The Unseen (46 page)

1911

Before dawn, Cat opens her eyes.
This is the last time
, she tells herself, and smiles. The last time she will wake up in a servant’s bed, the last time she will be in a house where she must labour, and be treated as lesser, and have no freedom. She pauses for a moment, makes note of the feeling of the bumpy mattress, pressing into her spine, and the way the muscles that run from her ribs to her hips are aching, from scrubbing the flagstones of the cellar floors the day before. She makes note of the smell of yeast caught under her fingernails, from taking over the kneading of the bread dough when Sophie Bell got too hot and had a funny turn. She remembers that today she would have had to wash a load of the Cannings’ underwear, if she stayed. With all of this absorbed, and studied, and scorned, she rises and washes her face and hands. The water wakes her, makes her shiver. It splatters into the enamel bowl, fills the room with tinny echoes. The whole world seems to hold its breath.

She pauses outside Sophie Bell’s room as she passes it. She has not told her she is leaving, and there is a needle of guilt about this, behind her excitement. The woman’s loud and heavy breaths sound clearly through the door, and Cat presses her hand briefly to the wood. Too late to do anything about it now. Bidding her a silent farewell, Cat resolves to write to her, once she and George have found rooms somewhere. Hungerford, or Bedwyn. Small towns and villages strung along the canal like beads as it heads west. They can visit, explore, choose. She creeps as silently as she can to the back door, because she knows the vicar no longer takes to his bed. His pillow is smooth every morning, one side of the sheets
uncreased. The library door is shut, and though no light comes out from under it, it seems to watch and wait; the silence behind it a watchful one, a poised one. Cat pauses, listens as hard as she can for sounds of movement within. When she walks on again, her heart is thumping. The top step of the cellar stairs creaks, and she freezes. She thinks she hears a footstep, behind that secretive door. The squeak of a chair being risen from. But she won’t go back so she rushes on instead, as quietly as she can. Down the cellar steps, through the kitchen and out of the back door. The latch seems thunderous in the silence.

The world outside is still colourless, flat and surreal with that odd pre-dawn glow, neither dark nor light, not day or night. A suspended moment, when what was before has gone, what is to come has not yet begun. Cat walks through this between-time and feels the blood in her veins, cool and vital. The air is damp, and touches her cheeks and hair with moisture. She pauses by the garden gate and looks back at The Rectory with its high walls and shuttered windows. How much like a prison it looks, and she reassures herself that she will never set foot inside it again. She takes a deep breath, hopes that what for her has been a prison, for Tess will be a sanctuary, of a kind at least. A safe haven, a place to heal. She hopes that in bringing Tess here she has begun to atone for all the violence she brought upon her friend.

The force-feeding had a peculiar effect on some of the gaoled suffragettes. Their faces were bruised and cut, they had frequent nose bleeds, and suffered attacks of nerves they couldn’t contain; many had chest infections, racking coughs that robbed them of air. But beneath all of that, a few of them began to feel stronger again. The food that was poured into them went some way towards nourishing their bodies, and the dizziness and listlessness dissipated for a while. After three days of the terror and violation of it, Tess, Cat and some others stumbled from their cells, strong enough to stand and desperate to see the sky. Leaning on each other like a pair
of elderly widows, the two servants from Broughton Street made their slow way out into the yard. Cat could hardly bring herself to look at the cuts and scabs on Tess’s face, the chalky pallor of her skin and the way she shivered constantly, though the day was mild.

‘Tess … I’m so sorry I got you into all of this,’ Cat whispered as they stood in the sunniest corner of the yard. Tess tried to smile but could not manage it. The wall behind them was slick with early morning moisture, dark streaks drenching the cold stones.

‘It wasn’t your fault, Cat. It was those policemen …’

‘No – you wouldn’t even have been there if it wasn’t for me, making you! You’d have been back at the house, safe and sound …’

‘I’d rather have been out and about with you than stuck in that house, even if it has led us here, Cat, truly I would. You’re the best friend I ever had …’ Tess said, her words broken off by a husky, bubbling cough.

‘No, I’m not!’ Cat shook her head as angry tears filled her eyes. ‘Come off the strike, Tess. Please. There’s no need for you to continue with it … I’ll do it for both of us! Start eating, and soon enough you’ll be out. The Gentleman will have you back, I’m sure of it …’

‘Perhaps he might, if you’re there to speak for me?’ Tess said, hope lighting her eyes.

