Maestro (4 page)

Mag began crying again. 

"Sarah was my sister's daughter. Ruined my life..."

She was wiping the tears away with her bare hands, the full teacup untouched in front of her. 

She glanced up at Sara. 

"I haven't seen my sister in eighteen years. She won't see me. No one in my family will see me." 

The tears were pouring out of Mag's face. Sara could almost hear them as they landed in splotches on the worn wooden table. She could not bear to look at Mag. She sipped the scalding hot tea slowly and concentrated instead on each splotch of tears. 

"It’s hard, you know," wept Mag, "having no one."  

Sara forced herself to look at Mag's tear-sodden face. Those words had reverberated in her own mind several times. 

"I know. I know," she whispered, patting Mag's hands. 

Mag told Sara what she knew.  She spoke quickly, drawing deep breaths between her sentences. 

"That Mr. Gillane came to Glymeer about six months before Sarah disappeared. He just came one day and moved into Old Denley's farm. Mr. Denley died in the summer and his daughter didn't want the farm no more. She didn't offer it to none of the farmers around here. Next we heard that she had gone away and that Gillane moved in. She sent a message to the Town Hall in Goldarn to say it had been sold. 

"That Gillane never spoke to no one. He'd come here to get his paper every morning and collect his letters. He never said a word. Always expected you to hand him his parcels without asking for 'em, he'd leave the exact change on the counter, then go. Like he was better than us.  

"Sarah would come into Glymeer every morning. To help John in the shop. Ach, she was a lovely girl. Everyone always said so. She didn't like working on her father's farm that was down in the valley. She said she hated sheep and anything to do with that life. She begged her mother to let her help John. Ach, she cried something terrible when her mother held her back but in the end, she got her own way. You had to forgive Sarah anything. She had the sweetest smile. 

"Her mother was furious with her, though, and Sarah had to stay here with me for a while. Her mother let her be. She worked with John. She lived here. I didn't see any harm. But everything changed. That Gwennie Stamp. She came to me one day and said she'd seen Sarah with Gillane, walking along Cumbers Bridge. I knew it was trouble. I just knew it. I asked Sarah, I begged her, I told her that man was no good. She laughed at me. She told me I hated foreign folk.  

"I got her mother to come. That same day. I wasn't going to be blamed. They had a terrible fight. Like cats, they were. They screamed so hard. It was horrible! 

"I didn't know what to do. When her mother left, Sarah promised me that she was just friends with Gillane. Nothing more. It was very hard for me. I washed her clothes; they smelled funny. 

"Gillane wasn't even farming the land he'd bought from Denley. He kept some pigs but that was all. He wasn't selling them either. John went round there to see what he'd got and Gillane said the pigs, they were pets. Pets! 

"Downswold used to be the workmen's cottage on Denley's farm. Just for the winter really. For some of the men to stay when it got too late. When he got the farm, Gillane boarded it up and told the boys to find work somewhere else. He put a big sign on the road saying, PRIVATE PROPERTY KEEP OUT. You didn't need a bigger sign than that. 

"I made Sarah promise me that she would have nothing to do with that man. He deserved to be left alone. She promised me. Ach, she could fool me, that girl! 

"One day I went to John's to get some apples for stewing. There were some beauties, he had. Big, shiny Bramleys. I asked John whose farm they were from. He couldn't look me in the face. He said he didn't know. Sarah got them, not him. I asked that girl. She told me she got them at Downswold. That Gillane, he told her to come and pick them or they'd rot where they fell. I didn't wait to get that girl home to tell her what I thought! And John! Right there and then, I told them both. 

"Every day after that, I checked there was nothing of that man in the shop. There wasn't. Sarah went home for Christmas, back to her mother. She didn't come back to me until January. We spent Christmas Day with her family though and we had such a jolly time. Sarah was talking to her mother again although she stayed very close to me when I was there. 

"I didn't see that Gillane either. He stopped coming to collect his letters and got young Zachary Turnbull to do it for him. Simple lad, he's still doing tricks for his master. 

"Sarah didn't say much when she came back to stay. She'd go to work with John, then come home. Sometimes, maybe twice a week, she'd take John's horse, Trudi, out for a ride. 

"It was snowing something terrible then. All day. On the days the sun was out, I didn't have the heart to stop her enjoying herself. She'd be gone for hours, burst through this door here. Kiss me, she would, and say Nanny! I'm starving! 

"I didn't know where she had been riding but she never mentioned that Gillane. I didn't see him either, so I was sure he was gone from her life. 

"Gwennie Stamp came to see me again. She said she'd seen Sarah with a man, she wasn't sure who, driving into Downswold. That was the day she disappeared. She didn't come home that night. I stayed up all night waiting for her. She never came. 

"I knew something had happened to her. She told me she was going to ride Trudi. She told John too. But the grooms on the farm never saw her and Trudi stayed in her paddock. They would have seen her. Sarah didn't like saddling the horse and would tell them to do it for her. 

"I went to see that Gillane. He closed the door in my face. It was awful!" 

Here Mag burst into tears. Her face buried in her hands, she was sobbing uncontrollably. Sara put her arm around her. She felt genuinely moved by the woman's anguish. Despite the twenty years that had elapsed, the memory of her beloved niece brought only sadness. Mag obviously felt responsible for what had happened to Sarah. 

"Come now, Mag. It wasn't your fault. You didn't know." 

"I did! I did! I knew that man was no good!" 

"What did the police say?"

Sara needed to know more. 

"They came the next day. I told them everything I knew. I told them Gillane had done something bad. They went to see him. Nothing. They let him alone." 

"Did they search everywhere?" 

