The Unseen

3

The Rev. Albert Canning – from his journal

FRIDAY, JUNE 2ND, 1911

I heard the most remarkable speaker in Newbury last night, one Robin Durrant. A young man, and yet clearly advanced beyond his years in intellect and understanding. He spoke most eloquently upon the basic tenets of the wisdom religion, aka theosophy; keeping all in the auditorium quite captivated. Particular emphasis was laid on nature spirits, the evidence for their existence, methods of detecting them, and the reasons how and why they may choose to reveal – or indeed not to reveal – themselves, at will, to their human neighbours. He spoke to me most compellingly after the lecture was given, regarding the reconciliation of theosophy with the Anglican faith.

I returned from the lecture during a terrific electric storm. What controls such things, such startling things, if not God, if not the higher order? Exceedingly well timed to coincide with my sermon on this very point. Hester much troubled by the storm, it seeming to leave her emotionally weakened and needy. I found some scripture regarding the presence of God in such things to comfort her, but at times she is inconsolable by words. Women are like children, sometimes, in their simple fears and misunderstandings.

We spoke again on the subject of a family, and at her insistence we fell into an embrace to this end, which eventually culminated in my withdrawal. Her tears, which I am certain are not designed to persuade me, nevertheless compel me into these situations. But she is right, and it is the duty of a husband to lie with his wife in a discreet manner, for the begetting of children. I cannot explain my reluctance to her. I cannot sufficiently explain it to myself. But something stops me; something forces me to retreat from the act. I can only think that God has some other plan for me – for us – that He has not yet chosen to reveal. I dare not say such a thing to Hester, who has her heart quite set upon children of her own, and who also seems to need these physical expressions of emotion in a way I do not. But we are made and designed by God, and He guides our hand, if we let Him; so I must heed to my instincts. I pray that Hetty may come to accept this. I hate to think that she may be unhappy.

1911

On Monday evening Hester comes downstairs from an afternoon nap, drifting through the house on steady feet in search of her husband. She follows the soft sounds of his fingers upon ivory keys to the library, where the upright piano that was a wedding present from her uncle stands amidst piles of papers and hymn books and musical scores. She leans against the door jamb and watches him for a moment, listening to the light notes he plays – odd little phrases, over and over with tiny variations here and there. His head is studiously bowed, exposing the back of his neck, the little hairs there lit golden in the afternoon light. She is suddenly nervous about interrupting him, displeasing him. Since the night of the thunderstorm there has been some unspoken awkwardness between them which makes her hesitate. A moment later, he seems to sense her presence and straightens up, glancing over his shoulder. Hester smiles.

‘I’m sorry, my darling. I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he says, as she crosses to sit beside him.

‘You didn’t,’ Hester assures him, relieved that he seems quite relaxed. ‘I was awake anyway, and ready to rise. Are you writing another hymn?’

‘Alas, I am still writing the same hymn,’ Albert sighs. ‘The same one as for the last three weeks! I can’t seem to get the tune to fit the words… it’s vexing me terribly.’

‘You need a rest, my love,’ she suggests.

‘I can’t. Not until I’ve unknotted it some.’

‘Play it for me. Perhaps I can help.’ Hester sits on the stool beside him, facing the keys.

‘Very well, but it’s nowhere near ready for an audience,’ Albert warns her sheepishly.

‘I’m not an audience. I’m your wife.’ Hester smiles, gently looping her arm through his, loosely so as not to hamper his movements. Albert plays an opening chord to find the key.

‘Oh! Lord God, our father, all around us we see; the fruits of Thy bounty, Thy gifts heavenly! In the crash of the waves and the singing of the birds, we hear Thy true voice and harken to Thy words…’ Albert sings softly, his voice jolting up and down between notes like a child at hopscotch. ‘There!’ He breaks off in frustration. ‘I can’t make that line lie happily within the melody!’ Hester reaches out her hand and plays the last few notes. She hums along a little, letting the tune move to its own rhythm.

‘How about this.’ She clears her throat. ‘In the crash of the waves and the bright song of birds, we hear Thy true voice and harken to Thy words,’ she sings.

Albert smiles fondly at her. ‘Darling, you have a gift for music that I envy, I truly do. You should be composing hymns, not I! Thank you.’ He kisses her forehead, his face bright and open. Hester’s breath gets hitched in her chest, and she does not trust herself to speak, so she smiles, and plays the simple tune again; and there they sit in the hazy sunlight, arm in arm, humming and singing and softly playing.

The household is all darkness and silence by eleven o’clock. The night is still and balmy mild – unseasonably so, perhaps. On soft feet, Cat leaves her room, goes along the corridor and down the back stairs. Already, her feet know which boards to avoid, how to tread so as not to make a sound. Not that much could wake a household grown accustomed to sleeping through the cavernous snoring of Sophie Bell, she thinks. Outside in the courtyard Cat smokes a cigarette, leaning her back against the warm brick wall, watching the bright red flare each time she inhales. When it fades, it draws patterns in front of her eyes against the darkness. To either side of the house, owls are calling, talking in childlike whistles and squeaks. The sky is an inky velvet blue, and she watches the little bats against it, wheeling and diving, mesmerised by the silence of their flight. Suddenly, there is no thought of her going back inside, of going to bed, lying down in this new, genteel prison she has been sent to. There is too much life, humming in the night air like a static charge. Cat sets off across the meadow, with dew from the feathered grasses soaking into her shoes.

Her eyes grow ever more accustomed to the dark, and she makes her way to the canal, turning left to follow the towpath towards Thatcham. Her heart is beating faster now, with that same excitement as when she and Tess walked to their first public meeting. Only eighteen months ago. It seems like a lifetime. It seems like another world. There is such a thrill of emotion, something she can’t name – almost fearful, something she almost wants to turn away from, but at the same time can’t resist. It causes a rushing in her bloodstream, causes the tips of her fingers to tingle. Where the warehouses and buildings coalesce into the town, a group of men are sitting on the bridge, smoking and talking and laughing. Another girl might see danger, but Cat is not afraid of them.

