The Unseen(13)

But then, scribbled across the red-black of her eyelids, came the words of the Canning woman’s letters. Everything is ruined. I was going to destroy it all … there it stays, beneath the floor; I labour under such shadows! There was something there to be discovered, some hidden story, some truth. Not just the identity of the dead soldier, but whatever it was that had caused this woman such anguish, such nightmares. And why it was that the man she wrote to never wrote back to her; and why it was that he kept only these two of her letters; and why it was that she thought he might one day have had something to prove, to mitigate, as she put it.

Like a lifeline, something to cling to, the loose threads of the story wound their way down to her. She could just about reach them, concentrating hard, bending all her will to it. The first thing she had to do was leave. Not even wake Ryan, or speak to him, or tell him goodbye; never mind that the smell of him was in her hair and on her fingers and in her mouth, like traces of some pernicious drug that fed her as it wasted her. On soft feet she rose, dressed, picked up the copies of the letters from the floor and folded them into her bag. She did not look at the bed; she did not leave a note. As she left the room she thought she saw a gleam with the corner of her eye, a shard of light reflected from the dark form tangled up in the pillows and sheets. As if Ryan’s eyes were open as she slipped from the room.





1911


In the mornings, the house is cool and quiet, full of bright sunshine that glints on every speck of dust swirling in the still air, settling slowly onto the furniture. As Cat sweeps the hearths and rugs, clouds of it billow around her, resettle all around to be wiped off minutes later, back into the air, on to the floor. She is glad Hester is never up in time to see how futile trying to be rid of it is. People are made of dust. Houses are made of it. Cat brushes her fingers on her apron, again and again, not liking the thought of it clinging to her skin. She cleans the downstairs rooms and lays the table for breakfast before Hester comes down. Sometimes, she is called upstairs to help Hester dress. Then, when the vicar is back from his morning jaunt, he and Hester eat breakfast while Cat goes upstairs, gathers the dirty laundry and mending, makes the bed, cleans the bedroom and bathroom, the upstairs corridor. She airs guest rooms that she has yet to see any guests use; opens shutters in rooms nobody will enter all day, shuts them again when the sun begins to set. She persecutes flies endlessly, swatting at them; watching those that fly too high, out of reach, waiting for them to tire and die.

All the time, the quiet resounds in her ears. In London there was the steady hum of the city, even on exclusive Broughton Street. As each set of shutters was opened, a low sound of lives being lived would greet the ears. Cab horses would clatter by, steel feet striking sparks at the end of gaunt, sinewy legs; and motor cars, their engines throbbing like panting dogs. Boys on bicycles, delivery wagons, the ponderous clop of the dray’s hooves. Pedestrians too, mingling voices. The servants could grab a look at passers-by, could keep tabs on the fashions of the day. Now when she opens the shutters Cat is greeted by swathes of green – a landscape, on three sides of the house, unbroken by any sign of human endeavour. The sky is wide and high and the sound is of birdsong, almost exclusively. Now and then a cart passing; now and then a dog barking. It’s unnerving but she can’t resist it, and finds herself hung, pausing at the windows she is meant to be cleaning, her gaze softening, reaching out into this new, quiet distance. And her body needs these rests, like it never has before. She has worked since she was twelve, her muscles made hard by it. But Holloway has made her weak, has made her legs tremble by the time she has climbed from the cellar to the attic.

At breakfast, she sits with Mrs Bell at the wooden table in the kitchen. The cook’s chair creaks ominously underneath her, all but obscured by her bulk. Only spindly wooden legs are visible, chafing against the flagstones and wobbling with the strain. One day they will snap, Cat thinks. She will not be able to keep from laughing when it happens. She runs the scene in her mind – Mrs Bell, flailing on the floor like a beetle on its back, unable to rise.

‘What are you smirking at?’ Mrs Bell asks suspiciously.

‘I was picturing you rolling on the floor if your chair broke,’ Cat replies, quite honestly.

‘Why, you cheeky minx!’ Mrs Bell gasps, staring, her eyes stretched wide for once; but she can’t seem to find any other riposte, so Cat goes back to eating her porridge. She has to concentrate on eating, in an odd way. She has to concentrate on not noticing she is doing it. If she notices it too much, the flavour of it, the texture, the brief choking sensation of swallowing … then panic rises and makes it impossible.