The Unseen Read Free Page A

flash silver where the breeze turns them, and even the air seems to carry a green scent; one of moisture and the headiness of flowers. They startle a heron, which erupts up through the rushes and seems too slow, too weighty for flight. The sun gets caught up in its greasy grey feathers, glints on the beads of water falling from its feet. Cat stares. She does not know its name. She has never seen a bird as big before, has barely ever seen birds, other than sparrows and the uniform London pigeons that scratch a living from the dirt. She thinks of The Gentleman’s canary, on its little gilded swing; the way he whistled at it, crooning, coaxing it to sing. She had watched, paused with duster in hand, and admired it for refusing. Mrs Bell chats to the driver all the while, a low commentary that barely lets up, leaving the shortest of pauses from time to time in which the man grunts. Most of what she says is lost beneath the clatter of the pony’s hooves, but Cat catches odd words and phrases. ‘She’ll be back again before the summer’s out, just you mark my words’ … ‘had the nerve to suggest it wasn’t done proper’ … ‘her son’s gone off again, and with little more than a child’ … ‘short shrift for thosethat show criminal urges’. Cat glances over her shoulder, catches Mrs Bell’s narrow eye upon her.
    The vicarage is built of faded red brick, three storeys high and almost square in shape. Symmetrical rows of windows with bright white frames gaze out onto the world, the glass reflecting the bright sky. The surrounding gardens overflow with early flowers, sprays of colour rising from tidy beds that curve through stretches of short, neat lawn. Budding wisteria and honeysuckle scale the walls and window sills, and tall tulips march the path to the wide front door, painted bright blue and sporting a gleaming brass knocker. The house sits on the outskirts of the small village, its gardens adjoining the water meadows. In the distance a stream carves a winding path, like a silver ribbon. The driver pulls up at the far side of the house, across the gravel driveway, where mossy steps lead down to a more modest door.
    ‘You use this door, none other,’ Mrs Bell tells her curtly, as they make their way inside.
    ‘Of course,’ Cat replies, nettled. Did the woman think she had never worked before?
    ‘Now, pay attention while I show you around. I’ve not got time to keep repeating myself, and I need to get on with the tea. The mistress, Mrs Canning, wants to see you as soon as you’ve had a chance to tidy yourself up and get changed—’
    ‘Get changed?’
    ‘Yes, get changed! Or did you plan to meet her in that tatty skirt, with dirty cuffs on your blouse and your bootlaces frayed?’ Mrs Bell’s grey eyes are sharp indeed.
    ‘I’ve a spare blouse, my best, and I can put it on, but this skirt is the only one I have,’ Cat says.
    ‘I’ll not believe they let you about the place looking like that in London!’
    ‘I had a uniform. I … had to give it back when I left.’
    Mrs Bell puts her hands where her hips might have been. Cat gazes steadily at her, refusing to be cowed. The older woman’sknuckles are cracked and red. They sink into her flesh, wedge themselves there. Her feet rock inwards, the arches long ago surrendered to the weight they carry. Her ankles look like suet dough, dimpled beneath her stockings. Cat grips her own two hands together in front of her, feeling the reassuring hardness of her bones.
    ‘Well,’ Mrs Bell says at last, ‘it’ll be up to the mistress whether she’ll provide you with clothing. Otherwise you’ll have to make do. You’ll need a grey or brown dress for the morning, a black one for the evening; and something to wear to church. There’s a rag sale next week in Thatcham. You might find something there that you can alter.’
    Cat’s room is in the attic. There are three rooms side by side, all with views north through small dormer windows, and accessed off a