‘Well, what have we here?’ says one of them, as she walks right up to them, climbs up onto the bridge from the canal side and stands with her arms folded across her chest. She can’t see their faces, just shadows and outlines. The smell of them is in the air all around – sweat, the rank odour of working men at the end of a long, hot day. Beer, smoke, rough canvas clothes.

‘Are you lost, little girl?’ another asks her.

‘I’m neither – lost, nor a little girl. I’m looking for George Hobson,’ she says, the name coming easily into her mouth, although she hadn’t known it was waiting there.

‘Good grief, he’s a lucky bugger then – secret assignation is it?’ the first man asks, with a leer that makes the others laugh.

‘It’s none of your business. Do you know where I can find him, or not?’

‘Oh, she’s a feisty one! That’s a quick tongue you’ve got, miss. I’m not sure how lucky George is after all!’

‘He’ll be along at The Ploughman – in the back room, most likely,’ one of the younger men tells her, speaking for the first time. ‘Do you know where that is? Go on a bit further, and at the next bridge turn right, up to the London road. You’ll find it soon enough.’

‘Thank you.’ Cat walks away to a variety of good-natured catcalls and hisses.

Only at the entrance to The Ploughman does she hesitate, because the doorway is low and the room inside dark and crowded, even though it’s after hours. For a moment, she feels that clawing inside when she is shut in, when there is a chance she could be trapped. But she steels herself, slipping through the crowd in a way a larger person couldn’t. There are a few other women in the pub, but only a few; their blouses tight, the top buttons undone, beer in their hands and red on their cheeks and kisses all over their mouths. In the back room, the young man had said. There is a rough wooden door, shut and latched at the far end of the room. Cat makes for it. When her fingers touch the latch, she jumps. A huge roar goes up from the other side, of a hundred deep male voices booming as one. Unease slows Cat’s progress, makes her pause. It sounds like a large and violent crowd is waiting behind the door, and she knows enough of such things to fear them. A hand clasps her wrist and pulls it firmly from the latch.

‘Now, where might you be going, young lady?’ asks a whiskery old man. His skin on her wrist is like a leathery bark, and she twists herself free.

‘Take your hands off me!’ she snaps, her heart lurching.

‘All right, all right, nobody’s trying to interfere with you! I asked a question, that’s all.’ He slurs his words slightly but his eyes are bright and if he wanted to stop her, Cat sees, he could.

‘I’m here to see George. George Hobson,’ she says, tipping her chin defiantly. ‘He’s in there, isn’t he?’

‘What are you? His woman? Daughter? I thought he had none,’ the man asks curiously.

‘What I am to him is my business. Are you going to let me through or not?’ The man studies her for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on the bedraggled remnants of a cigarette.

‘You know what this is, do you?’ He eyes her dubiously and hooks his thumb at the door. Another roar goes up from beyond it. Cat’s heart beats faster. She clamps her mouth shut, nods briskly though she can’t think what she will find in this restricted room. ‘Go on then, but you’ll not make a scene or I’ll have you out on your ear, got that?’ He leans over, lifts the latch and presses the door open, just wide enough for Cat to squeeze through. Biting her lip, her hands in fists, she does so.

The room is blue with smoke, airlessly hot, and the ceiling even lower and all of wood, like the walls. Cat’s view is barred by ranks of men, their backs turned to her, all jostling and cheering and stamping and wincing, waving their arms, their fists, their pocket-books. Cat skirts the edge of this crowd until she spots an opening, worming her way, unnoticed, to the front. She does not recognise him at first, the smiling man who blushed when she discovered that he couldn’t read. Now he is stripped to the waist, his thick torso slick with sweat and blood. Light shines from the curves and contours of his body. His hair is plastered to his head, and blood comes freely from a cut above his left eye, drawing a bright line down to his chin. But his opponent looks in worse shape. This other man is taller than George, but does not have his solid build. His long arms are thinner, though the muscles stand out along them like knots in rope. Both of them have made their knuckles bloody red and ragged.

When his opponent lands a punch, George absorbs it with an outward rush of breath, and does not falter. He moves smoothly, weaving like a cat, ducking his head like a bird, more graceful than a man of his size should be. Cat watches him, quite mesmerised. She has never seen anybody look so alive. She breathes deeply, catching the salt of sweat on her tongue; hears the smack of bone on flesh, of knuckles sinking deep somewhere giving, and a collective groan from the crowd in sympathetic pain. Cat presses up against the ropes of the makeshift ring, grasping the rough hemp tightly in her hands as she yells out her support. How different, how powerfully real he seems, compared to the fat policemen in London; the cherubic vicar; her own thin and bony self.

Another punch and George begins to bleed from one nostril, sweat flying as his head snaps to the side. His shoulders slump and blood vessels stand proud along the muscles of his arms. Ugly pink bruises are blossoming around his ribs. But his expression is calm, one of steady deliberation. He knows, Cat senses, exactly what he is doing. What he should do next, what he has doubtless done before; all oblivious to the strain of it and the fatigue and the pain he must feel. His opponent’s face is fixed into a grimace of effort and aggression. George is waiting, she sees. Using the other man’s aggression against him. Making him feel frustrated and eager to wade in, to get the job done. Letting him land a few big punches, letting him see the path to victory, making him impatient for it, making him careless. George waits, he weaves; he blocks a blow that would have closed his right eye – just in time, letting it glance from his face as if next time he might not be fast enough. It works. The other man steps in, drops his guard, pulls back a swing that he means to be the final punch of the night. He takes a fraction of a second to wind up, to twist his whole body behind the blow. When George strikes, his arm moves so fast it’s hard for the eye to follow; an upper cut that hits the taller man under the chin with a force that snaps his head back on his neck. The man drops abruptly, stunned, and lies propped upon his elbows, all bewildered.

George stands poised, but his opponent sinks slowly onto his back, and out of consciousness. The roar goes up again, deafening, shutting out thought; and without realising it, Cat adds her voice to it, a triumphant yell for George’s victory. Money changes hands, men shake their heads, George is passed a mug of beer, is clapped on the back; somebody throws a blanket over his shoulders which he shrugs off at once, accepting instead a stool to sit down on and a tatty piece of muslin with which to wipe his face. Cat makes her way towards him, wide eyed and inexorable.

