The Unseen(51)

Cat picks it up, and the address catches her eye. Mr R. Durrant, The Queen’s Hotel, Newbury. Was he living in a hotel then, before he came to the vicarage? Without hesitation, Cat opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, pinching it carefully in her fingertips. The paper is smooth and expensive, the ink profoundly black; the date is two weeks previously.


Dear Robin,

I fear you will not be pleased by the contents of this letter, but your mother and I, after much discussion, have agreed that what I propose is quite the best thing for you. You are of course dear to us, perhaps too dear to your mother – she does dote on you so, and would deny you nothing. I wonder sometimes quite how aware of this you are, and whether you tend to use her affection to your own advantage. Perhaps it would be only natural for you to do so, perhaps we have been remiss in our raising of you. However, the time has come for you to stand by your own strength. This theosophy of yours will get you nowhere in the world, Robin. I do not suggest that you give it up; by all means continue with it as a hobby, if you wish. As a career, it is quite unsuitable. You must settle upon something with prospects, something by which you may build a name and a fortune for yourself. Look at your brothers – in medicine, and the military. They are carving fine niches for themselves. I do not suggest you should have taken up medicine – you haven’t John’s studious mind, after all. But I beg you again to consider the army. I – we – strongly believe that the discipline and order would help to settle you. And you would be following in my own footsteps, after all. But even if you insist that the army is not the path for you, I insist that you find some path – some worthwhile path. And so, though it pains me to write it, I do decline your latest request for funds. I cannot, with clear conscience, forward you any more money whilst I know it permits you to delay the pursuit of a proper occupation. I know you have it in you to do extremely well, just like your brothers, and I mean to assist you towards this end. I know you will not disappoint us, but will make us proud yet. Trusting that you are well.

With fond regards,

W. E. Durrant

Cat finishes the letter and folds it carefully back into the envelope. She slips it between two books and carefully stacks them so that nothing of the envelope is showing. She thinks about Robin Durrant’s new linen coat, the expensive leather case of his camera. She tidies away his fine shoes, and she smiles.


After dark, Cat makes her way to meet George by the bridge at the edge of Thatcham town. Against the silhouettes of the wharf buildings he is one more shape, given away only by the movement of his arm, the orange flare of his cigarette. Up close she sees the pale shine of his teeth as he smiles, and as he lights a match for her his expression is at once possessive and shy. It makes something inside Cat reach out for him, pushes her inexorably towards him; he a magnet, and the very iron in her blood yearning for him.

‘Into town, then?’ she says, standing close to him; close enough to feel his warmth, to pick up the slight smell of sawdust and horses on his clothes. He reaches out and takes her hand.

‘I would dearly love to see you by sunlight, one day,’ he says. ‘Always we’re in darkness, like a romance between ghosts.’

‘A romance? Is that what this is?’ she says, archly. ‘Well, by daylight I vanish in a cloud of mist.’

‘I half believe it, Black Cat. I half do!’ he says seriously.

‘I could meet you on Sunday afternoon. Or will you be coming to the Coronation fête, in Cold Ash Holt? I could see you there,’ she says; but George shakes his head.

‘I go off with a shipment tomorrow morning. I’ll be several days away.’

‘Oh,’ Cat says, her heart sinking. ‘Well, we’d better make the most of tonight then, I suppose.’

‘That we had.’ George smiles. ‘Come on. I want to show you something.’

He leads her on, not towards town but away from the canal, into a tangle of deserted warehouses and ramshackle workshops that cluster around a small square, the depleted centre of the once lively canal trade.

‘Where are we going?’ Cat asks.

‘We’re here. Come on – up this ladder,’ George says, pointing to a thin metal ladder bolted to the side of the biggest building.

‘What’s up there? Are we allowed to?’

‘Since when has being allowed to ever bothered you, Cat?’ he asks.

Cat shrugs ones shoulder, and starts to climb. ‘You’re quite right,’ she says.

The ladder is long, the rungs too far apart for Cat, not having the reach of most men. When she finally reaches the top, and steps out onto a clay-tiled roof, she is breathing hard. She bends double, the air needling into her chest like a thousand glass splinters. She has time to draw in one more breath before the coughing starts, racking her body, robbing her of air. The pain is excruciating; is like knives. George can do nothing until it passes. He tries to hold her but the pressure on her ribs is unbearable and she bats him away feebly, with a hand that shakes. When it recedes, the coughing fit leaves her sitting on the roof, her knees pulled up and her face pressed into them. Her throat feels raw, but the iron bands around her chest loosen with each tentative breath.