Free Clear Light of Day by Penelope Wilcock

anguish and was at a loss what to say.
    After a moment, “What did Maeve think of the prayer?” she asked. “Did she find it helpful?”
    Jabez nodded slowly. “She did. She did, but she died.”
    He looked thoughtfully at the lifeless remains of his cigarette in his hand and flicked it back over his shoulder in the direction of the orchard grass that grew down to meet the flags of the yard.
    â€œEsme, I don’t like the church. I don’t like its hypocrisy, and its need to be right and to control everybody. It works by fear and manipulation and doublespeak and to be honest I got no time for it at all. Now if you’ll excuse me—” he got up and lifted the lawnmower into the back of his truck and fetched a can to decant the used oil for recycling; “—I must take this mower down the road to Mr. Griffiths before the afternoon’s over. It was nice to see you.”
    There was a definite dismissal in his tone that went beyond the requirements of the afternoon’s tasks. Esme stood up and straightened her skirt. She looked at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze.
    â€œAm I a part of all that, then?” she asked. “The church?”
    His eyes flickered, and he stood looking down at the metal can in his hand, slowly screwing down the cap.
    â€œWell, yes,” he said, quietly. “I guess you are.”
    Esme felt a sharp pain of disappointment: The moment of honesty that brought intimacy between them seemed to have been lost, and the clarity between them had slipped away, leaving them back as they were, little more than strangers.
    â€œBut it’s still okay to come here?” Leave it, Esme, a voice inside her warned. But somehow she couldn’t leave it; she had to be sure.
    He sighed, impatiently.
    â€œI run a business here,” he said, adding with a quick glance around his yard and an involuntary laugh, “if I may be permitted to dignify it by calling it that. Anyone can call in anytime. You asked to see how bikes are maintained. That’s all right. Apparently you’re interested in lawnmowers, too. As far as it goes, that’s all fine. But—look—I’m not a mission field. Can we be clear on that?”
    Esme felt her color rise. He was denying the pure truth that had shone between them, and she felt belittled and shut out by the way he spoke.
    â€œMost certainly,” she shot back defensively. “You make yourself perfectly clear. I won’t hold you up any longer.”
    She left very swiftly, without looking back.

Three
    J abez moved about his kitchen slowly and stiffly in the half light of the dawn. It was just after half-past five, and he felt weary still. He hadn’t slept well. He had added some dry kindling to the dying remains of yesterday’s fire in the Rayburn’s firebox, seen it crackle and blaze up nicely, pushed some chunkier bits on top, filled the kettle, and set it on the hottest place of the stove’s hot plate. He turned his back on it and leaned against the dishtowel rail on the front of the stove, glad of the warmth as he listened to the water begin to stir. He leaned forward and reached for his tobacco tin on the kitchen table, and he rolled a cigarette as he waited for the kettle to heat up. The radio muttered quietly in its corner. He fumbled in his pocket for matches, and lit the cigarette. He looked at the end of it glowing ruby in the cold, uncertain light of the morning; and he thought it beautiful, that small red glow.
    After awhile, as he heard the first sounds of the water heating increase to something more determined, he pushed away from his resting place. By the yard door he struggled his feet into his Wellington boots, and went out of the kitchen across the yard for the faded plastic bucket he mixed the hen food in. The tabby cat appeared at his side, winding itself sinuously around his ankles, and he bent for a moment to scratch its ears affectionately. The