Maestro (13 page)

Sara recognised the lace as Spanish lace, cut and drawn delicately into patterns of intertwined flowers. A string of flowers had been sewn around the neck, the wrists and at the base of the skirt. 

Judging by the length of the dress, the owner had been tall. And svelte. 

To Sara's chagrin, the dress ravaged by time, could never be worn again. Moths had gnawed through the fine lace flowers and the cotton had yellowed with age. 

In the suitcase under the dress, Sara found a pair of silk shoes. The soles untarnished, smooth, unworn. Size 39. Fabriqué en France.  

The other secret in the suitcase was a bundle, wrapped in parchment paper and tied loosely with string. Sara untied the single bow and the parchment fell open.  

Sketches, fifteen in all, traced out in pencil of a dark haired man, tall. In other sketches, the same man, kissing a woman or holding her in a tender embrace. In these sketches, the woman's face was concealed, lost in masses of red hair that the artist had coloured in separately. None of the sketches was signed. 

The man, the aquiline nose, the build, the dark eyes. Gillane.  

The woman had to be Sarah. Artist and muse. 

Sara stacked the sketches together on her lap and began looking at them again, one by one. 

Mysterious, she thought, that these, most treasured possessions, had been locked away under a staircase. 

All else that she found in the suitcase were bits of drawing lead and pencils. She returned the contents of the suitcase, wrapping the sketches as she had found them and folding the dress. She put the suitcase back at the bottom of the chest and laid the wooden easel on top. 

Holding the lid with both hands, she closed the chest and arranged the broken ivory handle in the centre. 

Sara looked at the harness briefly, wondering why it had been committed to this crypt under the stairs. 

She gave one last glance at the chest and closed the cupboard door, pushing the wooden crates back into their original position.  

Sara felt a draught on her back as she climbed up the staircase. She remembered the maddening drip she had come down to investigate. It had stopped. Wherever it was. 

****************** 

The dreaded encounter occurred the next day. 

Sara was sitting outside on the bench, sipping her morning coffee. The dress, the suitcase, the sketches, the hidden cupboard, vivid in her mind, signified the end. 

The robin had not visited her again that morning. He had gone forever. So should she. Downswold, the cottage, her so-called "holiday" filled her with loathing. She would return to London and civilisation. To people who didn't scowl because they didn't see you in the first place, to faceless cashiers in super-sized supermarkets. To her home. 

She would just arrive and announce to the Maestro that her holiday was over. It was great but now its over. A whole month was too long. She needed to work, get back into the swing of things. The Maestro needed her.  

Sara sat up. There he was. Gillane walking towards her. 

She watched the man who had consumed her.  

His head covered over in a floppy straw hat, Sara could not see his face. Holding a wooden cane, Gillane was walking along the narrow pathway to the cottage. Every five paces or so, he bent down to knock something real or imaginary, off his shoes, with the cane.  

Sara sat waiting for him. He didn't raise his head to see her until he was within a few yards of the bench. He pulled off his hat and waved to her. 

Once he had reached the bench, Sara stood up to greet him.  

She had not seen him for only two days but he appeared to have aged at least another ten years. Weakened. His unshaved face drawn and sallow. 

He neither smiled nor made any attempt to greet her. Instead he merely held out an envelope towards her. 

"This came for you this morning. All mail is delivered to my house."

He uttered the words wearily and spoke very slowly in a droning monotone.

Alarmed by the sight of him, Sara thought of asking what was wrong. As one human being to another. The thought perished quickly as she remembered her decision to leave, to abandon her holiday. 

She attempted a weak smile of gratitude and accepted the envelope. 

"Thank you for bringing it over," she whispered 

The handwriting scrawled across the envelope was easy to recognise. The capital and common letters mixed jaggedly together to form words that descended to the bottom right hand corner of the envelope. The Maestro had responded to her letter. 

"Please have a seat while I read it," she said looking at Gillane who by now, was leaning on the cane. "It’s from my boss. It may be important. Can I bring you a coffee?"  

It was the least she could do, offer him a cup of coffee. Let it be over once she has handed him the keys. Once he has had his coffee. 

"I'll get it, Sara. You read your letter." 

She remembered the cellar and the chest. She couldn't allow Gillane to be on his own in the cottage, to notice the displaced spiders. 

She began to walk determinedly towards the cottage. 

"Please. I insist." she said, not waiting for a response. 

Gillane did not object and sat down on the bench. 

Sara came out of the cottage holding two mugs of strong, black coffee to find Gillane contemplating the disenfranchised rose bush. 

He gave her a look of admonishment as he accepted the mug of coffee. 

"When did this happen?" he asked, his voice hoarse.  

"During the last thunderstorm. I'm sorry. I...I..was unsure...what to do...if...it would....survive if I replanted it," she finished the sentence, breathless and annoyed at her silly stuttering. 

Gillane bent down and lifted the rose bush onto the island. 

"I'll do it now while you read your letter. I'll come back later and cut the stems back." 

"Don't you need a spade?" 

More confident now that he wasn't looking directly at her and anxious to keep him out of the cellar, Sara thought she might redeem herself by offering to help. 

Gillane looked up at Sara briefly, his hands covered in dirt. 

"No. I'll do it with my hands. I'll just cover the roots over for now. Maybe you can give it some water for me later?" 

Sara nodded at him, relieved. She returned to the bench and opened the Maestro's letter.  

