‘I’m sure that can’t be true of one so young,’ Albert murmurs.
‘No. No, I suppose not,’ Hester agrees. Albert returns to his journal. She waits a little, her heart suddenly high in her throat. Then she gathers her courage. ‘How I do long for the day when we will have a son of our own! Or a daughter, of course. I know you will be the most wonderful father,’ she says, brightly, watching her husband expectantly. When he does not reply, she feels her cheeks begin to redden. Albert still stares at his journal, but Hester sees that he is frowning, and his pen has gone still. The nib has halted in the middle of a word, pressing into the paper, and an ink spot blooms from its tip. Clearing his throat quietly, Albert glances up at last. He gives a vague smile in her direction, but does not meet her eye; and he says nothing.
Late in the evening, Cat lies awake. The thin mattress is lumpy, horsehair sticking up through the worn ticking. She has propped the door open with the bible that was left by the bed. She likes to see the holy book lying on the floor like this, shown no more deference than a bag of sand. The words inside just as lifeless, just as heavy. Through the crack in the door the moon shines coldly, calmly. Cat lies still, listening to Mrs Bell snoring in the room at the end of the corridor. In, out; in, out. She can hear the rattling wattle of the woman’s neck. Carefully, Cat breathes all the way in. There. It is still there, at the very bottom of her lungs – the little wet bubble that will not dry out. Cat releases the breath, tries not to cough. All the bloody coughing, in prison – all night long, from every cell, as their lungs got clogged and muddied by the damp, the spores, the doctor’s foul mixture. She runs her thumbs over the ticking, counts the little bristles, one for each second, as the night ticks by and her eyes stay open. Cat can’t remember what it feels like to lie down and sleep. That peaceful surrendering of control, of power. She can’t do it any more. Now, surrender feels like death, as though the very air in the room can’t be trusted, as if the walls themselves will turn on her if she dares to shut her eyes; the shadows come alive to consume her.
In a very different room, on the floor below, Hester examines Albert’s outline in the near dark. He lies on his back, his eyes shut and his face so resolutely relaxed that Hester guesses he is still awake. The beauty of his face disarms her. That valley between forehead and bridge of nose, the slight pout of his bottom lip. His face gives her an aching sensation she can’t name, as though there is some sprain, some nerve inside her under pressure, in need of release. She reaches out an arm to him, laces her fingers into the hand that lies across his chest. There it is – that subtle change in the rhythm of his breathing, that slight tautening of his frame.
‘Bertie? Are you awake, my love?’ she whispers. He does not reply. Once he holds you in his arms, and kisses you, and he is aware of your love and passion for him, then his passion will also rise, and your bodies may conjoin; so her sister had written. Hester is aware of her own body moving beneath her nightdress, brushing against the cotton fabric, freed from the corsets that confine it all day long. Her hair drapes over her shoulder in a soft, caressing wave. ‘I do so wish you would hold me,’ Hester says, her voice trembling a little. Albert does not open his eyes, but he says:
‘It has been a very long day, my love. I am so very tired.’ Hester often hears these very words from her husband. She heard them even on their wedding night.
‘Of course. Sleep, darling Bertie,’ she says.
2
2011
Leah read the soldier’s letter, a frown creasing the skin between her brows. Ryan stretched out his hand, smoothed the line away with his thumb, making her jump.
‘Don’t!’ she gasped, snatching her head away from him.
‘Touchy,’ Ryan sighed. He smiled as he leant away, but Leah could tell he was annoyed. She felt a quick flash of triumph, and was instantly irritated with herself.
‘But this can’t be the original?’ she asked.
‘Of course not – it’s been transcribed. The original paper is incredibly fragile. Where water has got in – and there wasn’t much, he did a great job of sealing the tin – it’s destroyed the envelope. In other words, the name of the person it was addressed to. Our mysterious soldier.’
‘And she calls him “Dear sir”. Not very helpful,’ Leah murmured.
‘No, but then I wouldn’t need you if she’d given us his name.’ Leah raised her gaze at his choice of words. ‘Intriguing though, isn’t it?’ Ryan said.
‘That it is,’ she agreed. ‘How had he sealed the tin?’