‘And I thought you such a gentle soul, when I first met you,’ she tells him, without preamble. George frowns at her for a second, then smiles, recognition flooding his face.

‘Cat Morley, who speaks so well and cusses even better,’ he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Though he is tired and bruised, there’s a gleam in his eye, and Cat recognises it. The same gleam that sent her sneaking out of The Rectory in the dark. ‘I didn’t think to see you here.’

‘There’s precious little entertainment in this town, it seems,’ she says, wryly.

‘True enough. I’d have thought you’d be kept in of an evening though, saying your prayers with the vicar and his wife?’

‘Have you been asking about me?’ Cat demands.

‘Maybe I have, and what of it? It’s you that’s come and sought me out, after all.’ George smiles.

‘True enough.’ Cat echoes him. She smiles, a quick flash of her small, white teeth. ‘Do you always win?’

‘Not always. Most of the time, though I say it myself. There’s few around here who would bet against it, but every few weeks a fellow comes along who thinks he can knock me down.’ George gestures at the loser of the fight, still lying where he went down, and apparently forgotten.

‘Won’t somebody take care of him?’

‘His people are somewhere hereabouts. They’ll pick him up by and by, if they’ve not fallen down themselves,’ George assures her.

‘So why do you usually win? That man had longer arms than you, and he was taller. But you beat him easily.’

‘Not that easily.’ George dabs at the cut on his brow, the muslin staining red. ‘What these other fellows don’t seem to know, you see, is that it’s not how hard you can hit that’ll win you the fight, it’s how hard you can be hit.’

‘And you can be hit hard, can you?’

‘My father saw to it. He trained me from an early age,’ George says, still smiling but the gleam fading from his eyes.

‘Well, my father was always kind to me, and somehow that was worse,’ Cat says, folding her arms.

‘I heard something said about your father,’ George admits.

‘Whatever it was, it was wrong, I promise you that.’ She stands in front of him, only a fraction taller even though he is sitting down. ‘So, will you buy me a drink with your winnings, or won’t you?’

‘I will, Cat Morley. I will,’ George tells her.

‘You might put your shirt back on,’ she suggests, archly.

With the fight over the pub begins to empty, men straggling off to their homes and their unforgiving spouses. Cat and George walk along to the bridge. The night has darkened to black, and Cat stares blindly along the towpath when they reach it, suddenly loath to set out along it, to return to her cramped attic room and Mrs Bell’s noisy sleep.

‘Let me walk you. Have you not brought a light with you?’ George asks, mistaking her reluctance for a fear of the dark.

‘No. You needn’t, I’ll be fine. The path is simple enough,’ Cat says. They stop walking, turn towards each other, faces blurred by the darkness.

‘Aren’t you afraid, Cat?’ he asks, puzzled.

‘Afraid of what?’

‘To be walking out with me, when you hardly know me. To be seen with me.’

‘I don’t think you mean me harm, but if I’m wrong it’s my own fault. And as for being seen with you – surely if you’ve asked about me you’ll have been told that I’m a sullied outcast, and a criminal, and quite possibly a killer. These are some of the whispers I’ve heard. My reputation can’t be made worse than it is. So, aren’t you afraid to be seen with me, instead?’ She smiles, mischievously. George laughs softly, and she likes the sound. A low, bouncing chuckle.

‘I mean you no harm, you have that right. As for the rest of it, I scarce gave it any credit until you came marching into the fight tonight. Now I think, a girl who’ll do that, unescorted and unafraid, might just have done some of the things I heard about!’

‘I did… I did do something. And I have been in prison for it – that part is true. And what was done to me and others like me was far worse than we deserved, far worse than our crime, if crime it was. And after it, I find I’m not afraid. Not of gossip and rumours, or the wretched, petty hags who put them about either,’ Cat says, angrily. ‘And now you will ask me what I did, and what happened thereafter,’ she sighs. Such questions seem to dog her, hanging from her neck like dead weights.

‘No, I won’t. If you want to tell it, I’ll listen; but it’s not my business,’ George says, hurriedly. Cat stares along the water again to where it is swallowed whole by the night. There is a nip in the air now, and she shivers. ‘I’ll walk you back. Not all the way to the door, if you’re worried about being seen. I’ll bet you can move with the stealth of a ghost, when you need to,’ George says.

‘Black Cat, they used to call me – in London. For that very reason.’ She smiles. ‘It’s two miles to the village, that’s four for you to walk, and after you’ve fought tonight. Stay here on your boat, and rest. Don’t feel obliged to play the gentleman this evening,’ she argues. George clears his throat, folds his arms to mirror her.

‘I would walk those four miles to keep talking to you, Cat Morley. How’s that for a reason?’

Cat studies him for a moment, and thinks about insisting. But then she relents. ‘Very well, then.’

A small, high moon sits in the sky like a farthing, and casts a weak light onto the towpath. In places the path is overhung by branches, made narrow by thick borders of yellow flag and willow herb. George insists on taking the lead, although he is tall enough to catch every branch, and send them swinging back for Cat to dodge. He mutters and curses beneath his breath.

‘Perhaps I should lead? I can see quite well,’ Cat says.

George pauses in a patch of open moonlight, and turns to her. ‘Truly like a cat, then?’ he says. In the colourless night he is grey and black, his eyes empty hollows, his expression lost. For a second he seems not-human, some creature made of stone and shadow rather than flesh. But then he puts out one hand and touches her chin, and his skin is warm and dry. ‘You look more like a gypsy by this light,’ he says quietly.

‘My mother told me once that her grandmother was a Spaniard. She was dark like me, my mother, and people always said that I take after her.’ His touch feels strange, unsettling; like an intrusion, but one she finds she does not mind. She reaches up for his hand and keeps hold of it, and even in the dark she can see how avidly he watches her, how rapt his expression.