Handicapped by his drunken, psychotic handwriting, The Maestro had written only a few words on the back of a London postcard: 

"Can you get here by Thursday 4th. Concert in NY. Agent on my back. M." 

Sara understood the Morse-like code. The upcoming concert in New York had sold out months ago. The American Press was pushing the Maestro's agent for interviews. The agent was pushing the Maestro to commit to as many as possible and in advance. 

The concert was weeks away. The future was not something the Maestro was adept at planning. Neither did he like interviews with toothy, bubbling Americans, first thing in the morning. 

The agent was a tenacious bastard. Sara had got what she wanted. Soon, Sarah Lunn, Glymeer and Gillane, would be relegated to the farthest corner of her memory. 

Gillane had finished his task. He was walking back towards the bench. 

Sara stared at him. She wanted to memorise the nose, the way he walked, the tall, thin silhouette that he cast as the sun shone over him. That she would know this man if she ever saw him on a crowded London street. 

Would he remember her? 

Sara could not look at Gillane as he stood next to the bench, the mug of cold coffee at his lips. All the energy she had spent rationalising the disappearance of Sarah Lunn, her relentless pursuit, the hopelessness of it all. She had rationalised herself into a senseless black hole where Gillane was a villain. 

In the nick of time, the Maestro had delivered her, her freedom. The rational thing to do, would be to go, grab the chance with both hands.  

But go to what?  

Gillane looked at her. Silent. The cane at his feet. 

She should be glad to leave. She was being irrational. But she understood that she was leaving one grief for another. Sarah's parents, Mag, Gillane, she was exactly like them in her misery. Locked into a lifetime of grief. And solitude. 

Gillane. She sat there transfixed. She saw only the man. A man without a past that had ruined his life. 

Finally, she spoke, hampered by a great big lump in her throat. 

"I must...leave. If that's...all........ right with...you." 

She searched his face. At best, a sign that he was disappointed. At worst... 

Gillane sat down next to her, the empty mug between them. 

Sara held the Maestro's postcard, lamely in her hands. 

"The person I work for needs me back by Thursday." she said, closing her eyes, "I should leave on Wednesday… Wednesday.... sometime."  

Her voice trailed off into a whisper, the lump swelling in her throat.  

She bent over, her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands.  She felt Gillane move closer. He put his arm around her and drew her up towards him. 

Sara did not resist. Her eyes still closed, she lay her head on Gillane's shoulder. He clasped her hand tightly in his. 

They sat there holding hands, not willing to speak, not moving, like two halves of a giant clam. 

Sara moved first. To wipe the tears which were streaming down her face. 

Gillane tightened his arm around her. 

"Be still. Be still," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Let it go, Sara." 

Sara squirmed in his grip, pushing him away. 

"No! No!" 

She couldn't. 

"I can't do this!"   

She did. In spite of herself. 

She drew his lips down to hers. He held them there, as one would kiss a child goodnight. It was his turn to push her away. 

He separated his lips from hers. His dark eyes boring into hers, he removed his arms from around her.  

Then those arms captured her once more, swallowing her whole, into his world. 

They spent their last few days together. Gillane helped Sara move her things into his house and they locked up Downswold. 

Gillane made love as if his entire soul should leave his body and enter Sara's. She yearned for him, she longed for him, to touch her over and over again. 

They left the house only to stretch their aching bodies, taking long walks around the farm, over the hills. In a field of flowers, they would make love again. 

They seldom spoke. They never mentioned Sarah.  

Gillane introduced Sara to his friendly, snorting pigs. He showed her where they rolled about during the day and where they spent the night, in their pen. There were no stables. And no horses. 

Their last day together was spent in blissful excess. Satiated. Guillaume and Sara. Sara and Guillaume. As only lovers know. Unrestrained. Gluttons for each other. 

But Sara could see the silvery thread of happiness linking them, diminishing by the hour. Ephemeral and soon to be gone. 

The next day, they loaded her car together. They embraced until their arms fell asleep. Gillane let her go. 

"I have something for you." 

He went into the house, leaving her to look at him walk away. 

He came back. A large painting under his arm. He leaned it against the car for her to admire.  

Flowers in a field. Thousands of them. Like the field where he had held her, kissed her. Loved her. 

Not one of the abstract paintings which she had seen on every square inch in his house.  

Even now, could he not separate himself from his past? 

She accepted the painting. And kissed Guillaume Gillane goodbye.

Chapter Thirteen. 

London. Grey and wet. 

The fine weather in Glymeer had not accompanied her home. 

Sara drove along Putney Bridge, crossing the Thames, then onto Fulham Palace Road.  

She had taken the longest route through London she could think off, deliberately losing her way, misreading the signs. Eventually, she surrendered and chose the right one. 

Here she was.  She unloaded the contents of her journey outside the house: travel bag, cd player etc. And the painting. She went off in search of a parking space and found one, a minute's walk away. 

The house was empty. Carl had not returned, unexpectedly from his trip. Sara set the painting down in the hallway. Later, she would think of a suitable place to hang it.  

Her housekeeper had come in earlier that day and piled the post neatly near the door. She was good like that. Reliable, trustworthy. 

Sara stood looking at the painting for a few minutes. Its muted colours dreamy, surreal. She would hang it there, above the hallway table. 

She could not reconcile herself to being back. Unsure.