‘Of course I’ll be there to speak for you! I’ll make him keep you on, I promise.’

‘But … I won’t come off the strike. I won’t be the only one to give in to them, Cat! And if I know you’re doing it too, I can put up with it, really I can.’

‘But I can’t bear to think of it, Tessy! I can’t bear to think of you suffering this treatment, when I am the one responsible!’ Anguish reduced Cat’s voice to a croak.

‘Don’t you cry, Cat – that’s something I can’t bear! I’d rather starve than eat the slops they feed us in here, anyway. God – couldn’t you just murder one of Ellen’s pies right now? A beef and
ale one, with a big puddle of gravy and some potatoes …’ Tess shut her eyes, dreaming up this feast. Cat’s mouth filled with saliva.

‘When we get out of here, we’ll have one. One of the big ones, cut in half just for us and steaming hot,’ she promised.

‘A big slice of blue cheese with it too, and almond tarts to follow. That’s food worth breaking a hunger strike for – not that horrible soup they give us. It’s probably just dirty water – the water The Crow has washed her feet in, most likely!’ Tess said, with a delicate grimace that opened up a cut by her mouth. She winced as Cat dabbed gently at the oozing blood with the cuff of her blouse.

‘The Crow? Wash her feet? Don’t be daft. I heard she hasn’t washed them for a decade. I heard those aren’t stockings she wears – that’s her filthy grey skin!’ she said, and Tess found a tiny smile.

‘That’s disgusting!’ she whispered.

‘And what’s more, it’s those feet that have left her stranded, stuck working in this dank and smelly place all her days. She was due to be wed, you see,’ Cat went on, improvising.

‘The Crow to be wed? I’ll never believe it!’

‘Oh yes, many years ago, when it’s said she still had elegance, even if she was never a beauty. But on the night before the wedding her fiancé paid her a visit, and in the grip of his passionate embrace she forgot herself, cast off her shoes … and the smell of her feet killed the poor boy stone dead!’ She threw her arms wide and collapsed theatrically onto the cobbles, though it made her head spin. Tess laughed a little, clapping her hands covertly. Then she stopped; her face fell.

Cat looked up and saw the dark-haired wardress standing over her, her arms folded and her eyes shining coldly in the morning light. Cat tried to get to her feet, but dizziness assailed her and she remained on the damp ground, suddenly queasy.

‘Heard something funny, have you?’ The Crow said to Tess, her voice treacherously light, almost friendly. Mutely, Tess shook her head. Shivers gripped her again, shaking her whole body. ‘It
sounded like you were laughing. Your friend come up with another funny song or a poem, has she?’ Again, Tess shook her head. ‘Come now, don’t be shy. Let’s hear it,’ the woman ordered. Tess stayed silent and still, her face drawn and deathly pale. Cat struggled to her feet.

‘Leave her alone,’ she said to the wardress. ‘She wasn’t doing anything wrong.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that. Come on, I want to hear what she said. If you don’t tell me, I’ll start to think there’s some special reason you don’t want me to hear,’ said The Crow, the words laced with menace. Tess glanced desperately at Cat, and Cat racked her brain for something that might placate the woman.

‘I said that … ah … I said …’ she floundered. The wardress’s mouth twisted to one side, a bitter sneer that made Tess take a step backwards, until her shoulders hit the wall. The Crow closed in on the younger girl, who started to whimper. ‘I said that you’re a bitter old snake who stinks like corruption! There – now you can punish me for it!’ Cat cried.

‘Oh, I will,’ the wardress said, catching Tess’s wrist with her strong, gaunt hands. ‘But what’s most galling to me right now is not what you said, but that this little bitch laughed at it.’ She twisted Tess’s arm and dragged her back towards the cell block, and Tess uttered a small cry of pure fear.

‘No!
Leave her alone!’ Cat shouted, running after them. The Crow turned and with one flat hand gave Cat a shove that sent her crashing back to the ground. For a minute Cat couldn’t get up. She coughed and struggled to find her balance; and when at last she got to her feet, Tess was nowhere in sight.

