The Unseen (18 page)

‘It may indeed be so, Albert. You must possess at least some small measure of inner sight to have seen the elementals in the first place, and that is where we all begin. Tell me, were you in any kind of a trance state when you saw them first?’ the theosophist asks.

Cat frowns at them as they pass her by, at a distance of thirty feet. Her moment of peace is quite ruined. At the gate into the lane the theosophist looks back, unseen by the vicar, and gives her a smile too knowing, too familiar for her liking. She turns away, and picks up another jug before making for the kitchen.

They will be gone for at least an hour, Cat knows. The theosophist has fast adopted the vicar’s habit of rising early, and joins him in his walks through the meadows before breakfast. No longer just walks, however.
Summonings
, she heard the theosophist call them, as she served him yet another cheese omelette the other evening. With curiosity, or something like it, gnawing at her, Cat goes upstairs on soft feet, and along the corridor to the guest bedroom that has become Mr Durrant’s. She closes the door quietly behind her, in case Hester is awake and might hear, opens the curtains then stands with her hands on her hips, surveying the scene. The room is in disarray. Every morning she sets it straight, and
every night she turns back the bed and shuts the curtains again; and yet in the short intervening space of time the theosophist manages to create more mess than a nursery full of toddlers. Clothes and shoes lie discarded on the chair and ottoman and floor; a plate covered in cheese rinds and grape stems is in the middle of the silk eiderdown, surrounded by greasy fingerprints; a high pile of books by the bed has toppled over; the sheets are a tangled mess, spilling off the bed. One pillow is entirely out of its case. ‘For heaven’s sake, was he pitching a fit?’ Cat mutters, as she begins to pick up his clothes, shaking them out and hanging them neatly in the wardrobe. She makes the bed and matches up his shoes, putting one muddy pair by the door to take down and polish. She restacks the books, and as she does so an envelope falls out of the pile.

Cat picks it up, and the address catches her eye.
Mr R. Durrant, The Queen’s Hotel, Newbury
. Was he living in a hotel then, before he came to the vicarage? Without hesitation, Cat opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, pinching it carefully in her fingertips. The paper is smooth and expensive, the ink profoundly black; the date is two weeks previously.

Dear Robin
,

I fear you will not be pleased by the contents of this letter, but your mother and I, after much discussion, have agreed that what I propose is quite the best thing for you. You are of course dear to us, perhaps too dear to your mother – she does dote on you so, and would deny you nothing. I wonder sometimes quite how aware of this you are, and whether you tend to use her affection to your own advantage. Perhaps it would be only natural for you to do so, perhaps we have been remiss in our raising of you. However, the time has come for you to stand by your own strength. This theosophy of yours will get you nowhere in the world, Robin. I do not suggest that you give it up; by all means continue with it as a hobby, if you wish. As a career, it is quite unsuitable. You must settle upon something with
prospects,
something by which you may build a name and a fortune for yourself. Look at your brothers – in medicine, and the military. They are carving fine niches for themselves. I do not suggest you should have taken up medicine – you haven’t John’s studious mind, after all. But I beg you again to consider the army. I – we – strongly believe that the discipline and order would help to settle you. And you would be following in my own footsteps, after all. But even if you insist that the army is not the path for you, I insist that you find some path – some
worthwhile
path. And so, though it pains me to write it, I do decline your latest request for funds. I cannot, with clear conscience, forward you any more money whilst I know it permits you to delay the pursuit of a proper occupation. I know you have it in you to do extremely well, just like your brothers, and I mean to assist you towards this end. I know you will not disappoint us, but will make us proud yet. Trusting that you are well
.

With fond regards
,

W. E. Durrant

Cat finishes the letter and folds it carefully back into the envelope. She slips it between two books and carefully stacks them so that nothing of the envelope is showing. She thinks about Robin Durrant’s new linen coat, the expensive leather case of his camera. She tidies away his fine shoes, and she smiles.

After dark, Cat makes her way to meet George by the bridge at the edge of Thatcham town. Against the silhouettes of the wharf buildings he is one more shape, given away only by the movement of his arm, the orange flare of his cigarette. Up close she sees the pale shine of his teeth as he smiles, and as he lights a match for her his expression is at once possessive and shy. It makes something inside Cat reach out for him, pushes her inexorably towards him; he a magnet, and the very iron in her blood yearning for him.

