The Unseen (3 page)

Behind her, the door swings itself shut, nudged by some stray breeze. Cat freezes, every muscle pulling tight. She stands ramrod straight and tries to breathe when the air seems too thick all of a sudden.
It’s not locked
, she tells herself.
Just shut. Not locked
. She turns slowly to face the door, braced as if some horror waits there to be discovered. The small room’s walls bow inwards around her, clinging to her like wet cloth. Her knees shake, and she totters to the door like an old woman, certain as she turns the handle that she won’t be able to get out. The metal knob rattles in her hand as she turns it, and as she pulls the door open a few precious inches, she knows that it is her shivering that makes the handle shake. Her heartbeat tumbles like a waterfall, and she leans her face against the pitted wood of the door, waiting to feel calm.
Never again
, she thinks.
Never, never, never
.

Hester arranges herself at the walnut desk in the front parlour, with the household ledger open in front of her. It’s the position she adopts for her weekly meeting with Mrs Bell to discuss menus and household accounts and the arranging of chimney sweeps, grocery deliveries and bicycle repair men. And she fancies it gives the right impression – feminine but businesslike; commanding yet approachable. The afternoon sun lies pooled and yellow on the oak floor, showing up the lazy dance of dust motes and houseflies. Hester flaps a hand irritably at a fly that comes too close. She finds their hairy bodies indecent, and hates the way they go dry and hard after death, lying down on the window sills in their final moments, crossing their bristly legs as if they expect to receive a last blessing. She is immensely relieved that she won’t have to sweep them up from now on. Mrs Bell has been hard pushed to keep up with the cleaning and the cooking both – heaven knows the woman can hardly be expected to work at speed. She wishes Mrs Bell wasn’t quite so very fat. The squeaking protest of the floor gave away her
approach as soon as she left the more robust stones of the basement, and she is hardly an elegant sight. A woman should be soft, of course, her outline one of curves rather than angles, but one had to draw the line somewhere. There is little point in Mrs Bell trying to keep it all in with a corset. Years ago she wore one, and it merely squeezed her flesh up and down from the middle, so that she could scarcely sit or turn her neck. Watching her manoeuvre had been both horrifying and impossible to resist.

Hester can hear her now – creaking and thumping her way from the kitchen. She sits straighter in her chair, and arranges her face into a mild, genteel smile. She worries momentarily that she will suffer in comparison with Cat Morley’s more cosmopolitan former employer. Then she remembers that the girl is a pariah and relaxes, slightly ashamed of her own anxiety when her role is to mother, and to correct.

‘The new girl, madam,’ Mrs Bell announces, after a short knock.

‘Thank you, Mrs Bell. Do come in, Cat,’ Hester says, warmly; then hesitates. Cat Morley looks little more than a child. For a second, Hester thinks there’s been a mistake. The girl is barely five feet tall, and has the fragile, bony look of a bird. Her shoulders are narrow, her hands and feet tiny. Her hair, which is almost true black, has been cut off short. It grazes her ears in a most unladylike fashion. Cat has pinned the front of it back from her forehead, which only makes her look more like a schoolgirl. But as the girl approaches the desk, Hester sees that there is no mistake. Her face is narrow, the chin pointed and sharp, but there are smudges beneath her eyes, and a crease between her brows that speaks of experience. Cat regards Hester with such a level stare, her brown eyes unflinching, that Hester feels uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. She glances at Mrs Bell as the housekeeper leaves the room, and understands from her pinched lips exactly what the woman thinks of this new appointment.

‘Well,’ Hester says, flustered. ‘Well, do sit down, Cat.’ The girl perches on the edge of the carved chair opposite her as though she
might fly away at any moment. ‘I’m very pleased you’ve made the journey safely.’ She had prepared, in her head, what she would say to the girl to put her at her ease, and to show what a kind and calm and Godly household she had found herself in, but it has got scattered in her head by the shock of the girl’s appearance, and now she can’t think what she wanted to say. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy here,’ she tries. Cat blinks, and although her face does not move, and she does not speak, Hester gets the distinct impression that the girl doubts this last statement. ‘Gracious! I have never seen hair cut in such a style as yours! Is it all the fashion, in London? Am I terribly behind the times?’ Hester bursts out. Her own hair is her crowning glory. It is light and full and soft, and gathers into a bouffant high on her head each morning as if it knows exactly what it is doing.

‘No, madam,’ Cat says quietly, never once breaking off her gaze. ‘My hair was always long, before. I was forced to cut if off after my time … my time of incarceration. It became terribly infested with lice.’

‘Oh! Lice! How dreadful!’ Hester exclaims, horrified. Her hands fly to her scalp as if to protect it, and she leans away from the desk involuntarily.

‘They are quite gone now, I assure you,’ Cat says, the hint of a smile ghosting across her lips.

