The Unseen (17 page)

‘I used to, but then Charlie Wheeler, who owns and runs this barge and three others between Bedwyn and Twickenham, said I could stop on board between jobs if I wanted, for no rent at all. It’s good security, to have a man aboard, and this way I get to save my money up.’

‘What are you saving it up for?’ Cat asks.

George thinks a while before answering, then reaches to a pile of papers on the shelf, passes her a creased and much handled flyer.

‘The canal trade is dying, Cat. Some stretches are so poorly kept up, you struggle to make headway for the growth of weeds and trees crowding in; and the locks leak so badly they scarce work. Few carriers still use it, now the railways are everywhere and so much faster. Charlie Wheeler is a traditional kind of man, and he keeps going with small loads and local trade, but soon enough even he will have to stop,’ George says.

Cat examines the flyer. There’s a grainy photograph reproduced on it, of a steamboat crowded with young girls in Sunday school uniform, all smiling at the camera man from beneath their straw boater hats.

‘Scenic Pleasure Cruises?’ she reads.

‘Aye, that was what the man I met called it. He’s up in Bath and Bradford, and once he was a carrier just like Charlie Wheeler. Now he makes a good living – a better living than he did – taking people for rides along the canal.’

‘And you would leave to go and work for him?’ Cat asks, her face falling. She knows, in an instant, that she could not stand life in Cold Ash Holt if it weren’t for George.

‘No! No, not at all – I would buy my own boat and do the same
as he! It would have to be an old boat, for my purse to stretch, but I could repair and make good on it myself. I would moor it in Hungerford, for there are no such pleasure boats there yet. The boat could be home and business in one, and I’d be free to make my own way, for once,’ George says, his voice steady and resolute.

‘That would be glorious. To be free!’ Cat stares into the distance, caught up in the thought of it. She can hardly imagine what it might be like, to live as she pleased; but for a minute the idea scatters sparkles of excitement down her spine. Then she sighs. ‘I doubt I shall ever be.’

‘Anybody may be free. It’s only a matter of finding a way.’

‘And how long will it take you to save up your money, to buy your boat?’

‘Not much longer. Four months, perhaps. Sooner if I can get more fights fixed up … and win them of course.’

‘Of course you would win them! Nobody could beat you – I’ve seen you fight. You’re like Hector, or Achilles.’

‘Like who?’ George frowns.

‘Demi-gods of the ancient world.’

‘Oh, indeed? And how on earth did you come to learn about them, then?’

‘My father taught me to read at a young age. He lent me books that a working-class child would never have read, otherwise. I think it amused him,’ Cat says, grimly.

‘Why should it have?’

‘He knew I would have no other station in life than the one I was dealt. Why did he bother to broaden my mind? To educate me? I’ve often wondered.’

‘Perhaps he just wanted to give you a good start. Perhaps he thought you might rise above your station in life, with this knowledge he gave you?’

‘He could have given me that start easily, and yet he made me a servant. It was a cruel gift; and an empty one.’ She shakes her head.

‘But a gift nonetheless, and perhaps well meant. My father gave me nothing but cuts and beatings.’

‘Perhaps he gave you a gift without realising it – perhaps he taught you to fight, and now with the money you make from it, you will be your own man.’ Cat puts out one hand, runs it the length of George’s knotted arm, curls it behind his neck.

‘Most girls would be put off to see me fight, to know what I do. It breaks the law, after all; and is hardly genteel,’ George says softly, leaning towards her. She tips her head, and their foreheads touch.

‘What need have I for gentility? It’s nothing but a mask that allows men to be cruel and dishonest,’ Cat murmurs. She kisses him and for one startled second he freezes, as if unsure; but then he puts his arms around her, lifts her effortlessly from the stair onto his lap and holds her tight. Cat lets herself be held against him, aware of the heat blooming between their skins, and the taste of his mouth, and the race of her heartbeat, so loud in her ears. She reaches an arm behind her to shut the cabin door as George pulls her backwards onto the narrow bed, and she does not care at all that the cabin is small, and the ceiling near. She does not even notice.

On Sunday, Hester stands beside Albert outside church after the service, politely greeting each parishioner. The sun is fiery bright in a clear blue sky; the light so crisp it seems to outline every blade of grass in the churchyard, every sparkling fleck of mineral in the granite headstones. It glances brightly from Robin Durrant’s tousled mop of hair, revealing gold and auburn strands Hester hadn’t noticed before. A hand on her arm catches her attention.

