‘Are you better now?’ George asks, anxiously. He takes her hand, rubs his thumb over her knuckles. Cat nods.
‘It does knock me sideways, when it comes on like that,’ she apologises. ‘I don’t think it’s as bad as it sounds. The doctor said it’s the body’s way of being rid of whatever blocks it.’ She looks up, sees worried lines on George’s face lit softly by the stars, and feels a stab of guilt. Plenty of women left Holloway in worse shape than she did. Some may not have been able to leave at all – she has no way of knowing. She sees Tess with sudden, awful clarity – crumpled in the corner of her cell like a broken doll. ‘Don’t look so scared – at least it didn’t start while I was on the ladder,’ she says, her voice shaking slightly.
‘I shouldn’t have made you climb. I forgot … I’m sorry, Cat.’
‘You don’t need to be sorry, really. If a little more of the infection goes each time I cough like that, then you’ve helped me. So, what are we doing on a roof?’
‘Look around. I love it up here. After a hot day, the tiles stay warm for hours, and you can just lie and bask, and watch the world. Look,’ George says, and Cat obeys him.
They are as high as the tops of the chestnut trees; below them all around are deep shadows and the outlines of rooftops. To the east, the lights of Thatcham soak the air with a pale yellow glow; and further still the lights of Newbury are just visible on the horizon, glimmering faintly. Above their heads the sky is lilac and inky blue, pinpricked by cold white stars. Cat takes a deep, cautious breath, smells the hot tar of the roads, the parched wood of the warehouses.
‘It all looks so peaceful, doesn’t it? You can see none of the arguing or the lying or the fighting from up here. None of the hardship. It all stays on the ground, like muck. It’s almost like being far, far out at sea. Don’t you think?’ she murmurs.
‘I’ve never been out to sea.’ George puts his arm around her shoulders, his hand up into her hair.
‘Neither have I. But I’ve read about it.’
‘There’s nobody around for miles. Apart from old Clement, who sleeps under the bridge,’ George tells her softly.
‘Then I am quite at your mercy.’ Cat smiles. Their hushed voices are loud in the quiet night. There’s a rustling beat of feathered wings in the tree next to them, as roosting birds are roused; the slightest touch of a breeze to cool their skin.
‘No, Cat; I am quite at yours,’ George replies. Their kisses are urgent, hurried. Cat pulls the shirt from George’s body, runs her mouth the length of his torso, tasting salt. At first George is tentative and handles her gently, in spite of the need that lights his eyes, until Cat says:
‘I’m no invalid, George Hobson.’ He puts his hands through her cropped hair, pulls back her head to kiss her throat, and in one easy motion swings her up to sit astride him, tight to him; to make love with the quiet night air coaxing goose flesh along their arms.
The day of the fête to mark the coronation of King George V dawns without a cloud in the sky, and by mid-morning the ground shimmers with heat. The beech tree leaves are curling, twisting slightly as they scorch to show their silvery undersides; and the brass band plays with streaming red faces, suffering in their smart uniforms. On the church field an array of tents and awnings have been set up, their sides rolled up and tied back in an effort to allow air to circulate. Brightly coloured cotton bunting is strung all around the village green and along the lane to the church; and Claire Higgins, who is in charge of the flower arrangements, darts anxiously from spray to spray, fretting as the blooms shrivel in the heat.
‘Claire, dear, alas but I fear there’s nothing you can do. Come and have a glass of lemonade before you fall down,’ Hester calls to her.
‘If I can just get the sweet peas into the shade of the tree, they might last another hour or so …’ Claire says, shrilly, and won’t be led away.
‘At least carry your parasol!’ Hester calls after her, and retreats into a white tent. The sun burns as soon as it touches. ‘Cat! How is the tea coming along?’ Hester smiles. Cat has been sweltering inside the tea tent all morning, keeping a small stove alight to boil kettle after kettle of water to fill the urn. The back of her dress is soaked and her hair is plastered to her head, but she may not take off her cap. On her neck is a mark where George kissed her too hard, and bruised the skin. Her hair is almost long enough now to cover it, and she tucks it hurriedly behind her ear to this end.
‘It’s ready, madam. But everybody wants lemonade. It’s too hot for tea,’ Cat says, flatly.