Hiding From the Light Read Online Free PDF Page A

– the smallest town in England, so someone had told him – and that over the hedge he could see lines of old roofs rising gently up the hillside.
    This early, the road was deserted. He strode down it purposefully, passing between houses much like his own, except that where it descended into the centre of the town they were terraced and what gardens they had were hidden by high walls. Down on the corner where Church Street met the High Street the last two houses had been converted into double-fronted shops, but a glance at the roofs showed that they too were as old as the rest of the street. One of them, he had noticed, had been empty since he moved in.
    In the High Street he turned east, round the corner and down to the River Stour to walk along the road which bordered the narrow strip of salt marsh and the mudflats which were such a characteristic of the river at this point. He passed a solitary dog walker who acknowledged him with a raised hand and continued on his way. He loved this walk. Strolling along under the sycamores which lined the road to Mistley, the second half of his parish, he followed the pavement which on his right ran parallel to the long wall which once had bounded the great Rigby estates, a feature which had given the road its name, ‘The Walls’, whilst on his left lay breathtaking views of water, mud and sky. He stopped and stared for several minutes. The tide was out, the river estuary mostly mud, the low Suffolk coast on the far side hidden in the early morning mist. The shore was blue and mauve with sea lavender and tiny yellow-centred asters and as he walked slowly on he became aware of multitudes of birds running about on the mud. He wasn’t very good at bird identification but he could recognise a seagull when he saw one, and swans, and what he thought might be oystercatchers, with their smart black-and-white plumage and red bills.
    He was heading for the second of the churches in his sprawling parish of Manningtree with Mistley, the one which, he admitted wryly to himself, fascinated him probably far more than it warranted. When he had first arrived he had asked to be shown it several times. He knew of course that it was a ruin, but surely, he had thought, there would be something to see. He knew he was a bit of a romantic, a side of himself he tried sternly to keep under control, but he did feel, quite strongly, that even a ruined church would still have an aura of sanctity about it. Perhaps he would be able to hold the occasional service in the ruins. He had not at the time had the chance to put this idea to anyone locally and perhaps that was just as well. His first few requests to see it had somehow not been heard. And this lack of response had intrigued him. He had investigated its history and found amongst other things that it might have been the burial place of the notorious Witchfinder General. He had of course gone looking for it himself at the first opportunity. What he found had disappointed him, but he had driven past on a rainy day. Today he was on foot and it was a glorious morning and he wanted to see if he could find out why the church had been allowed to fall into decay. Why it had been demolished.
    Cutting through the centre of Mistley with its irresistible combination of Victorian industrial buildings, old Maltings and quay, its famous Adam Towers and swan fountain, its lovely houses and cottages, he made his way inland up a short track towards the path across the fields. He loved Mistley. The centre of the village was very small and these days so quiet it was hard to picture it as the bustling town it had once been.
    The ruins of the old church lay up a narrow road beyond New Mistley, opposite the lane up which he strolled. Beyond, across the shoulder of the hill, he could see glimpses of the broad estuary, the water brilliant blue beneath the clear sky. There was a wind out there. He could see a white sail tacking out towards the sea, but inland it was very still, and