The Unseen(134)
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 …’