The house is so quiet when Cat returns to her room that she thinks she is discovered. It feels as though all is poised, tensed and ready to spring shut around her like a steel trap. Even Mrs Bell’s snoring is absent. Cat strips off her clothes and hangs them by the open window to air, to rid them of the telltale smell of beer and cigarettes. Then she lies still on the bed and hardly breathes, and though her heart hammers she feels ready to fight, to spring up and lay about her with her fists, if needs be. If they put hands on her, hold her down, force her. She will not let them again. But these are memories, half brought on by the beer she drank and the sleep she hasn’t had, and slowly she grows calm, and shuts her eyes, and wonders if George is still out in the meadow where she left him, waiting with his cut and bruised face turned up to the attic windows, in case she were to look out and wave. The thought soothes her, lets her breathing slow and deepen; lets her sleep.

In the morning, Hester, her stomach hot and empty, waits impatiently for Albert to return from his early walk so that they can sit down to breakfast. She abandons the book she’s been reading and drifts into the dining room where the table is set for two. Empty plates waiting, the cutlery laid beautifully straight. In the quiet room, her stomach growls audibly. It is not like Albert to be so late. How long can a person spend communing with nature? she wonders, hunger making her anxious.

Suddenly Hester hears the rattle of Albert’s bicycle, and leaps up with unseemly haste to greet him. The front door is ajar, where Cat is polishing the brass letter plate with a piece of soft leather. The vicar bowls through the door at such speed that he runs right into her, grasping her by the upper arms to steady himself.

‘My word, it was extraordinary!’ he bursts out, as if continuing a discussion they’d been having all morning. To Hester’s surprise, Cat lets out a shriek of protest, and fights her way free of Albert’s grasp, scuttling backwards until she hits the wall, and glaring at him with livid eyes. Albert blinks and stares at her as though she’s turned into a snake.

‘Cat! Really, child! Calm yourself,’ Hester exclaims, shocked by the girl’s excessive reaction, the way she seems unable to tolerate his touch. The touch of an ordained man. ‘It’s only Mr Canning! There’s no need to…take fright,’ she admonishes, uneasily. Cat relaxes, and looks at Hester with that odd blankness. It falls like a mask over her actual expression, Hester sees; hiding the girl’s thoughts, leaving her true nature unseen. Hester recoils a little from the baleful stare.

‘Sorry, madam. He startled me, that’s all,’ Cat says, quietly.

‘We’ll have breakfast now, thank you, Cat,’ Hester says, stiffly, hurrying the girl away with little shooing motions of her fingers.

‘Breakfast! Oh, no – I couldn’t eat anything! Oh, Hester! I have had the most marvellous experience! The most wonderful thing has happened!’ Albert exclaims, hurrying forward again and taking her hands, squeezing them tightly. His face is flushed pink with pleasure, his eyes glistening with excitement; even his hair seems affected, standing out from his head at rakish angles.

‘What is it, my darling? What’s happened?’ she asks, her voice high with anxiety.

‘I… I hardly know where to start… how to explain…’ Albert’s gaze slips past her face, falling out of focus into the middle distance. ‘Suddenly words seem… inadequate…’ he says, softly. Hester waits for a moment, then squeezes his fingers to rouse him.

‘Come and sit down, Bertie dear, and tell me everything.’

Albert allows himself to be led into the dining room, and to be manoeuvred into a chair just as Cat comes in with the first plate of eggs and chops, and a basket of bread. Hester takes her seat opposite Albert, helps herself to some bread with what she hopes is not over-eagerness, and begins to spread it with butter.

‘I’m all ears, my dear,’ she says, when Albert does not speak. He looks up at her as she begins to eat, then bursts up from his chair again and paces to the window. Bewildered, Hester chews slowly.

‘I was out walking in the meadows, up by the river, just on one of my usual jaunts. There is a place to the east of here, I don’t know if you have ever seen it, where the river is shallow and shaded from the north bank by willow and elder trees, and the bulrushes are as high as my eyes in places, and the whole of it is sprinkled with wild flowers like a carpet of jewels… The ground forms a hollow there; a wide, shallow hollow where in times of rain a swampy puddle forms, but now in summer it is lush with long meadow grasses and horsetails and buttercups and figwort… The mist seems to linger slightly longer in that hollow. I was watching it clear, watching its slow rising, and the way it glowed where the sun touched it and I saw… I saw…’

‘What, Albert?’ Hester asks, almost alarmed by the way her husband is talking. Albert turns to her, his face breaking into an incredulous smile of joy.

‘Spirits, Hester! Nature spirits! The very elemental beings that God sends to tend the wildlife and the flowers, to drive all the many workings of his natural world! I saw them at play, as clearly as I see you now!’ Albert cries, his voice dense with emotion. Cat pauses in the act of placing a pot of coffee on the table, glancing from Albert to Hester and back again with an incredulous look on her face.

‘Thank you, Cat,’ Hester says, pointedly. ‘Albert, that’s… quite astonishing! Are you sure?’

‘Sure? Of course I’m sure! I saw them with my own eyes, as clear as day! As exquisite as wild orchids… each of them…’

‘But, what did they look like, Albert? What were they doing?’

‘They were the colour of wild rose petals – white, if you did not look closely enough, but touched with gold and pink and pearly silver if you did, and each of them slender like a willow branch, dressed in some kind of robes… I could not clearly make out the fabric, but that it was pale and floated about them as if it weighed less than the very air; and they were dancing, Hetty! Dancing slowly and gracefully, the way the frond of a plant moves under water – easily and with never a sudden change, their arms first rising and then falling… Oh, Hester! I feel as though I have borne witness to a miracle! I feel like I have been favoured by God with this glimpse at what is usually hidden from man!’

‘Albert… this is remarkable. I mean…’ Hester flounders. Albert is beaming at her, clearly intoxicated by his experience. She frowns at the thought, looking at him closely, and finds herself leaning slightly towards him, inhaling as subtly as she can. But there is no hint of brandy or wine, or anything of the sort. Hester smiles uncertainly. ‘Quite… unprecedented,’ she says, lamely. ‘And you truly believe that these creatures-’

‘No, no – do not call them creatures, dear heart! They are not of the same ilk as the rabbits and the birds… these are Godly things, sacred beings much higher than us. Compared to them we are but cloddish clay figures!’ he says, triumphantly. Hester can’t think what else to say. Albert seems so strange and passionate – she hardly knows him at all.

