Householders in the village paid an amount every year towards helping the poor of the parish. The fund was administered by the Church.
‘See the rector,’ said the squire. ‘He’s the Overseer of the Poor.’
‘Sir, Rector Riddick hates Methodists.’
With the air of one who plays a trump card, the squire said: ‘Then you shouldn’t be a Methodist, should you?’
‘Poor relief is not supposed to be just for people who agree with the rector.’
‘The Church of England gives out the money.’
‘But it’s not the Church’s money, is it? It comes from the householders. Are they wrong to trust the Church to be fair?’
The squire became exasperated. ‘You’re one of these folk who think you should correct your betters, aren’t you?’
Hope drained out of Sal. An argument with one of those who ruled always ended like this. The gentry were right because they were the gentry, regardless of laws, promises or logic. Only the poor had to obey the rules.
She had no energy left. She would have to beg from Rector Riddick, and he would do his best to avoid giving her any help.
She left the room without speaking again. She went out by the side door and walked home. She felt hopeless and depressed.
She finished Kit’s shirt and they had a dinner of bread and cheese, then the bell began to toll, and they walked to St Matthew’s Church. A lot of people were there already, and the nave was crowded. The church was a small medieval building and should have been extended to accommodate the growing village, but the Riddicks were not willing to spend the money.
Some of the mourners had not known Harry well, and Sal wondered why they had taken time off work to come; then she realized that his death was special. It had not been brought about by disease or old age or an unavoidable accident, none of the normal causes. Harry had died because of the foolishness and brutality of Will Riddick. By coming to the funeral the villagers were making it clear that Harry’s life mattered, and his death could not be brushed aside.
Rector Riddick seemed to understand that. He walked in wearing his robes, stared in surprise at the large crowd, and looked angry. He moved quickly to the altar and began the service. Sal was quite surehe would have preferred not to conduct the funeral, but he was the only clergyman in the village. And the fees for all the christenings, wedding and funerals in a large village added up to a significant bonus on top of his salary.
He raced through the liturgy so quickly that the congregation began to murmur their dissatisfaction. He ignored them and hurried to the end. Sal hardly cared. She kept thinking that she would never see Harry again, and all she could do was weep.
Uncle Ike had organized the pallbearers, and the congregation followed them out into the graveyard. Brian Pikestaff stood beside Sal and put a comforting arm around her trembling shoulders.
The rector said the last prayer as the body was lowered.
The service being over, he approached Sal. She wondered if he would speak words of insincere consolation, but he said: ‘My father told me of your visit. I’ll come to see you later this afternoon.’ Then he hurried away.
When he had gone, Brian Pikestaff gave a short eulogy. He spoke about Harry with affection and respect, and his words were greeted with nods and murmurs of ‘Amen’ from around the grave. He said a prayer, then they sang ‘Love’s Redeeming Work is Done’.
Sal shook hands with a few close friends, thanking them for attending, then took Kit’s hand and quickly walked away.
Shortly after she arrived home, Brian turned up, bringing a quill pen and a small vial of ink. ‘I thought you would want to write Harry’s name in your Bible,’ he said. ‘I won’t stay – just give me back the quill and the bottle when it suits you.’
She was better at reading than writing, but she could write dates, and copy anything. Harry’s name was in the book, with the date of their wedding, and as she sat at the table with the book in front of her and the quill in her hand she recalled that day, eight years ago. She remembered how happy she had felt to be marrying him. She had worn a new dress, and she was wearing it today. She had saidthe wordstill death us do partbut had never imagined that would be so short a time. For a few moments she allowed herself to feel the full weight of grief.
Then she dried her tears and wrote, slowly and carefully:
Harold Clitheroe, died December the 4th, 1792.
She would have liked to put something about how he died, but she did not know how to write words such asrun over by a cartorby the foolishness of the squire’s son, and anyway it was probably wiser not to set such things down in ink.
Life had to return to normal, and she sat at her spinning wheel and worked by the light from the open door. Kit sat beside her, as he often did, passing the loose ropes of unspun wool from his hands to hers while she fed them into the orifice and at the same time turned the wheel that spun the flyer and twisted the wool into a tight thread of yarn. He looked thoughtful, and after a while he asked her: ‘Why do we have to die before we go to heaven?’
She herself had asked questions like this, although she thought she had done so at a later age, more like twelve than six. She had soon realized that there was rarely a helpful explanation of the puzzling aspects of religion, and she had stopped asking. She had a feeling Kit was going to be more persistent.
‘I don’t know why, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Nobody knows. It’s a mystery.’
‘Does anyone ever go to heaven without dying?’
She was about to say no when something tugged at her memory, and after a few moments’ thought it came back to her. ‘Yes, there was one man, called Elijah.’