‘Well, that’s good. Yes. Well, now. I am sure Mrs Bell has told you your duties, and do please look to her for guidance in all matters regarding your work. You will be expected to rise at half past six and be ready to start work at seven, but you probably won’t be the first person about – my husband has a great love of walking and nature, which he is particularly able to indulge at sunrise. He will often have risen and gone out before you come down, so don’t be alarmed if you encounter him very early in the day. He does not expect breakfast to be ready before his walks. You may consider yourself at liberty between the hours of three and five o’clock in the afternoon, with the exception of the tea, provided that all your
duties have been carried out to Mrs Bell’s satisfaction.’ Hester pauses, and looks up at Cat Morley. The girl’s level gaze is unnerving. There is something behind her dark eyes that Hester has never seen before, and can’t decipher. The shifting outline of something strange, something unpredictable.

‘Yes, madam,’ Cat says, eventually, and quite tonelessly.

‘Cat – your proper name is Catherine, isn’t it? I wonder that you mightn’t like to be called Kitty? A new name for a new start? I think it would suit you very well.’ Hester smiles.

‘I have always been Cat, never Kitty,’ Cat says, puzzled.

‘Yes, I see; but don’t you think Kitty would be better? What I mean to say is, you can leave all that old trouble behind with the old name? Do you see?’ Hester explains. Cat seems to consider this, and her eyes grow hard.

‘I have always been Cat,’ she insists.

‘Very well, then!’ Hester cries, at a loss. ‘Is there anything you would like to ask me?’

‘Only to say, madam, that I am not able to wear corsets. The doctor has told me, after my illness, that it would put too great a strain on my chest.’

‘Really? That is a terrible shame. Of course, you must do what is best for your health, even if some might consider it improper. Is the condition likely to improve? Do you think you’ll be able to wear them at some time in the future?’

‘I cannot tell you,’ Cat replies.

‘Well, we shall see when the time comes. Cat, I want you to know …’ Hester hesitates. Somehow the words she had prepared seem almost silly now that she is face to face with the girl. ‘I want to tell you that it won’t be held against you, here. Your … past troubles. In this house you have the chance to start afresh, and live a clean, Godly life. My husband and I have always said that charity is the greatest of virtues, and begins at home. I hope you will find us true to our philosophy.’ Again, that disconcerting pause, that immobile expression. A small shiver runs down Hester’s spine, and
the skin of her scalp tingles unpleasantly – just like it does when she finds a black spider hiding in the folds of her bedroom curtains.

‘Thank you, madam,’ Cat says.

Hester feels considerably more at ease once Cat Morley has gone back below stairs to help Mrs Bell prepare the tea. The girl had an odd air about her, as though she were distracted by something, some unnatural urge perhaps. Hester assures herself that this is unlikely, but she can’t quite shake the feeling. Cat did not drop her gaze as she ought. Well, not as she
ought
, precisely, but as one might expect her to. She was so tiny and weak looking, it was easy to imagine her frightened of the least little thing. Hester takes up her needlepoint bag, and the fresh frame she stretched only yesterday, ready to begin a new piece. She thinks for a moment, and then smiles. A gift, for the girl who insists on being called Cat. What could better demonstrate her good will? She rummages through her bag and chooses threads of green, blue and saffron yellow. Fresh colours for a fresh new season. Hester hums happily as she begins to prick out her design, and when Cat Morley brings in the tea tray she thanks her kindly, and tries not to notice the way the sinews stand raw and proud beneath the skin on the back of Cat’s hands.

‘You don’t talk much, do you?’ Mrs Bell observes, as Cat finishes wiping the last of the tea crockery, and spreads the towel to dry over the range. The housekeeper stands with her knees together but her ankles apart, leaning her wide behind against the heavy work table, watching Cat’s every move. The kitchen is half-submerged below ground, the view from the spotted windows one of sky and tree tops.

‘When I’ve something to say.’ Cat shrugs. Mrs Bell grunts.

‘Better that way, I suppose, than some young chit gabbling on all the live-long day.’ Mrs Bell studies Cat a moment more. ‘You
don’t talk like a Londoner. I’ve heard some Londoners, when they come down selling and making speeches in town and the like.’

‘My mother spoke very properly. The Gentleman preferred all his staff to do so,’ Cat replies stiffly. She does not want to speak of her mother. She does not want to speak of London, of the past. Mrs Bell grunts again.

‘Well, don’t go giving yourself airs and graces, not now you’re here. You’re the bottom of the pile now, my girl, and one word from me’ll be enough to send you packing again.’

‘How kind of you to say so,’ Cat mutters, darkly.

‘Don’t get lippy with me, miss.’ Mrs Bell pauses, seems to check her own tongue. ‘You done any cooking?’

‘I used to help prepare the staff food, sometimes. Never for the family though.’

‘Prepping vegetables, and the like? Can you make pastry?’

‘No.’ Cat shakes her head, reaches behind her back to untie her apron.

‘Not so fast, if you please! There’s four pigeons to pluck for supper tonight – you’ll find them in the cold store.’ Cat reties her apron, turns to leave the room. ‘And take them out into the courtyard, or you’ll be chasing feathers around for days!’ Sophie Bell calls after her.

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.