The vicarage is built of faded red brick, three storeys high and almost square in shape. Symmetrical rows of windows with bright white frames gaze out onto the world, the glass reflecting the bright sky. The surrounding gardens overflow with early flowers, sprays of colour rising from tidy beds that curve through stretches of short, neat lawn. Budding wisteria and honeysuckle scale the walls and window sills, and tall tulips march the path to the wide front door, painted bright blue and sporting a gleaming brass knocker. The house sits on the outskirts of the small village, its gardens adjoining the water meadows. In the distance a stream carves a winding path, like a silver ribbon. The driver pulls up at the far side of the house, across the gravel driveway, where mossy steps lead down to a more modest door.
‘You use this door, none other,’ Mrs Bell tells her curtly, as they make their way inside.
‘Of course,’ Cat replies, nettled. Did the woman think she had never worked before?
‘Now, pay attention while I show you around. I’ve not got time to keep repeating myself, and I need to get on with the tea. The mistress, Mrs Canning, wants to see you as soon as you’ve had a chance to tidy yourself up and get changed—’
‘Get changed?’
‘Yes, get changed! Or did you plan to meet her in that tatty skirt, with dirty cuffs on your blouse and your bootlaces frayed?’ Mrs Bell’s grey eyes are sharp indeed.
‘I’ve a spare blouse, my best, and I can put it on, but this skirt is the only one I have,’ Cat says.
‘I’ll not believe they let you about the place looking like that in London!’
‘I had a uniform. I … had to give it back when I left.’
Mrs Bell puts her hands where her hips might have been. Cat gazes steadily at her, refusing to be cowed. The older woman’s knuckles are cracked and red. They sink into her flesh, wedge themselves there. Her feet rock inwards, the arches long ago surrendered to the weight they carry. Her ankles look like suet dough, dimpled beneath her stockings. Cat grips her own two hands together in front of her, feeling the reassuring hardness of her bones.
‘Well,’ Mrs Bell says at last, ‘it’ll be up to the mistress whether she’ll provide you with clothing. Otherwise you’ll have to make do. You’ll need a grey or brown dress for the morning, a black one for the evening; and something to wear to church. There’s a rag sale next week in Thatcham. You might find something there that you can alter.’
Cat’s room is in the attic. There are three rooms side by side, all with views north through small dormer windows, and accessed off a bright, south-facing corridor. As if the architect had thought the corridor more deserving of sunlight than the servants. Cat puts her bag down at the foot of the bed, surveys her new home. Plain, whitewashed walls, a small iron bed with a brass crucifix hanging above it; a bible on a woven straw chair; wash stand; threadbare curtains. There’s a narrow cupboard for clothes, and a patchwork quilt folded at the foot of the bed. With quick steps, Cat crosses the room, takes the crucifix from the wall and flings it out of sight beneath the bed. It hits the pot with a musical clang. Where they touched the smooth limbs of the metal cross, Cat’s fingers seem to sting. Rubbing her hands on her skirt in agitation, she shuts her eyes and fights off memories of an object so similar; of Jesus watching her solemnly from a high wall, oblivious to her torment. Then she stands at the window, looking out at the lane and a field of ginger cattle beyond. Such a wide empty space. She thinks of her friends in London, of Tess with her eager green eyes, always excited about something. The thought makes her ache. She has no address she can write to, no idea where Tess will end up. Tess might not be as fortunate as she, in finding another position. I am lucky, Cat tells herself, bitterly. She has been told it enough times, of late.
Behind her, the door swings itself shut, nudged by some stray breeze. Cat freezes, every muscle pulling tight. She stands ramrod straight and tries to breathe when the air seems too thick all of a sudden. It’s not locked, she tells herself. Just shut. Not locked. She turns slowly to face the door, braced as if some horror waits there to be discovered. The small room’s walls bow inwards around her, clinging to her like wet cloth. Her knees shake, and she totters to the door like an old woman, certain as she turns the handle that she won’t be able to get out. The metal knob rattles in her hand as she turns it, and as she pulls the door open a few precious inches, she knows that it is her shivering that makes the handle shake. Her heartbeat tumbles like a waterfall, and she leans her face against the pitted wood of the door, waiting to feel calm. Never again, she thinks. Never, never, never.