Cat raced up the stairs and back to the corridor where she and Tess were kept, the exertion making her stumble, and spots dance in front of her eyes. ‘What’s going on?’ another prisoner asked, lips grey in an ashen face. ‘The Crow had the cosh in her hand!’ The door to Tess’s cell was shut, and though she knew there was no point, Cat hammered on it all the same, shouting to be let in until
two other wardresses came and took her to her own cell, slamming the door behind her. They cast a look at one another as they did it, in disapproval at the sounds coming from Tess’s cell, but they did nothing more. Pressed their lips together and moved away. Numb with horror, stunned by guilt, Cat sat with her back against the wall, listening to the blows, hearing the screams and the sobbing. She thought she might explode into flame, with shame, with rage. But she did not. Shadows closed around her, filled the room, suffocated her, and she knew it would be with her for ever: the feeling of killing an innocent thing; of impotence; of the irrevocability of harm done.

When Tess’s door was next opened, Tess did not walk out through it. She was huddled in a far corner with her clothes all torn, blood drying around brand new wounds and a hundred new bruises swelling on her skin. And some essence of her gone; fled from the room. The little sparkle that lit her laugh, the avid look in her eye. Cat stood for a long time at the threshold, staring full face at what had been done, letting herself suffer the consequences of her actions. She told herself then she could never suffer enough.

But perhaps, she thinks, as she turns her back on The Rectory, perhaps now she has. She has relived it in countless nightmares, and shouldered the crushing weight of blame. She has barely slept, barely eaten. She has scoured her body and her soul. She will see Tess again, in a few weeks, a few months. She will find out if – in spite of her broken promises and the tide of misfortune she let close over their heads – if in spite of it all Tess still loves her, and is still her friend. Somehow in her heart, Cat feels that forgiveness is coming. She sees a figure waiting up ahead. Robin nods, giving her a tight smile as she joins him by the stile.

‘Good morning. Are you ready to dance, willow spirit?’ he says.

‘Have you got my money?’ she asks blandly. She will not let him see her joy, her excitement; will keep it all for herself. Robin makes a rueful face, fishes in his pocket for a few folded
notes, and a handful of coins. Cat puts them away quickly, safely into her bag.

‘Here you go. You’d better dance beautifully, for that wage. I have your disguise here with me.’ He pats his leather satchel, and can’t keep the excitement from his own voice; nerves wound tight.

‘One more time then. Let’s get on with it,’ Cat says. They cross into the meadow, and make for the spot where the willow tree waits.

And as Cat slips on the floating white dress and the long, trailing platinum hair, she feels watched. Not just by the theosophist, not just by the waiting day as dawn begins. Watched by something else, by someone else. She straightens up, the skin at the back of her neck prickling. She casts her eyes to the horizon and sweeps them along, turning a slow circle. Nobody is in sight. But the grass and plants are long, waist high in some places. Cat stares at it, all around, but can see nothing. No telltale place where the long green stems are broken, the dew knocked from flower heads, apart from where she and Robin just walked. No movement, no twitching of a hidden watcher. But still she feels it, and strains her eyes and ears; a rabbit with the scent of fox on the air. A barn owl ghosts across the meadow, making for the trees to the north on silent white wings.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Robin asks, looking up from his camera as he fiddles with the lenses, checks the range of the shot.

Cat shrugs one shoulder. ‘Nothing,’ she lies. She folds her dress into a bundle, and stashes it with her bag.

‘Ready?’ he asks, and she nods.

Cat walks at first along the edge of the stream, stares at the rocks and pebbles and weeds at the bottom of it, just visible beneath the reflected sky. She does not feel like dancing, not like she did before. All the rage that fired her before has gone, and inside she is happier now, has less to fight. She spreads her arms, like a bird’s wings, tips her head to the promise of sunrise, and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she sees him: the unmistakable fair hair and pink face of the vicar; his skinny shoulders, the black cleric’s coat
with its high, tight collar; soft features framed by whiskers. He is a long way off, and frozen at the sight of her; half crouching as if to hide. Cat’s heart leaps into her mouth, her stomach twists. They are discovered, for certain. She wonders if Robin knows anything about him being there – of the vicar being let in on the game. But no, she knows he’s not supposed to see this. The vicar is Robin’s believer, his advocate. For nobody else could it be more important to maintain the charade. Her throat dry with nerves, Cat draws breath, is about to announce Albert’s presence to Robin Durrant. The theosophist is crouching low to the ground, is quite absorbed in his work with no idea of the approaching visitor. Cat can feel Albert’s eyes on her, even though he is still too far away for her to make out his features. His stare is tangible, like a touch, like a strong grip that seeks to hold her, possess her.