The Unseen (9 page)
‘I don’t mean to make you unhappy,’ she says, swallowing her sobs.
‘How could you? Dear Hester,’ he says, and in his eyes is a look of helpless anguish. He watches her cry for a moment, and then rolls onto his side, towards her, and brushes her cheek with his fingers. He seems to come to a decision. ‘Very well. Will you turn out the light?’ he says, and Hester is shocked to hear his voice shaking. Mutely, she complies.
In the darkness, Hester waits. Albert moves closer still, so that the length of his body presses into her side. She turns her face
towards him, and can feel his proximity, the way her own breath hits his skin and bounces back to warm her. When he kisses her she leans into him, crushing their mouths together. She can’t seem to catch her breath. The room spins and it is wonderful, intoxicating. She puts her arms around him, fingers splayed to touch as much of him as she can. She gathers up his shirt, bunching it with her fists until she finds the skin underneath, and runs her hands along it, delighting in the heat of it, the smooth texture. Albert shivers at her touch. Gently, she pulls him closer and closer, so that he loses his balance and has no choice but to lie on top of her. Holding him tightly, feeling the weight of him squeezing the air from her lungs, a strong surge of joy shoots through her. She smiles in the dark, and kisses him again.
‘My Albert … I love you so much,’ she breathes. His kiss is firm, lips clamped together. Hesitantly, Hester opens her mouth; just a little, but Albert pulls back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quickly.
‘No, no. I …’ Albert whispers, but doesn’t finish the sentence. His hands are at either side of her face, lightly holding her head and stroking her hair. Hester wriggles a little, desperate to feel his hands move lower, to feel his touch on her breasts and stomach and hips. On instinct she moves her knees apart, a fraction at a time, so it seems as if it is his weight that pushes them open. He comes to rest against her pelvis and Hester moves her hands to his hips, to hold him tighter to her. The feeling is irresistible, compulsive. There is a delicious ache in the pit of her stomach, butterflies of anticipation making her shudder. She lets her hands stray to his buttocks, and pulls him closer. Albert freezes. His face pulls back from hers and she can hear his breathing, fast and almost panicky.
‘Albert, what’s wrong?’ she asks, craning her head up to be kissed again. But Albert pulls further away. He swallows audibly, and carefully climbs off her, to lie on his side of the bed, not even touching her. ‘Albert, please! Tell me what’s the matter!’ Hester whispers, the sting of this rejection all too sharp.
‘I’m so sorry, Hetty,’ he says, meek and desolate. Hester’s heart
aches for him, and she bites her lip to keep from crying. But try as she might, she can find no words to comfort him, no way to say that it doesn’t matter. Because at that moment it matters more than anything else in the world. She lies silent for a long time, too upset to sleep; she can tell from his breathing and his stillness that Albert is also awake. They lie there inches from each other, but it seems to Hester that a wide gulf stretches between them.
In her attic room, Cat begins a letter to Tess.
The hardest thing for me, in that rotten cell, was knowing that you were somewhere nearby, in just such a cell, but still I could not see you or speak to you
, she writes, the candle’s flicker making the shadow of her pen leap and stagger. This is not true, though. The hardest thing had been waiting in the morning’s pale, cold light, which woke her early, as she heard the trolley and the footsteps come down the corridor towards her. She heard it stop, heard doors open and close, heard the screams and scuffles behind them, the choking sounds, the retching and coughing, the swearing of the wardens. All the while it came nearer and nearer, all the while she knew she would be next. Her turn was coming. The waiting for it was the worst, the fear of it debilitating. In a haze of hunger and dread, she had lain for an hour, some mornings, listening to that trolley squeal and rattle its way towards her. The sound of it pushed a bow wave of horror into every cell along the row, so strong it was almost palpable. The few simple items aboard that small vehicle were enough to cause strong hearts to falter, and tears of sheer terror to well in Cat’s eyes.
I’m going to send this to Broughton Street in case you have been in touch there, in case you’ve left word of your whereabouts
, she continues. She pauses, grips the end of her pen between her teeth. How can she not think what to write, to her best friend? To the person she thinks of most often?
