‘Alas, I am still writing the same hymn,’ Albert sighs. ‘The same one as for the last three weeks! I can’t seem to get the tune to fit the words … it’s vexing me terribly.’
‘You need a rest, my love,’ she suggests.
‘I can’t. Not until I’ve unknotted it some.’
‘Play it for me. Perhaps I can help.’ Hester sits on the stool beside him, facing the keys.
‘Very well, but it’s nowhere near ready for an audience,’ Albert warns her sheepishly.
‘I’m not an audience. I’m your wife.’ Hester smiles, gently looping her arm through his, loosely so as not to hamper his movements. Albert plays an opening chord to find the key.
‘Oh! Lord God, our father, all around us we see; the fruits of Thy bounty, Thy gifts heavenly! In the crash of the waves and the singing of the birds, we hear Thy true voice and harken to Thy words …’ Albert sings softly, his voice jolting up and down between notes like a child at hopscotch. ‘There!’ He breaks off in frustration. ‘I can’t make that line lie happily within the melody!’ Hester reaches out her hand and plays the last few notes. She hums along a little, letting the tune move to its own rhythm.
‘How about this.’ She clears her throat. ‘In the crash of the waves and the bright song of birds, we hear Thy true voice and harken to Thy words,’ she sings.
Albert smiles fondly at her. ‘Darling, you have a gift for music that I envy, I truly do. You should be composing hymns, not I! Thank you.’ He kisses her forehead, his face bright and open. Hester’s breath gets hitched in her chest, and she does not trust herself to speak, so she smiles, and plays the simple tune again; and there they sit in the hazy sunlight, arm in arm, humming and singing and softly playing.
The household is all darkness and silence by eleven o’clock. The night is still and balmy mild – unseasonably so, perhaps. On soft feet, Cat leaves her room, goes along the corridor and down the back stairs. Already, her feet know which boards to avoid, how to tread so as not to make a sound. Not that much could wake a household grown accustomed to sleeping through the cavernous snoring of Sophie Bell, she thinks. Outside in the courtyard Cat smokes a cigarette, leaning her back against the warm brick wall, watching the bright red flare each time she inhales. When it fades, it draws patterns in front of her eyes against the darkness. To either side of the house, owls are calling, talking in childlike whistles and squeaks. The sky is an inky velvet blue, and she watches the little bats against it, wheeling and diving, mesmerised by the silence of their flight. Suddenly, there is no thought of her going back inside, of going to bed, lying down in this new, genteel prison she has been sent to. There is too much life, humming in the night air like a static charge. Cat sets off across the meadow, with dew from the feathered grasses soaking into her shoes.
Her eyes grow ever more accustomed to the dark, and she makes her way to the canal, turning left to follow the towpath towards Thatcham. Her heart is beating faster now, with that same excitement as when she and Tess walked to their first public meeting. Only eighteen months ago. It seems like a lifetime. It seems like another world. There is such a thrill of emotion, something she can’t name – almost fearful, something she almost wants to turn away from, but at the same time can’t resist. It causes a rushing in her bloodstream, causes the tips of her fingers to tingle. Where the warehouses and buildings coalesce into the town, a group of men are sitting on the bridge, smoking and talking and laughing. Another girl might see danger, but Cat is not afraid of them.
‘Well, what have we here?’ says one of them, as she walks right up to them, climbs up onto the bridge from the canal side and stands with her arms folded across her chest. She can’t see their faces, just shadows and outlines. The smell of them is in the air all around – sweat, the rank odour of working men at the end of a long, hot day. Beer, smoke, rough canvas clothes.
‘Are you lost, little girl?’ another asks her.
‘I’m neither – lost, nor a little girl. I’m looking for George Hobson,’ she says, the name coming easily into her mouth, although she hadn’t known it was waiting there.
‘Good grief, he’s a lucky bugger then – secret assignation is it?’ the first man asks, with a leer that makes the others laugh.
‘It’s none of your business. Do you know where I can find him, or not?’
‘Oh, she’s a feisty one! That’s a quick tongue you’ve got, miss. I’m not sure how lucky George is after all!’