The Unseen(74)

Robin Durrant has beaten her to the stile that crosses into the meadows. Cat pauses when she sees him, surprised. She had half thought he would not come, half thought nobody but she existed at this hour. But of course this is an illusion, brought on by loneliness. From the far side of the village a cow bellows, its plaintive cry echoing through the still air from where milking has already begun. Robin Durrant looks up when he hears her coming, his face indistinct in the near dark. Cat pauses, keeping her distance, and she sees the pale flash of his teeth.

‘You can come closer, I won’t bite you,’ he says, softly.

‘I have scant idea what you will or won’t do. And I’ll stay right here until you tell me what this is about,’ Cat replies.

‘Come on. Let’s get away from the road a bit. I don’t want anybody seeing you.’

‘What does that mean? Where are we going?’

‘Into the meadows. I’ve found the perfect spot.’ He holds up his hand to help her over the stile, but Cat does not move. She sets her jaw, stares hard at him. Robin shakes his head, lowers his hand. ‘Look, I swear to you that I have no intention of laying a finger on you. I give you my word.’ Cat considers this a moment longer and then relents, vaulting over the stile and still ignoring his proffered hand.

‘What use is the word of a charlatan?’ she mutters, walking to one side where she can keep her eye upon him. He has a broad leather bag over one shoulder and his Frena camera in the other hand; he swings it nonchalantly as they go.

‘A charlatan, am I? That’s a strong word, Cat Morley, and not a fair one at that. What makes you call me it?’

‘I know what I see. Who but a charlatan would charm the vicar, befuddle his wife, and blackmail the maid all in the same day? You’re like a snake that dazzles with its beauty and grace, before it strikes,’ Cat tells him.

‘A snake, now, am I?’ He laughs quietly.

‘I know what I see,’ Cat says again.

They make their way through the tall, tussocky grass, soaking their shoes with the fresh dew and kicking up insects which bumble away groggily. The dawn chorus grows louder as each second passes, flooding out across the grassland like a rising tide. In spite of everything, Cat feels herself grow calm. Impossible not to be calm, when the world seems so still, so at peace.

‘I love this time of day,’ Robin Durrant says, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. At once, Cat is on edge again.

‘Where are we going?’ she demands. It is cool, more so than she had expected. Goose pimples stand out on her skin, and she folds her arms tightly.

‘It’s not much further. There’s a wonderful old willow tree by a kink in the river …’

‘Yes, I know it. What of it?’

‘You know it? How do you know it?’

‘Can’t a person go for a walk, and use their eyes? Even a servant?’ Cat asks, tightly.

‘Why do you fight your status so? The Cannings are an easy pair. Why aren’t you happy with your lot?’ Robin seems genuinely curious. Cat glares at him suspiciously.

‘I hear you were a poet, for a while. A minister, a politician?’ she says. Robin looks at her, frowning, and Cat smiles. ‘As you told me, Mr Durrant, word gets about in a small place like this.’

‘Well, what of it?’

‘Would you have been content if you had been told, when you were still a child: you shan’t be a poet, or a minister, or a politician. You shall be a clerk in a bank. Would you have been content, never to have been allowed to try other things? Never allowed to find out what you wanted to do, what you wanted to be?’

‘A clerk in a bank? Why—’

‘For the sake of argument!’ Cat snaps.

‘But you are working class, Cat. Such things are immutable …’

‘Oh?’ She pounces. ‘And what makes them so? What makes me working class?’

‘Your … lack of breeding and education … your birth, Cat. Surely you can see that?’

‘Ah, there we have it. My birth. Something in my blood. A servant is born, as Mrs Bell says. You agree?’ she asks. Robin looks at her, puzzled, and thinks before nodding.

‘I suppose so, yes.’

Cat smiles bleakly. ‘Well, there is your answer, then,’ she says.

They reach the willow tree after walking for ten minutes, with the village entirely out of sight behind them apart from the church spire, pointing up grey and fragile into the marbled sky. The land falls gently into a bowl, sloping down to the edge of the river, where the old tree hangs its branches, motionless; its supple twigs trail forlornly in the water, carving furrows in the glassy surface.