that day on, he read the book when he went to bed each night and it came to symbolise a magic even greater than Shakespeare; this, too, was theatre, but it was theatre for every day, written not just for actors but for ordinary people like him and his family and, as he grew older, he empathised with all the emotions it portrayed – anger and confusion as well as love and praise. He was drawn so strongly to these simple phrases, spoken for hundreds of years – phrases that offered a connection to the past as strong as the landscape he had grown up with – that he knew instantly what he wanted to do with his life, no matter how difficult it proved. He kept the leather-bound volume with Morveth’s blessing, and it was still the prayer book he used in church; he was forever grateful for the way in which its contents had shown him how to deal with the world and his place in it.
The murmur of voices inside the cottage was growing steadily louder now as more people arrived for the wake and drink loosened the tongues of those who had been there for some time. He knew he should go back in, but another few minutes of air might clear his head and give him the confidence to face everyone again. What would his life have been like, he wondered, if he had never been shown an alternative path to the one that was expected of him? Easier, certainly, especially in those early days. His parents had always assumed that he would work on the farm like his brothers; when he finally plucked up the courage to talk to them about his future, they greeted his intention to enter the Church with a mixture of consternation and pain. Nathaniel understood their concerns – the present incumbent of St Winwaloe’s was hardly well placed to defend the institution against accusations of corruption and greed, and people of his class were not obvious candidates for ordination – but he was intelligent and dedicated, and he stubbornly stood his ground. Gradually, with patience and a conviction which astonished them all, he brought his family round to the idea. Each time he returned home from his hard-earned college training, happier and more settled than ever, they softened a little, and were won over completely when they realised that his commitment was to the estate and not to the souls of strangers, that – rather than alienate him from them – the Church would bind him to his community more tightly than putting a spade in his hand ever could.
On a day like today, though, such certainties seemed to belong to another life. First alive, and now dead, Harry Pinching had managed to undermine everything that Nathaniel had ever been sure of. They had been friends for as long as he could remember, drawn to each other’s company by a shared love of the Loe estate and by contrasting but complementary personalities. The bond was strong and undemanding, and had fitted easily into each of their lives until one morning, just a few months earlier, when they were out riding together, racing along the sand at Loe Bar as they often did in fine weather. Nathaniel was a good horseman, one of the few people on the estate who could match Harry stride for stride. On this occasion, he had gone one better, reaching the line of rocks which acted as a finishing post a good ten seconds in front. As his friend caught up with him – his eyes bright with the exhilaration of speed and competition, his smile generous in defeat – Nathaniel was astonished to realise that what he felt for him – what he had always felt for Harry – was love. It was a moment of conviction as powerful and overwhelming as when he had first opened the prayer book, but so utterly at odds with it that he had been unable to do anything other than turn his horse and ride quickly for home, flustered and convinced that his shame was written all over his face.
Harry had known, he was sure of it, and could not resist using the power it gave him. For the first time, Nathaniel noticed a self-consciousness about his friend’s easy sexuality; perhaps it was his imagination, but Harry seemed to go out of his way to slap him on the back or shake his hand, until the briefest of touches was enough to send a jolt of desire right through him. Bewildered by his own feelings, Nathaniel found it impossible to read Harry’s. He was unwilling to believe that Harry would taunt him maliciously, but the thought that his love might be reciprocated was too dangerous even to contemplate. Eventually, unable to stand it any longer, he had simply kept away. When his family asked what had happened, he blamed his own commitment to the Church for the estrangement; the unjustified slur on Harry’s loyalty seemed a small act of betrayal in comparison with the truth.
If Nathaniel had not suspected – albeit reluctantly – that his own vulnerability had laid bare a spiteful streak in Harry, he would have dismissed outright the revelation that had come his way two or three days before the accident – a revelation which had left him wrestling with lust and guilt, love and disgust. At first, he had turned to denial as the best antidote to them but, once the suspicion was there, he could never quite convince himself that Harry was innocent of the charge laid against him. Perhaps Harry’s death was the best possible outcome – for everyone. Certainly, his own first reaction to news of the accident had been relief, and he had seen God’s hand in a situation which was beyond human intervention. But if that was the case, why did it feel so wrong, and so painful? Was that his punishment for feelings which should never have been acknowledged? Despite the words of comfort that he delivered so sincerely to others, he realised now that it was only possible to make your peace with the dead if you had reconciled your differences with the living.
He took another swig of the whisky, hoping that the sour taste in his mouth might temporarily overshadow the bitterness in his head.
‘Don’t think that will help.’ Morwenna could barely keep her fury in check, and the contempt in her voice hurt him far more than any physical blow could have done. ‘How could you let him down like that? You were supposed to be his friend.’ Nathaniel turned to look at her and, for a moment, it was as though Harry were standing in front of him. How alike they were if you looked closely, he thought, although anger – which had always brought a sulkiness to Harry’s mouth, detracting from the strength of his face – seemed to enhance his sister’s beauty, alleviating the exhaustion which made her look a decade older than her twenty-six years. He could see why so many people were attracted to her. How much easier life would be if only he could have been one of them.
‘I know you’re upset about the funeral,’ he began, ‘but you can’t expect me to stand in church and lie now that I know the truth. I’m sorry if I let
‘It’s a shame you haven’t always been so tongue-tied,’ Morwenna said bitterly. ‘Why did you have to say anything, Nathaniel? Couldn’t you just pretend you hadn’t heard and carry on as normal? Isn’t that what they teach in your Christian schools – how to turn the other cheek?’ She looked away from him, and he could see what an effort she was making to prevent her anger from dissolving into tears. ‘I thought you were different, but you stand up there like all the rest of them, armed with your self-righteousness and your phrase-book of forgiveness, and when you have the perfect opportunity to practise what you preach, you don’t have the strength even to
Nathaniel’s head was heavy with heat and whisky, and his temper got the better of him. ‘So ignorance is best, is it?’ He was shouting now, and the change in him took Morwenna by surprise. ‘You’d rather I let him get away with it than shatter your fantasy of a perfect brother? There’s a big difference between turning the other cheek and blindly refusing to see – and Harry went too far for either.’ He softened a little, trying to put himself in Morwenna’s shoes; if he was guilty about his estrangement from Harry, how must she feel? The memory of those final, angry words she had exchanged with her brother would be almost too much to bear. ‘Look, I told you what I’d heard because I thought you’d want to know. You can’t blame yourself for the accident or anything that happened before it.’
She rounded on him suddenly and, for a moment, he honestly thought she was going to strike him. ‘I don’t blame myself for Harry’s death,’ she replied, her face just inches from his. ‘I blame you. And according to your precious textbook of right and wrong, the way he died was as great a sin as anything he did in life.’
Archie took a cup of tea out to the garden and waited for Morwenna to seek him out. She had been continuously surrounded by people since the funeral party arrived back at Loe Cottage, and he hadn’t even tried to speak to her: what she wanted to say to him could clearly not be said in public. In any case, the silence during the long walk back from the church had been uncomfortable rather than respectful and he was glad of a moment or two on his own, free from the tensions that had seeped into a community which he remembered as harmonious and good-natured. A lot seemed to have changed here in just a few months – but then he only ever came home fleetingly these days, so perhaps it had been different for some time and he had simply never noticed. More than ever, he looked forward to seeing Josephine; things might have been difficult between them, but at least the awkwardness was familiar; the drama that he sensed here made him feel like an understudy who had learnt the
