‘Oh, yes. Robin. You are to be congratulated, indeed,’ Albert obliges him, still keeping his face averted from Cat, and swallowing convulsively after he speaks. Beneath the sunburn that bridges his nose and cheeks, his face is an ashen grey. He looks unwell. No more than he deserves, Cat fumes inwardly. Hester seems about to speak, but clears her throat instead, and fumbles with the handle of her fan until the theosophist’s gaze returns to her husband.
‘Will that be all, madam?’ Cat asks pointedly, catching Hester’s eye and filling her face with significance.
‘Oh, yes, thank you, Cat,’ Hester replies, distantly. Cat glances at Robin, glares balefully at the flawless, self-satisfied smile on his face, and then leaves the room.
‘Damn and blast the woman!’ Cat swears, as she returns to the kitchen and pours herself a cup of water.
‘What now?’ asks Mrs Bell. She is writing out labels for the jam, crouched as close to the pen as she may, her face screwed up with the effort of concentration. Her writing is as small and cramped as she is large and flowing.
‘Let your pen move as freely as your thoughts,’ Cat says, peering over her shoulder. ‘Let the ink flow like a slow river.’ Mrs Bell shoots her a black look, and Cat retreats. ‘That’s how I was drilled, when I was learning to write.’ She shrugs.
‘Well, I’m not learning. I’m plenty good enough at it,’ Sophie Bell grumbles.
‘Sophie… I have to go out,’ Cat says suddenly.
‘You what?’ She does not look up from her labelling.
‘I have to go out. Please – only for an hour. I just have to get some fresh air, and be out of this house for a little while. I’ll be back in time to clear up the tea things, I promise…’
‘Oh, promises, promises. You’ll be off to see George Hobson, I know, and not back until you’ve made your bed with him,’ the housekeeper says. Now she looks up, to find Cat’s jaw gone slack with surprise, and her mouth robbed of words to protest. Sophie Bell smiles, not unkindly. ‘You of all people ought to know there’s little goes on around this parish that I don’t know about, Cat Morley. You’ve been seen with him enough times, by enough people.’
‘And I suppose you condemn me for it?’
Mrs Bell frowns a little, turns back to her pen but does not write. ‘There’s scant enough fun to be had in a servant’s life. I’m not so old and sour, as you called me, to begrudge a youngster getting out and about a bit. George Hobson’s an honest enough sort, rough as he is,’ she mutters.
‘Sophie Bell… of all the people I would not have placed on my side in all this…’ Cat shakes her head in wonderment.
‘Shows what you know, don’t it?’
‘So, then – please. I need to go and see him, just for a while. I just need to ask him something, that’s all. And I can’t send a note because he can’t read. Please. If I’m missed, tell them I came over all faint and went to lie down for half an hour… I’ll come straight back again, I promise.’
‘I don’t know… it’s one thing for you to put your own job at stake, quite another thing to start doing it to mine, isn’t it?’
‘Lie, then. Tell them I slipped out without a word, and you were none the wiser. When I get back… when I get back I shall tell you a secret,’ Cat says, teasingly. Mrs Bell looks up, studies her for a moment and then chuckles.
‘Whatever it is, I’ll bet you I know it already. Go on, then – and be quick!’
The sun is like hot metal in the sky, fierce and heavy. Cat goes via the front gate, not caring if she is seen. She walks quickly, breaks into a jog from time to time. In her pocket is the stub of a pencil and a scrap of paper – an old laundry receipt. Though she can’t write George a note, if he is not aboard his boat, Cat will leave some mark, leave some symbol to show she came to look for him. She thinks of the very thing, and smiles. A black cat. That’s what she’ll draw. But, twenty minutes later, as she comes upon his boat and her throat is so dry that it feels torn, she sees him on the deck. Lying on his back, knees bent, bare feet flat, arms crossed over his face to shield them from the glare of the sun.
‘George!’ Cat calls, and can’t keep from smiling, a wide and compulsive smile. ‘Listen!’ She stands by the boat and takes a deep breath – huge, all the way to the bottom of her lungs. They are dry. No catch, no bubble; no fluid to make her cough. George squints at her, confused for a moment, and then he smiles.
‘You’ve got it licked at last, then,’ he says. Cat nods, wipes one hand over her slick brow. Her hair is wet through at the back of her neck.
‘The last of that muck they poured into me, finally gone. Can I come on board?’
‘You can.’ George nods, getting up to take her hands as she wobbles along the gangplank. Standing close to him, so close she can scarce focus her eyes, Cat takes another deep breath. The smell of him, so familiar and enticing. Like the warm wood of the boat; like the dank canal water; like the fresh, pungent foliage all around them. All have sunk their perfume into his skin, mixed and made it wonderful. So wonderful she shuts her eyes, sways on her feet, surrenders herself to the hold of it. ‘You stayed away a good few days. I’d wondered if you would come again after the fright of having the police close in like that,’ George says. His voice is even, the words without emphasis. But when she looks up, his face is pulled apart with emotion, with uncertainty and relief, with love and fear and wounded pride.
‘I didn’t mean to. They’ve been locking me in, George! I couldn’t get word to you… the vicar saw me at The Ploughman. He’s quite lost his mind! He wanted me sent packing, but somebody spoke up for me. But I’ve been locked in my room, each night when work’s done!’
‘They lock you in? That’s not right… they’ve no right to!’
‘I know it. The vicar’s wife takes my part in it. She’s given me a key to unlock the door, so at least I need not spend every night a prisoner, and afraid… but even so I have sworn to her I will not go out at night any more. I don’t like it, but… I have sworn it!’
‘Then, we won’t see each other much more. Not like before. Not if you mean to keep your word,’ George says, frowning.
‘In a way I do, in a way it doesn’t matter any more…’
‘What do you mean? Come – come and sit down. You look sun struck!’ He tows her gently to the shade of the cabin, and they sit on the steps. ‘What do you mean, it matters not?’
‘George,’ Cat says. She looks at him, loves him; puts her hand on the rough skin of his jaw. ‘I can’t stay there any longer. Even though I can unlock my door at night now… I am still a prisoner. I will not tolerate the vicar turning his head away, as though I am some kind of filth! I will not tolerate being told where I must be, and how I must be, every sleeping and waking moment of my life! Even the vicar’s wife… though she thinks to help, still she would have me be a thoughtless drudge. She seeks to govern my thoughts and actions and I will… not… have… it! Not any more!’ she cries, shaking her head and thumping her bony knees with her hands as each word is bitten off. Her skin tingles where she strikes it, and she likes the feeling.
‘So, what are you saying?’ George is still frowning, still unsure of her, of himself.
‘I mean to leave. I will run away from there. There is only one thing I have to do, and it will be done soon. And then I shall disappear. Like a mist in the morning, like a spoken word. I will slip away from there and none of them will be able to stop me, or know where I’ve gone. Let them see then how they control me! How they own me! They do not! But where I go… where I go is up to you, George.’