‘Is that your house guest?’ Claire Higgins asks, in a low voice that the vicar won’t hear. The sun isn’t kind to Claire’s face, showing up little hairs on her top lip, and a scattering of blackheads over her normally pretty nose. Hester suddenly worries how many of her own flaws are on such bold display.

‘Yes. Mr Robin Durrant, the theosophist. He and Albert are engaged in a study of the spiritual side of our meadows,’ Hester whispers back to her. Claire’s gaze sweeps up from Robin’s feet to his face. Her expression is one of languid appreciation, and it makes Hester slightly nervous.

‘Is he married?’ Claire asks, not taking her eyes from him; slowly, she strokes the silky end of the green ribbon holding her hat in place.

‘No, dearest, but you are,’ Hester points out. She raises her eyebrows censoriously at her friend, and they both laugh.

‘Introduce me,’ Claire hisses, as Robin saunters over to them.

‘Ladies, may I accompany you back into the village?’ He smiles at them, clasping his hands behind his back urbanely.

‘Mr Durrant, may I introduce Mrs Claire Higgins, a good friend of mine?’

‘Mrs Higgins, a pleasure,’ Robin says, with a cheerful shake of her hand.

‘I do hope you weren’t put off by the curious stares you were given during the service, Mr Durrant,’ Claire says. ‘I fear we receive few visitors of note here in Cold Ash Holt. And certainly none as exciting as a spiritualist.’ The three of them turn away from the church and walk steadily along the gravel path towards the gate.

‘Well, I fear I must disappoint you, Mrs Higgins, for I am neither very much of note, nor a spiritualist.’

‘Oh? Is a theosophist very different from a spiritualist then?’ Claire asks.

‘Indeed we are, Mrs Higgins. A great deal different.’

‘We held a seance with a local spiritualist just the other night, as a matter of fact. Only don’t tell the vicar, or Hester will be in trouble!’ Claire says, conspiratorially.

‘Claire!’ Hester protests, but Robin smiles so warmly at her that she relaxes again.

‘Fear not, your secret is quite safe with me,’ he says. Claire
beams at him, and tightens her grip significantly on Hester’s arm. ‘But, perhaps I might urge caution in this area?’ Robin continues. ‘I fear that most
mediums
, as they term themselves, are quite fraudulent.’

‘Oh, not Mrs Dunthorpe, surely?’ Claire says. ‘She is able to look beyond the physical world, and see into the world of spirit … We’ve both experienced it, haven’t we, Hester? I am quite sure her powers are genuine.’

‘And she talks to the dead, I presume?’ Robin asks, seriously.

‘Well … yes, indeed she does,’ Hester replies, less certainly. ‘Although I have never actually
seen
one of these spirits she talks to, or heard it …’

‘I fear that you, like many good people, have been taken in by this woman.’ Robin shakes his head. ‘The spirits of the dead do not exist – not in the way such fairground mediums suggest.’ He waves his hand dismissively. ‘Upon the death of the body, the individual consciousness of man rejoins the universal soul, and waits in bliss for its eventual rebirth. The
personality
of the deceased is lost; so that ghosts, with any knowledge of their previous lives, simply
cannot
exist,’ he explains.

‘Oh dear! Is that really so? And she always seemed most genuine in her beliefs, her abilities …’ Claire murmurs, quite crestfallen.

‘I am quite sure she did, Mrs Higgins. Don’t be ashamed to have been deceived in this way – thousands of others have before you! And I do not say she has no inner vision or ability at all, but that even if she has, she is untutored, and confused,’ Robin says kindly.

‘Well, perhaps we ought not to go again?’ Claire looks at Hester with troubled eyes.

‘Oh dear – I fear I have upset you, and spoiled your fun?’ Robin stops walking and turns to Claire and Hester, pressing his hands together earnestly. ‘Please, forgive me. I shan’t move another step until you have, even if it means I miss my lunch!’ He remains that way, all solemn and beseeching, until Claire giggles, and Hester
feels a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. ‘There, you have forgiven me. I can see it in your faces.’ He grins broadly.

‘Walk on, Mr Durrant. I would not have you miss your lunch,’ Claire assures him.

‘Well, at least that puts my mind to rest about one thing,’ Hester says.

‘Oh, what’s that?’ Robin asks.

‘Well, at our last … sitting with Mrs Dunthorpe, she received a most dire warning from one of the spirit voices she heard. Or thought she heard, that is.’

