The Unseen (4 page)
‘I really don’t think so. The girl is quite stunted in her growth, and … well, I just don’t think she can have the strength in her arms for it. And she has been unwell, too.’
‘Oh dear. Well, if you say so, my dear.’ Hester studies her husband, and finds nothing wanting. He wears his sideburns long, framing his face like lovingly cupped hands. The style is a little grave for such a young face, Hester has always thought – she knows Albert grew the whiskers to lend himself gravity in the pulpit. The sun is making them look gold, but when wet, they are quite dark. Albert feels her scrutiny, and smiles at her. ‘What is it, darling?’ he asks.
‘I was just thinking what a fine figure of a man it is I wed,’ Hester says, shyly. ‘Almost a year ago now.’ Albert takes her hand. He sits in his habitual pose, with his legs crossed at the knee so that his trousers ride up a little, and she can see an inch of white skin above his socks. It makes him look vulnerable, somehow.
‘It is I who have been luckiest,’ he says. Hester smiles and blushes a little.
‘I went to see Mrs Duff this afternoon,’ she says.
‘And how is she?’
‘A little better. I took her some of my lemon cordial, the sweet one she’s so fond of.’
‘That was kind of you, dear.’
‘Her newest son is a fine little chap, and he doesn’t cry at all when I hold him. In fact, he studies me with such a calm scrutiny!
As if he’s thinking terribly important thoughts about me all the time, and coming to very weighty conclusions,’ Hester laughs.
‘I’m sure that can’t be true of one so young,’ Albert murmurs.
‘No. No, I suppose not,’ Hester agrees. Albert returns to his journal. She waits a little, her heart suddenly high in her throat. Then she gathers her courage. ‘How I do long for the day when we will have a son of our own! Or a daughter, of course. I know you will be the most wonderful father,’ she says, brightly, watching her husband expectantly. When he does not reply, she feels her cheeks begin to redden. Albert still stares at his journal, but Hester sees that he is frowning, and his pen has gone still. The nib has halted in the middle of a word, pressing into the paper, and an ink spot blooms from its tip. Clearing his throat quietly, Albert glances up at last. He gives a vague smile in her direction, but does not meet her eye; and he says nothing.
Late in the evening, Cat lies awake. The thin mattress is lumpy, horsehair sticking up through the worn ticking. She has propped the door open with the bible that was left by the bed. She likes to see the holy book lying on the floor like this, shown no more deference than a bag of sand. The words inside just as lifeless, just as heavy. Through the crack in the door the moon shines coldly, calmly. Cat lies still, listening to Mrs Bell snoring in the room at the end of the corridor. In, out; in, out. She can hear the rattling wattle of the woman’s neck. Carefully, Cat breathes all the way in.
There
. It is still there, at the very bottom of her lungs – the little wet bubble that will not dry out. Cat releases the breath, tries not to cough. All the bloody coughing, in prison – all night long, from every cell, as their lungs got clogged and muddied by the damp, the spores, the doctor’s foul mixture. She runs her thumbs over the ticking, counts the little bristles, one for each second, as the night ticks by and her eyes stay open. Cat can’t remember what it feels like to lie down and sleep. That peaceful surrendering of control, of power. She can’t do it any more. Now, surrender feels like death, as
though the very air in the room can’t be trusted, as if the walls themselves will turn on her if she dares to shut her eyes; the shadows come alive to consume her.
In a very different room, on the floor below, Hester examines Albert’s outline in the near dark. He lies on his back, his eyes shut and his face so resolutely relaxed that Hester guesses he is still awake. The beauty of his face disarms her. That valley between forehead and bridge of nose, the slight pout of his bottom lip. His face gives her an aching sensation she can’t name, as though there is some sprain, some nerve inside her under pressure, in need of release. She reaches out an arm to him, laces her fingers into the hand that lies across his chest. There it is – that subtle change in the rhythm of his breathing, that slight tautening of his frame.
‘Bertie? Are you awake, my love?’ she whispers. He does not reply.