"We all did! Apart from Gwennie, no one had seen Sarah. And then Gwennie told them that she wasn't even sure if it was Sarah." 

"What do you mean? She changed her mind?" 

"I don't know. I don't know." 

Mag stopped crying abruptly and looked at Sara suspiciously.  

"I'll be getting back to the shop now," was all she would say as she got up and cleared the table. 

Sara understood that it was time to leave. She extended her hand to Mag who took it reluctantly. 

"Thank you Mag. I'm sorry to have upset you." 

Mag turned her face away.

Chapter Five. 

Sara picked up a few things at John's before going back to Downswold. She didn't say anything to John about her meeting with Mag. For the moment, she didn't know what to do, or to think, of the story she'd heard. Anyway, John would already know the story, word for word. 

When she arrived at Downswold, a large bouquet of flowers outside the front door greeted her. A ceramic vase filled with freshly cut flowers. A note nestling amongst them read: "From my garden. Enjoy. G." Roses, gypsophylas, nigellas, chrysanthemums. Sara had not solicited this strange gift. 

The tight thin handwriting had maintained its distinctive style, the letters holding each other upright. 

Sara concluded that Gillane was not so much generously sharing the bounty of his gardening efforts but rather expressing his confidence. The flowers were a statement, left to her to interpret. 

She brought the flowers inside, made herself a coffee and lit a cigarette. She was beginning to rue the fact that there was no one close enough to talk to. To sit down and say, "What do you think of all of this?" Carl was thousands of miles away. Besides the sexual energy between Carl and her, there were never many words. She had hoped he would have suggested they go away together on holiday. He could have gotten out of his business trip. He hadn't even bothered to discuss the possibility, bring it out in the open, and then say NO. She thought, suddenly, of asking him to leave her house. They shared a house not a home. They shared pieces of a space together, that was all. 

She imagined telling the story to the Maestro, confiding in him but burst out laughing at the thought.  

"That huge ego maniac! Ha!" 

As someone who didn't even know the price of a tube fare, it would be hard to believe that the Maestro would be capable of showing empathy for a young girl's plight in life. Or death. To him, real people were moving shadows blinded by bright stage lights. He only ever saw them from a distance.  

What Sara began to feel was sadness. Sad in a way that one gets alone on a Friday night, when everyone else has plans and invitations. And friends. 

During her school days, Sara had been an average student. She'd had one or two really good friends then. Fiona McCartney and Jane Fillowbright had been her best mates in those days gone by. They had attended university with her. Straight out of university, Jane and Fiona both married and gave birth to six children between them. As housewives and mothers, they drew the circle in tighter, pushing Sara out. 

When she didn't marry Carl and start a family of her own, their behaviour towards Sara became strange, fearful, odd. She continued to receive the occasional invitation for Sunday lunch ‘en famille’ which she learned to decline. An afternoon spent in a place screaming with nappies, the two women vainly disciplining the children and complaining to their husbands that they needed housekeepers was a worse proposition than being alone. 

  Inevitably during these encounters, Fiona and Jane would become so engrossed in their mutual crosses to bear that Sara would find herself talking to husbands Tim and Phillip. They in turn, invariably felt uncomfortable around Sara. Their Sunday was the ultimate routine, sacred, the fabric of their lives. They viewed Sara as unconventional, unusual, too "colourful." It became clear to Sara that until she was married and "respectable," she would have very little in common with the Tims, Phillips, Janes, and Fionas of this world.   

After a couple of years, Sara put it down to just that and stayed away for good. At Christmas, she continued to send the usual "To Fiona, Tim & Family, love, Sara." And she would receive the same back. The children's achievements and growth rates interspersed between "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, with best wishes, the McCartney-Corkhill and Fillowbright-Locham Families." 

At the birth of each of Fiona's and Jane's children, Sara was in love with a different man. Truly, really, madly, deeply in love. She was good at being in love: loyal, faithful, devoted. No birthday was ever forgotten, no dinner ever nutritionally deficient. And she was loved in return. Until it was over. And it was always over. Abruptly, definitely over.  

In the mid-eighties, when she started working for the Maestro, their association brought her a lot of money. She bought the five-bedroom house and devoted herself to making it a home. By the time she'd finished, nothing was lacking: tropical hardwoods covered the floors, teak and mahogany were flown in and transformed into furniture which she personally designed. The kitchen was huge, bright, airy, co-ordinated precisely. Colourful ceramics, rugs and contemporary art completed the picture. There were books everywhere and bibelots from her journeys: woodcarvings, more ceramics, coloured glass. Carl had called her taste eclectic which at the time, she had taken as a compliment. 

When Carl was around, she would come home early and make him dinner. Ready to eat gourmet food. Special food because he was special. Lovers all those years ago. Lovers again now. Then Carl would be gone for another twenty days. In anticipation of his return, the kitchen cupboards remained full of the hermetically sealed, vacuum-packed gourmet delights. 

Yes! They were still together. And still alone. 

Sara stopped reminiscing and made her way to the kitchen. She unwrapped a pork pie and stuck it in the oven. She snipped the ends of a handful of crisp french beans and steamed them in a milk pan for five minutes. A punnet of fresh strawberries needed to be eaten; they would be dessert.  Only the Valpolicella left. That would have to do. 

"Ping ping ping" squealed the oven timer. 

The pork pie was ready. 

*********************** 

The next morning, Sara returned to the Town Hall in Goldarn. She took the same route through the Meer valley, driving slowly to avoid a head on collision with marauding sheep. Luckily the drive was sheep free. 

Still planted behind her ugly desk at the Town Hall, the gnome greeted her. 

"Good Morning, Miss Perrins."