‘But… don’t you understand what this means?’ Albert demands, turning to Hester and seeming suddenly to notice her hesitancy. Hester smiles as best she can, and opens her eyes brightly to show that she is ready to hear what it means, ready to accept what she is told; but this empty anticipation seems to disappoint Albert, and he slumps a little, his face falling. In the steady pause that follows, Hester fingers her cutlery, longing to cut open the chop on her plate but sensing that to do so would spoil the impression of avid attention. ‘I must write at once to Robin Durrant, the theosophist,’ Albert declares, collapsing back into his chair.

Cat goes back to the kitchen and slaps the empty breakfast tray onto the table top.

‘The vicar’s seeing fairies,’ she announces blandly. Mrs Bell’s head comes up from the bread oven, sweaty and red.

‘What’s that now?’ she asks. Cat throws her hands up, at a loss.

2011

Leah went to meet her best friend, Sam, in a café not far from where she worked. She chose a table in a far corner, away from the window, and sat down to wait. It was mid-morning on a grey Tuesday in early March; Leah had been back from Belgium for a week and she still felt shaken, oddly seasick, after the trip; after seeing Ryan, and the body of the dead soldier. Both of them unsettling, compelling, frightening. Leah ordered coffee and sipped it scalding hot when it arrived. It steadied her a little, and moments later Sam burst in through the door, moving with her customary haste, all elbows and knees, and shaking her head in pre-emptive apology when she saw Leah.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late! I couldn’t get away – Abigail is being a prize bitch this week and really putting the boot in… everyone knows the real reason but we can hardly say so. She’s pretending it’s because she’s seen our interim figures for this quarter, and they’re not good enough. Sorry. Sorry!’ she said breathlessly, kissing Leah on the cheek and squeezing her into a quick hug.

‘Stop apologising!’ said Leah. ‘I expect nothing less. And you know I’ve never minded sitting and people-watching.’ She had known Sam since the first year of school, and Sam had never once made it to an appointment on time.

‘So, what’s this big announcement of yours – I’m dying to hear,’ Sam said, tucking a swathe of shiny hair behind her ear and lacing her fingers in front of her. Her expression was open but her eyes darted over Leah’s face, never quite alighting, constantly distracted.

‘Well, I’ve probably over-hyped it now. It’s not much of an announcement, really,’ said Leah, taking a deep breath. The decision had seemed a lot bigger in her mind, when she’d made it. It had just been so long since she’d felt enthusiasm for anything – real enthusiasm, the urge to work and write. Now, speaking it aloud, it sounded feeble. ‘I’m going out of town, for a bit. Just a couple of weeks. I’m chasing down a story.’ She saw this register with some disappointment on Sam’s face, and smiled apologetically. ‘I knew I’d over-hyped it.’

‘No! I just… I thought it might be about something else. I thought maybe you’d met… somebody,’ Sam said, then flapped her hand at Leah’s crestfallen expression. ‘Forget I said it. No, I think it’s great news. Good for you – it’s high time you got your mojo back, God only knows. So, what’s the story?’

‘It’s… ah… the identity of a soldier of the First World War. He’s just been discovered over in Belgium. Only there’s more to it than that. I’m sure of it.’

‘More to him being discovered?’ Sam asked, puzzled.

‘No – more to who he is, to what he was doing in the war. To what he did in his life before it, especially. He had two letters on him which have survived – which is amazing in itself. They’re very odd letters. Perhaps you’d better read them?’ she suggested, fishing the rumpled pages from her bag.

She herself had read and reread them many times since leaving Ryan lying in the dark of his poky room, in bed sheets that smelled of her. There was something so vivid about them – she could almost feel the woman’s fear and desperation, rising like a scent from the elegant lettering; her confusion, and the frustration of being able to change nothing and discover nothing. And the odd tone of them puzzled her – clearly the pair had both been party to something very unusual, something deeply upsetting: this crime, in which the woman felt complicit by her silence. And yet, she wrote to him as if he were almost a formal acquaintance. She did not write as to a close friend or a family member. The imploring way in which she begged for an explanation, for information… Leah had started to feel tremors of sympathetic panic each time she picked the letters up. And why should the soldier have kept these two letters in particular, when it sounded as though there had been many others? She’d tried to find something that the two had in common, but failed – apart from the pleading, of course, the cries for help. But surely any other letters she’d sent would also have included these?

‘You might be reading too much into that,’ said Sam, as Leah outlined her curiosity. ‘It might just be the case that he lost the others, or they were destroyed by accident, or he never got them,’ she pointed out. ‘Who knows?’

‘True.’ Leah frowned. ‘I don’t know, though. He was so careful with these ones. He sealed them so meticulously, and kept them on him even when he was fighting. It makes me doubt that he’d have accidentally lost or damaged a lot of others.’

‘Where did you come across all this, anyway?’ Sam asked.

Leah swirled her coffee dregs in the bottom of the cup, and neatly evaded the question. ‘So you think there’s a story in it?’ she asked instead.

‘God, yes! If you can find out what crime was committed, and even by who; and who this fella was and who the woman was… for sure there’s a story there. How did you find it, Leah?’

‘I went out to Belgium last week – that’s where I was. Someone at the Commonwealth War Graves Commission put me on to it – they’re holding his body for a while to see if I can get an ID before he’s reburied,’ she said, as casually as she could.

‘The War Graves Commission? Not Ryan? Leah – you’ve not been over to see Ryan, have you?’ Sam said, seriously. She fixed Leah with a stern stare and would not let her go.

‘Not to see him! Not specifically! He did contact me about the story, and they do want to find out who the soldier was.’ Leah tried to defend herself; but Sam’s arms were folded, her lips pressed together.

‘Tell me you didn’t sleep with him. At least tell me that,’ she said; and when Leah didn’t answer, and could not look at her, her face fell into lines of utter dismay. ‘Oh, Leah! What were you thinking?’