Once he holds you in his arms, and kisses you, and he is aware of your love and passion for him, then his passion will also rise, and your bodies may conjoin
; so her sister had written. Hester is aware of her own body moving beneath her nightdress, brushing against the cotton fabric, freed from the corsets that confine it all day long. Her hair drapes over her shoulder in a soft, caressing wave. ‘I do so wish you would hold me,’ Hester says, her voice trembling a little. Albert does not open his eyes, but he says:
‘It has been a very long day, my love. I am so very tired.’ Hester often hears these very words from her husband. She heard them even on their wedding night.
‘Of course. Sleep, darling Bertie,’ she says.
2011
Leah read the soldier’s letter, a frown creasing the skin between her brows. Ryan stretched out his hand, smoothed the line away with his thumb, making her jump.
‘Don’t!’ she gasped, snatching her head away from him.
‘Touchy,’ Ryan sighed. He smiled as he leant away, but Leah could tell he was annoyed. She felt a quick flash of triumph, and was instantly irritated with herself.
‘But this can’t be the original?’ she asked.
‘Of course not – it’s been transcribed. The original paper is incredibly fragile. Where water has got in – and there wasn’t much, he did a great job of sealing the tin – it’s destroyed the envelope. In other words, the name of the person it was addressed to. Our mysterious soldier.’
‘And she calls him “Dear sir”. Not very helpful,’ Leah murmured.
‘No, but then I wouldn’t need you if she’d given us his name.’ Leah raised her gaze at his choice of words. ‘Intriguing though, isn’t it?’ Ryan said.
‘That it is,’ she agreed. ‘How had he sealed the tin?’
‘With candle wax, it looks like. Melted and rubbed smooth all the way around.’
‘So, would that have been easy to do? Something he would do every day, or did he only take the letter out to read once in a while?’
‘Who can say? I think it was a thorough job, probably quite
time consuming. I don’t think he would have opened and resealed it every day.’ Ryan shrugged.
‘So it was special, this letter?’
‘I would say so, yes. Read it out, so I can hear it again,’ he suggested.
The Rectory
,
Cold Ash Holt
Dear sir
,
I scarcely know how to begin this letter, since I have sent so many, and received so little answer to any of them prior to now. So little, I say – when I should say none at all. I can’t imagine the situation in which you now find yourself, and can only assume that, when I had thought such would be impossible, it is indeed worse than the situation you left behind. The thought of your constant peril is most dreadful – you and your comrades. Please do try to keep yourself safe, if safe is a word that has any meaning on the battlefield. I discovered your departure to the front only recently, and only by chance – the casual mentioning by an acquaintance of the deployment of men such as yourself. I know that you and I parted on strange terms, and our time together was not the easiest; but even though you did not reply to any of my letters when you were relatively close by, I still feel worse knowing that you are no longer on English soil
.
So, what can I write? What can I write that I have not written already? I do not understand. I live in fear. I am wretched and ignorant and you are my only hope of coming out of this fog. But you cannot or will not help me, nor break your silence. What can I do? I am but a woman. Such a feeble statement but, alone, I have neither the strength nor the courage to effect a change of any kind. I am quite trapped. How pathetic I must sound, to you who have been through so much since we parted, and who has had to endure things I can’t imagine
.
My son thrives. This, then, is some good news I can impart. He thrives. He will soon be three years old – where has the time gone? Close to four dark years have passed, and Thomas the only ray of light in all of it. He runs around the house and garden like a little dervish. He is not tall for his age, I am told, but his legs and body are sturdy, and his constitution good. He has yet to suffer seriously from any infection or childhood affliction. He has brown hair that curls a little, and brown eyes. Light brown eyes. I let his hair grow too long because I love brushing it so! My sister says he is too old for the style, and people will take him for a little girl, but I intend to leave it a while yet. He has started counting, and can memorise songs and rhymes in an instant – his mind is quick, quicker than mine, I dare say. I hope it gladdens you, to hear about Thomas
.