‘Into town, then?’ she says, standing close to him; close enough
to feel his warmth, to pick up the slight smell of sawdust and horses on his clothes. He reaches out and takes her hand.

‘I would dearly love to see you by sunlight, one day,’ he says. ‘Always we’re in darkness, like a romance between ghosts.’

‘A romance? Is that what this is?’ she says, archly. ‘Well, by daylight I vanish in a cloud of mist.’

‘I half believe it, Black Cat. I half do!’ he says seriously.

‘I could meet you on Sunday afternoon. Or will you be coming to the Coronation fête, in Cold Ash Holt? I could see you there,’ she says; but George shakes his head.

‘I go off with a shipment tomorrow morning. I’ll be several days away.’

‘Oh,’ Cat says, her heart sinking. ‘Well, we’d better make the most of tonight then, I suppose.’

‘That we had.’ George smiles. ‘Come on. I want to show you something.’

He leads her on, not towards town but away from the canal, into a tangle of deserted warehouses and ramshackle workshops that cluster around a small square, the depleted centre of the once lively canal trade.

‘Where are we going?’ Cat asks.

‘We’re here. Come on – up this ladder,’ George says, pointing to a thin metal ladder bolted to the side of the biggest building.

‘What’s up there? Are we allowed to?’

‘Since when has being allowed to ever bothered you, Cat?’ he asks.

Cat shrugs ones shoulder, and starts to climb. ‘You’re quite right,’ she says.

The ladder is long, the rungs too far apart for Cat, not having the reach of most men. When she finally reaches the top, and steps out onto a clay-tiled roof, she is breathing hard. She bends double, the air needling into her chest like a thousand glass splinters. She has time to draw in one more breath before the coughing starts, racking her body, robbing her of air. The pain is excruciating; is
like knives. George can do nothing until it passes. He tries to hold her but the pressure on her ribs is unbearable and she bats him away feebly, with a hand that shakes. When it recedes, the coughing fit leaves her sitting on the roof, her knees pulled up and her face pressed into them. Her throat feels raw, but the iron bands around her chest loosen with each tentative breath.

‘Are you better now?’ George asks, anxiously. He takes her hand, rubs his thumb over her knuckles. Cat nods.

‘It does knock me sideways, when it comes on like that,’ she apologises. ‘I don’t think it’s as bad as it sounds. The doctor said it’s the body’s way of being rid of whatever blocks it.’ She looks up, sees worried lines on George’s face lit softly by the stars, and feels a stab of guilt. Plenty of women left Holloway in worse shape than she did. Some may not have been able to leave at all – she has no way of knowing. She sees Tess with sudden, awful clarity – crumpled in the corner of her cell like a broken doll. ‘Don’t look so scared – at least it didn’t start while I was on the ladder,’ she says, her voice shaking slightly.

‘I shouldn’t have made you climb. I forgot … I’m sorry, Cat.’

‘You don’t need to be sorry, really. If a little more of the infection goes each time I cough like that, then you’ve helped me. So, what are we doing on a roof?’

‘Look around. I love it up here. After a hot day, the tiles stay warm for hours, and you can just lie and bask, and watch the world. Look,’ George says, and Cat obeys him.

They are as high as the tops of the chestnut trees; below them all around are deep shadows and the outlines of rooftops. To the east, the lights of Thatcham soak the air with a pale yellow glow; and further still the lights of Newbury are just visible on the horizon, glimmering faintly. Above their heads the sky is lilac and inky blue, pinpricked by cold white stars. Cat takes a deep, cautious breath, smells the hot tar of the roads, the parched wood of the warehouses.

‘It all looks so peaceful, doesn’t it? You can see none of the
arguing or the lying or the fighting from up here. None of the hardship. It all stays on the ground, like muck. It’s almost like being far, far out at sea. Don’t you think?’ she murmurs.

‘I’ve never been out to sea.’ George puts his arm around her shoulders, his hand up into her hair.

‘Neither have I. But I’ve read about it.’

‘There’s nobody around for miles. Apart from old Clement, who sleeps under the bridge,’ George tells her softly.

‘Then I am quite at your mercy.’ Cat smiles. Their hushed voices are loud in the quiet night. There’s a rustling beat of feathered wings in the tree next to them, as roosting birds are roused; the slightest touch of a breeze to cool their skin.