‘I wasn’t,’ Leah said, twisting her paper napkin till it tore. ‘I wasn’t thinking at all. I can’t seem to think, where he’s concerned. I just get… scrambled up. I’m like a mobile phone too close to a bloody microwave!’ she said, with quiet despair.

‘Which is why I thought we’d established you weren’t going to see him again. For at least a year or two. Leah – every time you see him any little bit of healing gets undone! Look at you, you look knackered.’

‘Thanks. You’re really not telling me anything I don’t know.’

‘Then why do I have to keep saying it? Leah, seriously. Ryan’s a no-go area. He cocked up big time. I mean… big time.’ Sam held her hands wide apart.

‘It’s not that easy. You make it sound so childish,’ Leah muttered.

‘I don’t mean to. I know how difficult it is – you know I do. And I was around to help you pick up the pieces, wasn’t I? I just… don’t want to have to do it again.’

‘I’m fine. Really, I am. I’ve got this story to work on now-’

‘Are you going to be working with Ryan on this? Are you going to be in touch?’ Sam interrupted.

‘No. No, not at all. I left without even saying goodbye. I’ve emailed him to say I’ll try to find out what I can, but that’s it. No progress reports, even. Either I’ll be able to find something out in the next few weeks, or I won’t. And whatever I find out can go in an email. I don’t need to see him again.’

‘Well, I hope you’re convincing yourself, because you sure as hell aren’t convincing me.’

‘Sam, come on. It’s the story I came to tell you about – really it was. It’s already more important to me than… what happened in Belgium. You don’t need to punish me for seeing him. For sleeping with him. Doing it was punishment enough, OK? OK?’

‘OK! Not another word. So you’re going to… where was it? Cold Arse?’

‘Cold Ash Holt.’

‘Sounds positively bucolic.’

‘Yes. It’s somewhere in Berkshire. Not quite the back of beyond, but it’ll get me out of London. A change of scene, you know. New project,’ said Leah.

‘How was he? How’s he doing?’ Sam asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

‘Unchanged. On fine form. Positively blooming.’ Leah shrugged, unhappily.

‘Where are you going to start? With the story, I mean.’

‘At The Rectory, I guess. There’s no date on the letters, but she wrote the second one once she’d found out he had gone off to fight in the war, so that’s sometime between 1914 and 1918; and the first one about three or four years before that, from what she says. So I just need to find out who was living there then, and if there were any young men of fighting age, and… whatever else I can.’ She shrugged. ‘The CWGC have already established that there were no soldiers registered as living there, but somebody might know something.’

If she could have got up and left right then, she would have. Talking about it made her desperate to get started, to discover what the letters’ author was so afraid of, what she could not find out. It struck Leah then that the tight despair, the desire to surrender that was captured in the letters reminded her strongly of how she felt about Ryan. She could not ease her own discomfort, but perhaps she could ease H. Canning’s. And suddenly she longed to be somewhere where there were no memories of Ryan, or of them being together; nobody who even knew Ryan existed. He was clinging to her like cobwebs, and she itched to brush them off.

Leah still lived in the flat, near Clapham Common, that she had shared with Ryan. They had lived together for four years, moved in with each other after only two months of dating. She had never been as sure about anything ever before; and she wasn’t normally an impulsive person. A love sceptic, she would have called herself, but along had come a man who could make her feel more alive just by being in the room. He didn’t even have to touch her. She had quipped to her friends that she finally understood what pop songs were all about, but really it hadn’t been a joke. She felt like her eyes had been opened – or perhaps her heart. Like she had been let in on a huge and wonderful secret. She was positively smug, for a long time; and afterwards her inner voices kept flinging cruel adages at her – about pride coming before a fall, and there being a fine line between love and hate.

She refused to move out of the flat, which she loved and had lived in for two years before she’d even met Ryan. She would go back to living in it by herself, she resolved. It was her place again, rather than theirs, that was all. But it wasn’t true. It was saturated with him, with echoes of him being there, and memories of his touch. For weeks she could still smell him, and thought she was going mad until she realised that the bedroom curtain, near where he had stood every morning to spray on his deodorant, was giving off waves of the fragrance. She laundered the curtains at once, but not before she had crouched by the open washing machine door for twenty minutes, rocking on her heels, her face screwed into the dusty fabric.

After kissing Sam goodbye, Leah went back to the flat, packed a small suitcase, slung it onto the back seat of her car and joined the traffic queuing for the M4. It only took an hour to reach junction twelve, once she got rolling, and for some reason Leah was disappointed. Her big trip out of town, her mission, seemed belittled by how small England could be. Her satnav led her away from the main road, down a narrow, winding lane between high hedgerows still winter-brown and drab. It had been raining, and she bumped through potholes full of water, squeezing into the muddy bank and lurching to a standstill three times to let huge four-by-fours plough past. When her satnav announced that she had arrived, she was sitting at a junction looking out over a small triangular green, with pretty, crooked houses fronting the lanes on each side. There was a large horse chestnut tree in the middle, a postbox at one corner and a phone box at the other, and no immediate signs of life. Over the rooftops of the furthest houses, Leah saw a church spire rising against the mottled sky, and felt a flare of excitement. If the dead soldier had been friends with the residents of The Rectory, he had almost certainly attended a service at that very church. She parked the car, and set off towards it. The quiet was profound, and she almost walked on tiptoes, unwilling to break it. A soft, damp breeze wandered through the naked conker tree, tapping its knuckled branches together.

The churchyard was scattered with snowdrops and early daffodils, and little purple crocuses. The usual array of village dead lay beneath headstones – old ones weathered and furred with lichen nearest the church wall, and then forward in time across the field to some brand new ones, the cuts in the turf plainly visible, lettering still razor sharp in the marble. For some reason Leah found it uncomfortable to look at these. Like catching somebody’s eye in a communal changing room, a tiny but definite invasion of privacy. The church itself was grey stone and flint, Victorian by the look of it. A battered iron cockerel stood on top of the modest spire, immobile in spite of the breeze. The door was firmly locked. Fliers advertising parish events on pastel-coloured paper curled and fluttered, held fast to the wood by rusty drawing pins. Leah twisted the flaking metal latch and gave it an extra hard shove, just to make sure, and then jumped when somebody spoke behind her.