I can’t think what else to write. Everything has been so strange and dark since that summer. I wish I could make better sense of it, but then I think I would be too afraid to do anything if my suspicions were confirmed to be true. Too afraid to stay in my home another second, and where would that leave me? My sister might have me for a while, I know. But she could not have me for ever – she and her husband have four children now, and there simply isn’t the room for Thomas and I. Will you please write to me? Tell me what you know about what happened that summer – I beg of you! Even if you think your answers will not bring me ease, I must know. To live in fear and suspicion is intolerable, though I have borne it these four years. I have written to you before of what I found, in the library that morning. The things I found. I am sure I wrote of them to you, although my mind was badly shaken at the time. It was all like the worst kind of dream. I would wake, in the days afterwards, and be happy for two heartbeats, but then I would remember it all, and it seemed as though the very sun grew dimmer. Does hiding what I found make me complicit in the crime? I fear it does, but I’m sure there are few who would have done differently. Perhaps this is not true. Perhaps I am weak and fearful and lacking in moral courage. What then of you, and
your
silence? Write to me, I beg you. Do not leave me here with only guesses and secrets, dogging my very steps each day
.
With warm regards
,
H. Canning
They were sitting in a restaurant in the village of Watou, a fair drive from Poperinge where Leah was staying, and Ryan was based.
It’s worth the trip
, he’d said, to her questioning glance as they drove out of town. He was right. The food was delicious, the ambience quiet but with a low buzz of chatter from a steady stream of locals turning up for their evening meal. Outside, rain pounded the deserted road, fizzing in the flooded gutters, scattering the street light across the window pane.
‘Don’t you just long for summer?’ Leah sighed, staring out at it.
‘I like it like this, remember? I like the dark months,’ Ryan replied, pouring more red wine into her glass.
‘That’s right. I’d forgotten.’
‘Forgetting me already.’ Ryan shook his head. Leah said nothing. They both knew that would be impossible. To forget. She looked up at him, face lit by the candle on the table between them. What was it inside her that pulled her towards him? Something inexorable, like gravity. It would be so much easier to give in to it, in much the same way, she told herself firmly, as it would be easier to let go and fall off a cliff than it would be to haul oneself back onto solid ground. So much easier. The wine was warming her blood, she felt it colour her cheeks. ‘You look half cut,’ Ryan said. His smile mocked her gently, familiarity and tenderness softening his expression, blurring away the bad memories.
‘Wasn’t that your intention?’ Leah asked. Ryan shook his head.
‘You’ve always known your own mind. I’ve never relied on alcohol to change it for me.’
‘Liar.’ She smiled; and Ryan grinned.
‘It’s really good to see you, Leah. I don’t think I got around to
telling you that yet.’ He put out a hand, fiddled with the wax drips on the candle shaft, frowning slightly as if gripped by deep and troubling thoughts.
Oh, you were always good at this game
, Leah thought. Always good at making her come forward, making her take a closer look.
‘I’m not going to sleep with you,’ she said, flatly; more abruptly than she’d intended.
Ryan snatched his hand back from the candle as if he’d been burnt. ‘I don’t remember asking you to,’ he countered, seemingly unruffled.
They talked as their plates were cleared and they ordered dessert; but the more they spoke, the more obvious it became that there were things they could not speak about, and they drifted into silence, odd and uncomfortable.
‘I wonder why he kept that letter? She says she wrote him lots, before he came over to the continent. Why that one in particular? It’s not much of a love letter after all,’ Leah said at last. The waiter brought their desserts – profiteroles, drenched in a slick of glossy Suchard sauce. He put the bowls down with a flourish, turning each one just so with the tips of his fingers, as if the exact position of them was of the utmost importance. Leah caught his eye and smiled fleetingly.
‘I think our
garçon
fancies you,’ Ryan said.
‘I think you’re imagining it. You always did.’
‘Except in Turkey.’
‘OK, I’ll give you Turkey. But it wasn’t me that got to them – it was the blue eyes and the yellow hair.’
‘I could have been rich. One of them offered me his house for you,’ Ryan grinned.
‘I wasn’t yours to sell,’ she retorted. ‘Besides, he was about sixteen. Probably still lived at home with his mama.’
‘That wasn’t the only one,’ Ryan said, putting a whole profiterole into his mouth, which would barely close. Leah couldn’t help but laugh.
‘You pig! You’ve got chocolate on your chin. What wasn’t the only one?’
