When I was young, my father walked me up to Beacon Hill, overlooking the town, and he told me it was where they hung the bodies of criminals to warn others not to break the law. There had been a gang who made money by clipping the edges off gold coins to make new ones. Clever indeed; but they were caught. The coiners were hanged in York and their bodies brought back here to be displayed in chains, their arms pointing back to the scene of their execution as a warning to others.

Someone gave them up. That was all it took, my father said. One person to tell tales and others’ lives are ruined. I replied that what they were doing was wrong, and should they not be punished? He told me that not everything is simply right and wrong. Sometimes a wrong is right. Sometimes a right is wrong. But the worst thing, he said, was telling tales. I swore to him that I would never tell tales.

Everyone else, however, seems very happy to do just that. The rumours I have been told about Miss Lister could furnish a novel of a most unbelievable character. I have even had anonymous letters warning me to steer clear of her, as if she were the Devil himself! Miss Lister is most kind. I believe that people are afraid of what they do not know. How brave of her to defy society – and what a clever way to do it too. But why of all colours choose black? Of all the forms her defiance could take, why that? Perhaps a different hairstyle, following a French fashion, would be better. I hear some women have even worn trousers. But to wear black takes courage, when single women are required to wear pale, neutral colours, as if advertising our innocence. Miss Lister defies that. I believe that is why people are so concerned about my acquaintance with her. If she wears black, what else will she do? Little do they know! They are too naive and small-minded to ever know her true secret: that she can give me pleasure no man would ever manage. That she is a woman with a man’s heart, a man’s passion.

Would I prefer her to be more feminine? Wear colour? Or is it her difference, her defiance that makes her so… unique? I would never tell tales on her, even if my life depended on it. For she could tell tales on me too. Whom would they believe? Perhaps we would both be cast aside as deviants, criminals, witches, and hung in chains over Beacon Hill for all to see the warning that women of Halifax must do as they are told.

Miss Lister