‘It’s no good, love. It’s locked except at the weekends these days,’ a man told her, grey haired and with a heavy paunch poking out of an ancient donkey jacket. Leah caught her breath.

‘Oh, OK. Thanks,’ she said, brushing her hands on the seat of her jeans.

‘Mrs Buchanan has the key, over at number four on the green; but I’m pretty sure she’s out at her yoga at this time of day,’ the man went on.

‘Oh well, never mind. Thanks.’ Leah smiled briefly and waited for the man to move on. He smiled back at her, and did not move. Leah had hoped to spend some more time snooping around the churchyard, perhaps even looking for some Canning headstones from the right era, but the man showed no signs of going about his business, whatever it might be. ‘Could you please tell me how to get to The Rectory?’ she asked, stifling her irritation.

‘Happy to, happy to,’ the man said. ‘You want to go left out of here and keep walking about a minute until you get to Brant’s Close. It’s on the left. It’s a new road, a cul-de-sac, with lots of houses on it. The Rectory is number two, not far after you turn off the lane. You can’t miss it…’ He followed her down the path as he explained all this, and for a moment Leah thought he would dog her steps all the way there, but at the church gate he halted.

‘Thank you!’ Leah called, striding confidently away. Oh, for the rude, unhelpful and unobtrusive people of London, she thought. The man crossed his hands on the gatepost, and watched her go.

Number two was a small brick house, a square box with a paved front driveway and a very neat little lawn. Early pansies nodded their purple and yellow faces from a row of identical pots beneath the kitchen window. A black slate plaque by the door proclaimed it to be The Rectory, and Leah rang the bell, suddenly unsure of herself.

‘Yes?’ A thin, middle-aged woman greeted her, smiling but with a hunted expression, as if she expected to come under attack at any moment. A lace doily of a woman, Leah thought at once, a little unkindly. Delicate and utterly useless looking.

‘I’m sorry, I think I’ve got this quite wrong,’ Leah said. The doily blinked rapidly, tucking her blue cardigan tighter under her arms. ‘I was looking for The Rectory – the original rectory, as it would have been, about a hundred years ago?’ she explained.

‘Oh, The Old Rectory? Yes, you’ve rather come to the wrong place, I’m afraid. It’s out the other side of the village – only five minutes’ walk. If you take the lane signposted to Thatcham, you’ll find it on the right-hand side a little further along,’ the woman told her, and began to close the door. Leah put her hand out quickly and stopped her.

‘Sorry – you don’t know by any chance when it went from being The Rectory to being The Old Rectory, do you? When it was sold off by the church, I mean?’ she asked. The woman looked at Leah’s hand on the door as though it wielded a weapon.

‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know. Possibly during the thirties. A lot of church property passed into private hands at that time.’

‘OK, thanks. Thank you.’ Leah released her and returned to the road.

When she reached The Old Rectory, Leah paused, stepping onto the sodden verge as a car splashed past. It was a lovely old building, Queen Anne, she guessed; square and symmetrical and halfway to rack and ruin. The red bricks stood proud, the mortar between them long since eroded away. The garden to the front was badly overgrown, although the remains of last year’s geraniums, dead and bedraggled in stone troughs by the door, suggested that somebody still lived there, and made something of an effort. Leah couldn’t see any cars parked anywhere on the driveway, or any lights on inside even though the day was gloomy and getting gloomier. She stood and watched it covertly for a few minutes, in case she saw movement within. This, then, was the house where the letters she had pored over so avidly of late had been written. Her heart picked up a little at the thought. It felt like peeping through a tiny keyhole in a door, into the past. With some unspecified nerves, she went up the garden path and gave the dull brass knocker a good thump. She could hear the sound echo inside.

A youngish man opened the door, just a chink, and frowned out at her.

‘What?’ he said, abruptly. Leah got an impression of narrow grey eyes, short dark hair, several days’ growth of stubble and a slightly bewildered expression.

‘Oh, hello. Sorry to bother you-’ she began, only to be cut off short.

‘What do you want?’ he snapped. Behind him, the house was in darkness. Leah tried not to peer past him too obviously. Suddenly, she longed to explore the place.

‘My name’s Leah Hickson, and I’m doing some research into-’

‘Research? What do you mean?’ the man interrupted again.

Leah felt her cheeks colour with irritation. ‘Well, as I was about to explain, I’m looking for somebody who-’

‘Are you a journalist?’ the man demanded.

‘Well, yes, I am,’ Leah answered, taken aback.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ the man exclaimed, rubbing his eyes viciously with his spare hand. Leah was too startled to respond. ‘How did you find me? Who gave you this address? Can’t you people take a hint – like bugger off? If I wanted to talk to any of you, do you think I’d have come all the way out here?’

‘I… I can assure you that whatever you think, I-’

‘Just don’t bother. I’ve heard every possible sodding pretext from you lot over the last three months. Get off my doorstep. Is it just you, or can I expect a steady stream of you to start turning up?’ he said, coldly.

‘No, no – it’s just me. I-’

‘Good. Keep it that way. And get lost.’ The man enunciated each word with furious clarity. He slammed the door in her face, and Leah stood still for twenty seconds or more, too stunned to move.

Eventually, her blood singing with indignation, and anger giving her a faint headache at her temples, Leah knocked again, as loudly as she could, and for a long time. But there was no response from the grey-eyed man, or anybody else who might be there, and no sounds from inside whatsoever. It began to rain steadily, and Leah was forced to retreat. She returned to her car, took out her notebook and wrote Natives hostile with an ironic flourish on the first blank page; then she sat and watched the rain for a little while, as it pattered and pooled and trickled down her windscreen. Ryan loved the rain. Even this reminded her of him, and she lived in a country famous for it. She thought of the dead soldier’s wet hair, the way it had been slick against his skull. How much rain had fallen on his body, as he had lain undiscovered for a hundred years? She imagined it tickling skin that could no longer feel; soaking through clothes to flesh that could no longer shiver. Firmly, she banished the thoughts. She did not want the dead man turning up in her dreams.