‘Oh – Hetty, that’s right!’ Claire says.

‘Apparently, a source of great evil had come into one of our lives, and was going to bring dark times upon us. After some discussion, the conclusion reached was that the warning was for
me
,’ says Hester, lightly, though she well remembers the cold shivers she’d felt, and the dark, watchful figure under the tree.

‘For you, indeed? Well, fear not, dear lady,’ Robin says. ‘I am quite sure that Mrs Dunthorpe was hearing an echo of her own colourful imagination. I would wager my last shilling on it, in fact.’

‘Mr Durrant!’ Albert’s voice comes from behind them. They pause, and turn to see the vicar trotting up behind them with a jerky, angular gait, his robe flapping around his knees. ‘Mr Durrant, I wonder if you would be good enough to allow me to introduce you to somebody?’ he asks, breathlessly.

‘Yes, of course, Reverend. Ladies, if you will excuse me?’ He gives them a graceful incline of his head. Albert nods briefly at his wife and her friend, and then guides the theosophist away with a hand hovering at his back.

‘Well, he is quite delightful, isn’t he?’ Claire murmurs. Do you know what I think? I think your husband was a little jealous, seeing you walking and talking with that young man!’ She nudges Hester lightly.

‘Oh, no!’ Hester laughs. ‘I’m sure not. Do you really think so?’ she ventures.

‘Absolutely! Such a charming fellow … and so handsome. And I saw the way he smiled at you … perhaps the vicar has a good reason to be jealous?’ she suggests, archly.

‘Claire,
really
!’ Hester admonishes her, but can’t keep from smiling.

‘And I’ll tell you another thing – I’m jealous too. Of you, having such a wonderful house guest! Nobody interesting
ever
comes to stay with us at Park Farm. It’s simply not fair,’ Claire sighs, looping her arm through Hester’s as they walk on again. Hester says nothing, a little ashamed by how pleasant it feels to be envied.

5

Cat hears the crunching of the dairy cart horse on the driveway, and goes out with the milk jugs to greet him. It’s before seven in the morning, and the sky is as clear and colourless as glass. Barrett Anders, the dairy man, is thin and silent. His overalls stink of cattle, but his hands are scrubbed pink and clean. His mouth is lost beneath drooping moustaches, the same greasy grey as his hair.

‘The usual please, Barrett,’ Cat says, stifling a yawn. For the first hour after waking from her restless sleep she is chilled, shivery and stupid. She sets the heavy jugs on the ground as the dairy man measures out two pints of buttermilk, one of blue milk and one of cream; dipping into the churns with a long-handled tin measure. The horse, a sturdy cob with a massive rump, lifts its tail, farts loudly and expels a pile of manure onto the driveway. Cat rolls her eyes. ‘It’s me that’ll have to pick that up, thank you very much,’ she mutters. Barrett’s mouth twists beneath the whiskers.

‘Tha’ll please the mistress, tha’ll. Summat extra for ’er roses, free o’ charge,’ he drawls.

‘Too kind of you, old nag,’ Cat thanks the horse. After Barrett is back aboard the cart and rolling slowly away along the lane into the village, Cat lingers for a moment with the jug of cream in her hands. She likes the still and quiet, the cool dampness of the air. So sweet, it seems different stuff to the baked, heavy fug of the afternoon. Overhead, a phalanx of swifts goes screaming past, wings cranked back, bodies taut. Into the west, where the sky is a deeper colour. Cat stares after them, and longs to follow.

Just then she hears the door open behind her, and voices talking softly. She turns to see the vicar and the theosophist emerging from the house, all kitted out with their binoculars and bags. The vicar
strides along smartly, tapping a polished walnut walking stick into the gravel as he goes, talking earnestly all the while. Mr Durrant wears a smart linen coat, one hand thrust casually into his pocket, the other carrying a boxy camera covered in soft brown pigskin and gilt decorations. As they pass her, Cat can make out the vicar’s hushed words.

‘… I do believe that the very reason I have always felt so deep a love for the countryside and the wild places of this earth, the very reason I have always been drawn to it and taken comfort from it, is that I have, all the while and unbeknownst to me, been in the presence of these elemental beings; beings higher and closer to God than the whole of mankind,’ he says. His face is quite rapt as he speaks, so much so that he doesn’t even see his maid, standing in the dawn light with milk jugs at her feet.