I do miss you, Tess. Here is not such a bad place, I can see that with my waking eyes, but all the while I feel trapped. I feel like I am still in prison. Do you feel it too? Ever since you and I made our escape from the house to that first meeting – that was when we were free, Tess! For the very first time. I didn’t think it would end up this way
. Cat stares at her own scant shadow on the wall, falling into the memory of it. They weren’t even supposed to be friends, a parlourmaid and a kitchen-maid. Cat ranked higher, and was not supposed to talk to the lower servants, not even at mealtimes at the long table in the servants’ quarters where they all met, three times a day. Tess shared a cellar room with the scullery-maid, Ellen, at first. But then the room, which was below ground level, was flooded out one night, and took weeks to dry. Mildew furred the walls, damp put a stiff chill in the air. So Ellen was given a truckle bed in with the first kitchen-maid, and Tess joined Cat in the attic.
Tess was only sixteen, little more than a child. Cat taught her to read a little, told her of faraway places, read to her from Byron and Milton and Keats. Tess’s eyes would light up at each twist and turn in the story, at each horror and wonder. When the Mariner killed the albatross, when Isabella planted her lover’s head in a flower-pot.
It was Tess’s idea to sneak out, the first time. Until then, Cat had not considered the idea. She had been raised in obedience, and deference; she had been raised to love and fear The Gentleman. But Tess read the leaflet that was brought to the servants’ quarters, and showed it to Cat. Waving it under her nose in a quiet corner of the corridor, tucked into the recess by the scullery doorway where they could not be seen from the butler’s pantry or the housekeeper’s room. ‘Let’s go along to it, Cat! I dare you! Oh, do let’s go!’ On Sunday afternoon, their only free time, they put on their best clothes and went. And it lit a fire in Cat. For there to be life, outside the house. For there to be a roomful of people, all gathered together of their own free will, and for her to be one of them. Tess’s cheeks were pink at the thrill of it, and Cat was all but struck dumb. It was like the world had started over, and would never go back to its old, drab turning.
The local meeting hall had been decked out in purple, white and green; from the sashes, flags and swags of bunting that hung from every banister and balustrade, to the sprays of flowers in vases that stood all around, dousing the air with their scent. Huge banners wafted gently overhead. One proclaimed:
Who Would Be Free Themselves Must Strike the Blow!
Another bore the graceful likeness of Emmeline Pankhurst, and praised her
Daring Rectitude
, calling her a
Champion of Womanhood
. There was a bustle and a hum of excitement, and Cat and Tess stayed on their feet at the back, overawed by the grandness of the ladies seated towards the front, who seemed to know each other well. Never before had they been in the same room as upper- and middle-class women, and yet been on the same footing as them. For Tess, that was enough. It was enough to be counted as a person, to count for something for a while. But for Cat, it was the words that were spoken, the arguments she heard that night from the various speakers, that shook her to her very core; seemed to shake her awake for the first time in her life.
‘A man may be drunk, or mad, or a convicted criminal; he may be lame, unfit for military service, or a keeper of white slaves, and yet he may vote! A woman may be mayor, or nurse, or mother; she may be learned in medicine, and be a doctor or a teacher; she may work and support herself and her family in industrial factories, and yet she may not vote! A soiled dove may be taken, if she is found to be infected by venereal disease, and kept against her will for many months until the infection has been treated, and yet there is no penalty for the men who have frequented and infected her! A husband may beat his wife, and indulge all his many urges upon her body, and she has no recourse to refuse him. A man may philander before he weds, and try himself with several female partners, and still he may go on to make an honourable partnership – and yet these women he has known are cast out by society!’
At this Tess had giggled, and coloured up, and Cat shushed her, gripping her hands to still her.
‘While only men can vote, only men’s economic grievances will be addressed by the government of this country. Our opponents point out that we have not the earning power of men: well, how can we have when all the most lucrative and important positions are barred to us – by men? As long as a woman has no political power, then she will have no economic power, and will remain at the bottom of the ladder when it comes to earnings. Until parliament is made responsible to us as voters, none of these inequalities, none of these imbalances will be addressed! They say that if we have the vote, women will no longer listen to men, and all will descend into chaos. We say, why should men not listen to women for once? Comrades! Spread the word! Give up your time; give up your money if you can. Raise up your voices and make yourselves heard!’