She made her way back to the main road, then turned and followed the A₄ into Thatcham. She parked up and wandered around for quarter of an hour, quickly establishing that she would not want to stay in any of the pubs in the small town. The main shopping street, called The Broadway, was occupied by bottomend chain stores and tiny bank branches. People moved steadily through the growing downpour, their faces and eyes downturned, feet resignedly skirting the grubby puddles. It looked as downbeat and sad as only a small town at the messy end of winter can look. There was an old-fashioned bookshop, though, in which Leah spent a pleasant half-hour browsing and drying out. She bought two books on local history, and got a recommendation from the lady at the till for a good pub, The Swing Bridge, that did bed and breakfast, halfway back towards Cold Ash Holt and down a side lane next to the canal. Leah made her way there, and was shown to a room heavy with chintz and over-stuffed cushions. But it was warm, and had a wide, sweeping view of the rain-sodden water meadows lying to the east. In the distance, through a spindly row of poplar trees, Leah thought she could make out the spire of Cold Ash Holt church. She made herself a cup of tea from the tray, and sat, lost in thought, at the window.

The Swing Bridge had a largely local clientele who sat in groups at the bar and on benches along sticky wooden tables, and greeted each new arrival with nods and smiles and soft, drawled words. Leah came down for her dinner at eight and was shown into the restaurant area, which was off to one side of the bar, colder, and painfully empty. She sat at a table laid for two, positioning herself so she could at least see through into the bar. The empty room behind her made the back of her neck prickle. She ordered fish and chips, and wished she’d brought a book with her for cover. She’d had vague ideas about joining a group of locals, and learning some local legends from them, but their conversations all seemed too personal, their groups so closed that she was suddenly too shy to interrupt. There were enough bones left in her fish to keep her occupied.

When she next looked up, she noticed with a start that she was no longer the only person sitting alone. Perched on a barstool, knees gaping uncomfortably to either side, was the man from The Old Rectory. Even though her view of him had been a shadowed glimpse, she was sure it was him. He hadn’t bothered taking off his coat – a shapeless, faded green anorak – and he had a navy blue woollen hat pulled down low on his head. Quite the casual local, Leah thought; but when she looked down at his feet, his boots were of smooth brown leather, the laces tied tightly around sturdy brass studs. They were too clean, and too expensive. Leah’s curiosity mounted. The man was clearly trying not to be noticed, trying not to be recognised. As it was, she saw more than one glance aimed in his direction, more than one muttered comment passed. The man stared resolutely at the drip tray in front of him, and drank a pint of bitter with dogged resolve.

Leah could not resist it. She got up quickly as the man drained his glass and intercepted him as he turned for the door.

‘Hello again,’ she said, brightly. The man gave her a startled look, and then recognition drew down his brows. He tried to side-step her but she mirrored the move. ‘We seemed to get off on the wrong foot before, and I’m sorry if I… disturbed you. I’m Leah Hickson, as I mentioned. And you are?’ She held out her hand to him. He gave it a scornful look, and did not shake it.

‘You know perfectly bloody well who I am. Now please get out of my way and leave me alone – is it too much to ask that I can go out for a drink on a Friday night without being followed…’ the man said in a low tone, his voice tight.

‘I assure you, I haven’t the slightest idea who you are,’ Leah interrupted him. ‘And I didn’t follow you – I’m staying here for a few days. I hear they do a good fry-up in the morning.’

‘Oh, great. You just happen to be staying here. Is this going to be one of those “this is your chance to give your side of the story” offers? Because I’ve heard it all before!’ the man snapped. There were knots at the corners of his jaw, and Leah suddenly realised that he looked exhausted. Grey bags sat heavy under his eyes, and tired lines tracked the contours around his mouth.

‘Look… I hate to burst your bubble, but I really don’t know who you are. You’re clearly not as famous as you think. I am a journalist, but I’m working on a historical piece about a soldier of the Great War, and I came to Cold Ash Holt looking for information about him. He had links to The Rectory – which is why I knocked on your door. Whatever you’ve done – or not done – I’m afraid I’m really not interested. Unless it helps me find out about my soldier, which I somehow doubt it will.’ There was a long pause as the man considered this, his expression veering between relief, disbelief and anger.

‘Are you sure you’re not just…’ he trailed off, twisting one hand in a gesture she couldn’t decipher.

‘I’m telling you the truth. I really am. And if you’ve got time, and can relax for a minute, I’d love to buy you another pint and ask you some questions about The Rectory.’ The man stared at her for a moment longer then rubbed his eyes hard with the fingers of his left hand, just as he had at the door earlier on. A nervous tic, or a sign of fatigue perhaps.

‘OK. Sure. If you’re really who you say you are,’ he relented.

‘I am who I say I am,’ Leah assured him, amused. ‘Let’s sit by the fire – I ate dinner in the other room and it was like a tomb in there.’

Quiet now, the belligerence running from him like water through a sieve, the man slumped into a chair near the fire, and Leah studied him covertly as she waited for the beer to be pulled, peering at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. But she need not have worried about him noticing. He was staring into the air between his knees, picking absently at the edge of one thumbnail. With an agitated swipe he pulled the hat from his head, and she noticed that his hair badly needed washing, and quite possibly cutting as well. It lay flat to his skull, looking coarse and grubby. He was tall and lean, and the way his clothes hung from him it looked like he might have borrowed them from someone else, or perhaps lost a lot of weight recently. When she went over to the table he glanced up, pale-grey eyes alert again, on guard.

‘One good thing about being out of London – you can get a pint without taking out a small mortgage,’ Leah said as she sat down. The man paid no attention to the remark.

‘So what do you want to talk about? That ridiculous thing about the fairies? That was shortly before the First World War, if I remember right,’ he said, taking a long swig from his glass. Leah’s pulse picked up a little.

‘Sure, I’d like to hear more about that…’ She left a convenient pause, but the man didn’t fill it. ‘I know you’re sort of… incognito, but could I at least know your name?’ she prompted him.

‘Sorry, yes, of course. Sorry. It’s been a… difficult couple of months. It’s Mark. Mark Canning,’ he said. Leah smiled, butterflies spinning in her stomach.