‘No, Cat; I am quite at yours,’ George replies. Their kisses are urgent, hurried. Cat pulls the shirt from George’s body, runs her mouth the length of his torso, tasting salt. At first George is tentative and handles her gently, in spite of the need that lights his eyes, until Cat says:

‘I’m no invalid, George Hobson.’ He puts his hands through her cropped hair, pulls back her head to kiss her throat, and in one easy motion swings her up to sit astride him, tight to him; to make love with the quiet night air coaxing goose flesh along their arms.

The day of the fête to mark the coronation of King George V dawns without a cloud in the sky, and by mid-morning the ground shimmers with heat. The beech tree leaves are curling, twisting slightly as they scorch to show their silvery undersides; and the brass band plays with streaming red faces, suffering in their smart uniforms. On the church field an array of tents and awnings have been set up, their sides rolled up and tied back in an effort to allow air to circulate. Brightly coloured cotton bunting is strung all around the village green and along the lane to the church; and Claire Higgins, who is in charge of the flower arrangements, darts anxiously from spray to spray, fretting as the blooms shrivel in the heat.

‘Claire, dear, alas but I fear there’s nothing you can do. Come and have a glass of lemonade before you fall down,’ Hester calls to her.

‘If I can just get the sweet peas into the shade of the tree, they might last another hour or so …’ Claire says, shrilly, and won’t be led away.

‘At least carry your parasol!’ Hester calls after her, and retreats into a white tent. The sun burns as soon as it touches. ‘Cat! How is the tea coming along?’ Hester smiles. Cat has been sweltering inside the tea tent all morning, keeping a small stove alight to boil kettle after kettle of water to fill the urn. The back of her dress is soaked and her hair is plastered to her head, but she may not take off her cap. On her neck is a mark where George kissed her too hard, and bruised the skin. Her hair is almost long enough now to cover it, and she tucks it hurriedly behind her ear to this end.

‘It’s ready, madam. But everybody wants lemonade. It’s too hot for tea,’ Cat says, flatly.

‘Nonsense! I find tea most refreshing on a hot day. In fact I’ll take a cup now, if I may.’

All day, Cat makes and serves tea to the people of Cold Ash Holt. Hester and the other women arrange pastries and scones on pretty tiered cake stands, and give out bowls of strawberries and cream. Children with water ices lick them with desperate haste as they melt in seconds, dribbling down their arms to the elbow. Thus sugared, the children are pursued around the field by frenzied wasps. Robin Durrant proceeds from stall to stall with his hands clasped behind his back like a visiting dignitary, the vicar and a small knot of men and women following in his wake. Cat watches him, nonplussed, and wonders that he has made such an impression, in so short a time.

‘So this is the Cannings’ new maid. Catherine, isn’t it?’ Mrs Avery intones, on passing by the tea table with some companions. She raises her spectacles to the bridge of her bony nose, and peers down through them at Cat.

‘I’m known as Cat, madam,’ Cat replies, not liking Mrs Avery’s manner.

‘Well, I wasn’t talking to
you
, girl. Pert, isn’t she? Only recently down from London, and for reasons best left unmentioned, as I understand it,’ Mrs Avery remarks to her friend. Irritation flares through Cat. She holds the teapot high in front of her, puts an empty smile on her face and affects a broad cockney accent.

‘Tea, madam? A drop of the empire’s finest?’ she chirps.

‘No, thank you,’ Mrs Avery snaps, and saunters away with her nose wrinkled in distaste.

‘Haughty old cow,’ Cat mutters under her breath.

‘Smile now, ladies! Look this way!’ a man in a brown linen suit and bowler hat calls to them. He has a camera on a tripod, all set up pointing at the tea tent.

‘Oh, it’s the newspaper man!’ Hester says. Cat walks to the front of the tent, still holding the silver-plated teapot with which she accosted Mrs Avery. She peers out from beneath the pungent canvas as the vicar’s wife and the other gentlewomen of the village straighten their backs and tip their parasols prettily. The camera gives a loud clunk.

‘And another one, if you please!’ the photographer calls. ‘Stay right as you are, big smiles now!’ Cat stares into the lens of the camera, glowering in the bright light. She stares right down it, and seeks to corrupt the picture somehow. The ladies in front of her are a mass of white lace and frills, and gauzy muslin veils; they simper and smile for the photograph. It amuses Cat to know that she will be in the background, small and dark and bad tempered. She fights the urge to put out her tongue.