There was enthusiastic applause, and then the presentation of a medal to a frail lady, whose brown dress matched the brown hollows under her eyes, and who had recently come out of prison for disrupting a Liberal Party meeting. The woman pinned the medal to her dress, then spoke in a reedy voice of her ordeal, thanking her sisters for all their support, and vowing to fight on. She was given a standing ovation.
‘Let’s go, Cat – we’d better. It’s almost four o’clock,’ Tess whispered urgently, as the speaker stepped down.
‘Not yet. I want to ask what we can do!’
‘What do you mean, Cat? Do about what?’
‘Did you mean for this to be our first and last outing, then? Don’t you want to help them? Be one of them?’ Cat asked incredulously.
‘Be one of them?’ Tess echoed, with a startled smile.
‘You heard what she said! Why shouldn’t we have the vote? Why should I earn less than the hall boy, when I am older and have worked longer and hold a higher position than he?’
‘But … it’s not for the likes of us – we’ve got duties to attend
to. Look at all those rich women! They’ve the time and money to take part. What have we got?’
‘And we’ll always have no time, and no money, and duties to attend to, if we never do anything about it. Don’t you want to be
part
of something?’ Cat demanded, giving Tess a little shake. Tess’s eyes were wide, and she swallowed, but in the end she nodded.
‘I do, Cat. If you’ll be there with me. I do want to be part of it,’ she said, looking up at Cat with gentle wonder.
‘Good.’ Cat smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s ask what we can do.’ They gathered leaflets, and paid a penny for a copy of
Votes for Women
, and learnt the whereabouts of their local WSPU office, where they could go and pay a shilling to join, and sign the declaration of allegiance.
In the weeks that followed, they went to the Women’s Press Shop on Charing Cross Road to buy the colours – all manner of accessories in white, purple and green were on sale, from hat pins to bicycles – and volunteered their time filling envelopes, handing out leaflets, and advertising meetings and fundraising events. And they went, from then on, each Sunday afternoon, even though their feet were throbbing and their backs aching, and they could have spent the time lying down or drinking in the pub, or meeting with a sweetheart. They wore their WSPU badges pinned to their underwear all week, where they would not be seen and confiscated; and from then on they were not merely servants, they were suffragettes.
It was a game at first, Cat thinks. A game in which she dictated the rules and Tess played along. Cat shuts her eyes in anguish, the letter lying unfinished in front of her. How can she write something as insufficient as a letter about it all? How can she hope to make amends? Sweet, trusting Tess; little more than a child and besotted with Cat, willing to do whatever Cat asked of her. And what Cat asked of her would come to ruin her. It would end with her blood staining the ground around her, and her spirit beaten down. It
would end in her violent devastation. Cat signs off with two bleak little words.
Forgive me
. She presses the letter to her chest, as if it will absorb some of the remorse from her heart, and carry it to Tess.
The Rev. Albert Canning – from his journal
FRIDAY, JUNE 2ND, 1911
I heard the most remarkable speaker in Newbury last night, one Robin Durrant. A young man, and yet clearly advanced beyond his years in intellect and understanding. He spoke most eloquently upon the basic tenets of the wisdom religion, aka theosophy; keeping all in the auditorium quite captivated. Particular emphasis was laid on nature spirits, the evidence for their existence, methods of detecting them, and the reasons how and why they may choose to reveal – or indeed not to reveal – themselves, at will, to their human neighbours. He spoke to me most compellingly after the lecture was given, regarding the reconciliation of theosophy with the Anglican faith
.
I returned from the lecture during a terrific electric storm. What controls such things, such startling things, if not God, if not the higher order? Exceedingly well timed to coincide with my sermon on this very point. Hester much troubled by the storm, it seeming to leave her emotionally weakened and needy. I found some scripture regarding the presence of God in such things to comfort her, but at times she is inconsolable by words. Women are like children, sometimes, in their simple fears and misunderstandings
.
