Once the jam has been left to sit for a quarter hour so the fruit will settle evenly, there are more burns as it’s poured. Splashes, piping hot flecks find bare wrists; dribbling overflows must be wiped away, the hot jars braced with wincing fingertips.
‘Dear God, if only that was the end of it! In a week the blackcurrants will start coming in,’ Mrs Bell sighs, putting her hand to her mouth and sucking where a blister is forming.
‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ Cat says, leaning her elbows on the sticky table top and bending forwards to stretch her back. ‘It’s suffocating me.’
‘It’s hotter than hell, I’ll grant you,’ Mrs Bell agrees. All day Cat has looked to the doorway, looked to the stairs, looked to Hester as she put the lunch dishes on the sideboard; waiting to have her errand, her means of escaping to find George. All day it has not come, and the wait has chafed her more as each minute ticked past. She takes the tea tray up at four, with a bowl of the fresh jam and a plate of scones. Her legs feel like lead as she climbs the stairs; her movements are wooden. No amount of water she drinks seems to quench her thirst. In the drawing room, the vicar and his wife sit with Robin Durrant, listening as he reads from a letter. Hester Canning’s face is flat and shiny, her hair a frizzy mess around her forehead. She seems lost in thought, and does not notice Cat, however hard Cat tries to catch the woman’s eye. The vicar can’t seem to keep his eyes still. They flit from Robin’s face to his hands to the letter he holds, and when Cat draws near he shuts his eyes and turns his head away, shuddering slightly, as though the smell of her offends him.
Gritting her teeth in fury, Cat puts the tray down with exaggerated care, and transfers the tea things to the table as slowly as she may without it appearing deliberate.
‘It is a source of tremendous satisfaction to us both that you have at l— that you have begun to make such a name for yourself as an authority in your chosen field. You are to be congratulated in the advances you have made of late. I look forward to our next meeting, and to a further discussion of both the nature and implications of your discoveries, since the newspapers’ reporting of it, which we follow most keenly, has been somewhat stingy with the facts of it all, and over-exuberant with either excitement or derision. I am sure that your continued diligence and endeavour in the field will only bring you greater prospects and wider renown. Yours etc …’ Robin Durrant lets the letter drop into his lap and smiles widely at the Cannings. ‘There! What a wonderful letter to receive from one’s father!’ he exclaims. ‘I know for a fact that the old man can’t for the life of him grasp the esoteric theories of theosophy, and yet he offers me his support and, I think, begins to respect the fact that in this field at least, my understanding outstrips his. And that of my brothers,’ the theosophist says, his voice vibrant with excitement, smiling with achievement. When neither of the Cannings replies to him, it clearly annoys him. He prods them as one would a listless pet, Cat thinks, requiring it to play. ‘What say you, Albert? Hester? Don’t you think it wonderful that a man as staid and traditional in his beliefs as my father can be persuaded to open his mind to this new reality?’
‘Oh, yes. Robin. You are to be congratulated, indeed,’ Albert obliges him, still keeping his face averted from Cat, and swallowing convulsively after he speaks. Beneath the sunburn that bridges his nose and cheeks, his face is an ashen grey. He looks unwell. No more than he deserves, Cat fumes inwardly. Hester seems about to speak, but clears her throat instead, and fumbles with the handle of her fan until the theosophist’s gaze returns to her husband.
‘Will that be all, madam?’ Cat asks pointedly, catching Hester’s eye and filling her face with significance.
‘Oh, yes, thank you, Cat,’ Hester replies, distantly. Cat glances at Robin, glares balefully at the flawless, self-satisfied smile on his face, and then leaves the room.
‘Damn and blast the woman!’ Cat swears, as she returns to the kitchen and pours herself a cup of water.
‘What now?’ asks Mrs Bell. She is writing out labels for the jam, crouched as close to the pen as she may, her face screwed up with the effort of concentration. Her writing is as small and cramped as she is large and flowing.
‘Let your pen move as freely as your thoughts,’ Cat says, peering over her shoulder. ‘Let the ink flow like a slow river.’ Mrs Bell shoots her a black look, and Cat retreats. ‘That’s how I was drilled, when I was learning to write.’ She shrugs.
‘Well, I’m not learning. I’m plenty good enough at it,’ Sophie Bell grumbles.