him. The minister denounced the pleasures of this world, sports, revels, idle songs, card playing and dancing, in other words every little comfort that made life bearable. His creed was as hard as the bench on which I sat and the longer he went on the harder the wood ground into the bones of my backside, which no amount of squirming could relieve. I saw then why some of the bettermost had brought cushions with them. On and on the minister went, renouncing gambling, games, fairs, drunkenness, tea drinking, tobacco, wrestling, fornication and failure to observe the Sabbath. It seemed he’d learnt a lot about us in his short visit here.

Finally, he stopped for a long moment, his head bowed, his chest heaving. I watched as a drop of sweat rolled from the tip of his fine straight nose and fell onto the Bible that lay before him. We all trembled, thinking he might point the finger of blame right at us, or that he had found out our inmost secret shame.

‘Now I come to the heart of the matter,’ he said, looking out at his hearers. ‘The very reason why I have come here to found a chapel in this cove.’ He brandished a newspaper over his head, the Sherborne Mercury, before throwing it down on the lectern. ‘This journal carries an account of the infamous crimes committed in this cove after the sinking of The Constant Service, just a few weeks ago.’ I glanced around and saw the heads of my neighbours hanging in shame. ‘As a result of the depravity and lawlessness of that night, the name of Porthmorvoren is now reviled throughout this land. And there is one heinous act which has come to represent the darkest depths of human nature, when greed prevails over all sense of decency. Do you know that of which I speak?’

I was rigid, afraid any movement might give me away.

‘Perhaps the individual responsible is among us today?’ said the minister.

I knew he was talking of the stolen earrings, and all for that I was blameless of the crime, I broke into a prickly sweat. I was thankful Aunt Madgie was not in the congregation that night and able to turn on me with accusing eyes.

‘Let me refresh your memory by reading from the newspaper’s editorial page: Yet even the depredations so far described are as nothing in comparison to the actions of the aptly named “Porthmorvoren Cannibal”, a wretch who violated the corpse of Lady S— in order to steal trinkets whose value the vicious culprit could hardly have appreciated. Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, that it was this outrage that convinced me I must visit this outpost of civilisation and see what could be done to bring you under conviction. My intention is to finish the build of the chapel on the hill above the village. Together, we will light a beacon of hope where before there has been darkness. You are all God’s children, even the most prodigal amongst you. You have been neglected too long. If you repent and submit to the holy fire your sins will be forgiven when you stand before the Throne of Mercy. I promise you I will work with every fibre of my being to uproot your age-old customs and plant the Holy Cross in this stony ground.

‘It is late. When next we meet I will tell you about Perfect Love. About the joys that await you in the next life if you turn away from sin in this one and open your hearts to salvation. Now, who among you will offer a last prayer this night?’

Without thinking, I drew myself up from my knees onto my feet. Tegen’s hand flew up and clutched my skirts to hold me back, almost sending me headlong into the row in front of us. Every face turned towards me, some with puzzlement and some with disbelief, others with purest outrage. What made me do it? Fear of hellfire or something else? I was so scared I could hardly draw breath. I had a queer urge to burst out laughing, but was able to check myself, thank the Lord. Some strange litany I had read, or overheard or perhaps only imagined, floated into my mind and I spoke out.

‘Good Lord, deliver us by Thine agony and bloody sweat, by Thy cross and passion.’ My voice gathered its usual force. ‘By the crown of thorns piercing Thy brow . . .’ I swallowed and looked right at the minister while he glowered at me in such a manner that my knees trembled under my skirts. It was so silent that when a hearer coughed it sounded like a thunder clap. ‘Dear Jesus, when I come before Thee in the final hour, if it please Thee, Heavenly Father, pray do let me know it is truly Thyself, perhaps by a sign . . .’ I’d lost my way, of course, but there was no turning back. ‘Maybe by the nail prints in Thy hands, so that . . .’ I lost my thread and stood there, seeing the open mouths of Grace Skewes and Loveday, and a whole row of other foes who had turned their heads to gawp at me. Loveday’s mate Betsy Stoddern stared at me with bulging eyes as if it was all she could do to stop herself marching over and giving me a smack in the mouth right there and then.

‘I offer up this prayer to thee, my . . . my . . .’ I couldn’t find the right word.

‘My Saviour,’ Tegen hissed, at my side.

‘My Saviour,’ I said, and dropped onto the bench with a muttered ‘Amen’.

Murmurs of outrage passed along the front row where the bettermost sat, and then there was a coarse shout behind me. It was the voice of Nancy Spargo.

‘Praise be to God!’ she hollered, and suddenly the air was full of cries of ‘Hallelujah’ and ‘Amen to that’. I was saved.

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