The Unseen(8)

The courtyard is a small area to the west of the house surrounded by a high brick wall, and paved with the same red bricks. The evening sun shines warmly on the top of Cat’s head as she works, surrounded by tender green plants as they begin their steady growth up from crevices in the mortar. In the midst of life, we are in death, Cat thinks, as her fingers catch up the soft feathers of the birds, ripping them sharply from the slack skin. She has always hated the tearing noise it makes, always avoided the job at all costs. In London the servants were many, and their roles well defined. Only in times of panic would a parlourmaid be called upon to pluck birds for a meal. There were kitchen-maids for that. There was Tess. Smears of fat on her apron, fingernails stained brown by potato skins, smudges of flour on her smiling cheeks. The dead birds smell sticky, slightly sweet; their heads loll and flop as she works, cracks in the dry skin around their beaks. Cat thinks of dried blood around Tess’s mouth; the way it had smeared her gums, drawing dark outlines around her teeth. She thinks of this same sickly smell, coming from stains that bloomed through rough clothing. Cat longs for a cigarette.


Towards five, a rattle and the whirr of spokes announces the return of the Reverend Albert Canning. Hester puts down her needlework and goes into the hallway to greet him. He opens the door as the clock strikes the hour and smiles at his wife, who takes his hat and bag while he removes the heavy binoculars from around his neck and doffs his coat. Albert is tall and slender, his fair hair fine and downy, and just starting to thin across the crown – a development that does not age him in the slightest, and conversely seems to emphasise his youth. There is colour high in cheeks from the exertion of cycling back from town; wide blue eyes, with that look of innocence that had so captured Hester’s heart from the very first; his skin soft and smooth. One arm gets caught in the sleeve of his coat, and Hester tries to help him but is hampered by his heavy leather satchel. They tussle with it for a moment, catch each other’s eye, and laugh.

‘How was your afternoon, Bertie?’ Hester asks, as she settles into a chair once more.

‘Very pleasant, thank you, Hetty. I managed to call upon everyone who had asked for me, and was able to help in some small matter or another in all but one instance, and on my way home I saw the most splendid peacock butterfly – the first I’ve seen this year.’

‘And did you catch it?’ Hester asks. Albert keeps a fine silk net and a collecting jar in his bag, in case of rare sightings.

‘No, I thought it a trifle unfair, so early in the year. Besides, the peacock is hardly an exotic species,’ Albert says, bending forward to release his trousers from his bicycle clips. He draws his journal from his satchel and flips it open with one long finger.

‘No, of course,’ Hester agrees.

‘And how about you, my dear? What news?’

‘Well, I fear we shall have to keep on sending the laundry out.’

‘Oh? What of the new maid – can’t she see to it?’ Albert asks, looking up from his journal. In the rhododendrons outside the window, a blackbird pours out its liquid song.

‘I really don’t think so. The girl is quite stunted in her growth, and … well, I just don’t think she can have the strength in her arms for it. And she has been unwell, too.’

‘Oh dear. Well, if you say so, my dear.’ Hester studies her husband, and finds nothing wanting. He wears his sideburns long, framing his face like lovingly cupped hands. The style is a little grave for such a young face, Hester has always thought – she knows Albert grew the whiskers to lend himself gravity in the pulpit. The sun is making them look gold, but when wet, they are quite dark. Albert feels her scrutiny, and smiles at her. ‘What is it, darling?’ he asks.

‘I was just thinking what a fine figure of a man it is I wed,’ Hester says, shyly. ‘Almost a year ago now.’ Albert takes her hand. He sits in his habitual pose, with his legs crossed at the knee so that his trousers ride up a little, and she can see an inch of white skin above his socks. It makes him look vulnerable, somehow.

‘It is I who have been luckiest,’ he says. Hester smiles and blushes a little.

‘I went to see Mrs Duff this afternoon,’ she says.

‘And how is she?’

‘A little better. I took her some of my lemon cordial, the sweet one she’s so fond of.’

‘That was kind of you, dear.’

‘Her newest son is a fine little chap, and he doesn’t cry at all when I hold him. In fact, he studies me with such a calm scrutiny! As if he’s thinking terribly important thoughts about me all the time, and coming to very weighty conclusions,’ Hester laughs.