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.
I got to the chapel, breathless after the climb from the beach, and put the basket of pebbles down. My shoulders ached and the palms of my hands were scored and red from the basket handles. The minister was on top of a ladder in his shirt sleeves, the cloth sticking to his back as he skimmed the mortar over the bricks with his trowel. Watching the play of the muscles in his broad shoulders sent me into a whoozy waking dream. But just then the huer’s shout of ‘Hevva, hevva!’ was heard up on the cliff top. I looked up and saw him standing outside his shack, waving a great bush in each hand so all would know the pilchard shoal had arrived. The little fleet of boats had been at anchor on the horizon the last four days, and now out at sea the men were shooting their nets. You could see the shoal in the distance, a dark cloud of broken water that grew till it was hundreds of yards long and, in an instant, shrunk to a small inky stain.
I left my basket and ran down to the strand. The whole village was there, from the elderly and lame to the smallest children. The copper-coloured sails were already slowly heading for shore, cork floats bobbing all along the width of the cove where the nets were slung between the boats. Already the mesh was swollen with fish, enough to feed a multitude. We waited, cheering and waving, as they inched towards the shore, the fish teeming in the nets, some leaping up and twisting in the air.
Before long, there were more than three hundred souls wading in a blaze of silver and blue on the strand, as the fish thronged and thrashed around us