Maestro (5 page)

Sara was already half way across the room but turned around when she heard her name. 

"I don't remember giving you my name..."  

"Oh yes, yes," interrupted the gnome, "you filled in a registration card." 

Sara continued walking. She hadn't filled in a registration card. 

She returned to the dark corner where the microfiches were stored and resumed her search where she had left off. August 1968. 

Between 23rd August and December 31st, nothing more was reported about Sarah Lunn. 

Sara let out a long sigh, pulled off her glasses and rubbed her temples wearily, saying to herself: 

"Well, I suppose old news is no news." 

She packed the microfiches away and left the building, ignoring the "Goodbye, Miss Perrins!" as she walked through the door. 

Crossing the square, a voice rang out behind her. 

"Sara?!" 

Sara froze, every single muscle tightening in her body.  

"Hello, Sara." 

Guillaume Gillane was standing beside her. 

"I thought it was you. I saw you when I was parking the car," he drawled, reaching for her hand. 

He clasped Sara's hand gently then released it quickly. 

Sara was intrigued: where had he come from? And why now, this minute, had he appeared so suddenly? 

"Which is your car?" she whispered hoarsely. 

"That blue one over there," Gillane replied, waving towards the centre of the square. 

Sara could see several blue cars in the square, some old, some new. 

Gillane continued on, nonchalantly. 

"Are you here to shop? I must admit it’s better than Glymeer." 

"Well, actually I was going to have something to eat...."  

"May I join you? If you'd like to, of course. There's a pub where they serve a reasonable lunch. Very simple though." 

This was only the second time that Sara had spoken to Gillane. In contrast to the first, his manner was now cheerful, almost familiar, as if she had run into an old friend. At easily a foot taller than she, Sara could see how Gillane intimidated the shorter folk in Glymeer. The clean lines of his jacket, the spotless white cotton shirt underneath: his appearance made him look like he was very much a stranger to these parts. 

Sara stood there thinking of Sarah Lunn. The young girl would have willingly surrendered to this stranger. Guillaume Gillane stuck out in Glymeer because he didn't belong. That didn't mean he was a murderer though. 

"Yes," she decided. "What a good idea. Let's have some lunch." 

"Good."  Gillane placed his hand on her elbow and steered her along.  

"I'm afraid there's not much of a choice in Goldarn. Many of the eating places rely on the farmers to supply them. But the food's fresh and in season." 

They had cut across the square and turned off onto a side street. 

"Amazing don't you think, to find such a large square in an English village?" ventured Sara, suddenly fascinated with English history. 

Gillane smiled at her before replying. 

"Very observant, I see. I don't know the history really. Folklore suggests that the square was originally a huge marketplace for the surrounding villages. Maybe that's the answer you're looking for." 

They wended their way onto yet another side street. The cobblestones were digging into Sara's heels. The few people about stopped to stare at them curiously.  Sara felt Gillane's hand on her shoulder.  They were standing outside The Cow On The Roof.  

"Shall we go in?" he asked and appeared relieved when Sara laughed. 

"What a hoot!" Sara exclaimed, "I've been to a bar with the same name. In the South of France!" 

The Cow On The Roof provided the standard pub fare one would expect: stodge, meat, lager. Sara chose roast lamb from the menu. Gillane opted for the beef. 

"Well this is turning into a feasting holiday." she laughed 

"What do you mean?" 

"I hardly eat in London. Or cook. Now that's all I'm doing." 

"Is it really?" 

Sara braced herself. He knew. He knew. He hadn't really run into her. This man looked too composed to leave anything to chance. Suave even a bit smug, sitting there drawing deeply on his cigarette. 

"Forgive me. Can I offer you a cigarette?"

Gillane held out the box towards her.   Sara pulled out her own cigarettes from her handbag. 

"No thank you, I'll have mine." she replied. 

Gillane leant over to offer her a light.   Thankfully, a waitress arrived and placed two pints of lager between them. 

"Cheers."

Gillane held his glass to Sara's.  Sara nodded sheepishly, unable to match his gaze. 

"How long have you lived here?" she asked, wetting her lips with the bitter ale. 

Gillane's glass was also at his lips so she was obliged to wait for the reply. His eyes however did not leave her face. 

"Twenty years or so. I came here in 1968. I needed a change." 

"A change? How intriguing." Sara urged him on, hoping he would elaborate.    

"I suppose all of us dreams of giving it up at some stage. I needed to get away so I chose Glymeer. The opportunity came along and I took it." 

Sara pressed on, ignoring her knees trembling under the table. 

"May I ask where you're from originally?" 

"Have you got five hours?" Gillane smiled but was obviously bored by the question.  "France, Italy, England. I've lived in all three." was all he would say. 

The waitress interrupted them again, this time to deliver their order.   

Despite the unease she felt, Sara enjoyed her meal. Traditional British cooking that comes out right every time. Roast meat, potatoes, gravy and the quintessential soggy vegetables. 

She observed that Gillane's table manners were excellent. Very natural, not forced. However table etiquette was easily acquired. Many a nouveau riche could attest to that.   

Sara surprised herself yet again by finishing off the glutton-sized quantity of food on her plate. Perhaps her large appetite had been due to the complete absence of conversation during the meal. 

"Do you shop at Glymeer? The grocer there is very good," she asked.  

"Never," replied Gillane "I prefer Goldarn. It’s shall we say, somewhat less personal." 

"That's the disadvantage of living in a small village, isn't it? Where everyone knows your every move?" 

Gillane did not reply. 

"What are you doing this afternoon Sara?" 

"I..I don't know...." 

"I'll be coming around if that's all right with you. There are a few things in the cellar that I'd like to take away. Will you be at Downswold at say, five o'clock?" 

"Yes of course."  

The meal over, Gillane was ready to go. He got up to pay the bill then walked back briskly towards the table, pushing his wallet into his jacket. 

"I'm sorry, Sara. I must go." 

"Thank you for lunch." 

"I'll see you later this evening. Shall I walk you back to your car?" 

"No, thank you. I'm sure I'll find my way back." 

Gillane shook her hand then left, disappearing out onto the street. 

Sara walked back to her car at a leisurely pace. Gillane had remained an enigma throughout the meal. He had chosen his words carefully, declining to reveal anything, saying nothing.  

She recalled the enigmatic few words which he had uttered, probably, in spite of himself: 

"I needed a change. The opportunity came along and I took it." 

A change from what? What opportunity?   Most people relish a chance to talk about themselves, usually, ad nauseum. Gillane was different. Supremely confident. Not suffering from the inadequacy which most of humanity secretly harbours.

As Sara entered Downswold, the air in the cottage was thick with the perfume of flowers. 

"Silly girl, you didn't even thank the man for his flowers!" she thought out loud. 

Of course not. The day she had found the vase of flowers outside waiting to greet her, she had brought them in and deposited them absentmindedly on the nearest object she could find. Now, with all the windows shut tightly, the atmosphere was stifling.  

Sara walked through the cottage pushing open the windows to let out the cloying scent.  

It was only a few years ago that Sara had started buying flowers. She'd always thought it cruel, the act of growing flowers for profits, the ruthless cutting of the delicate stems, depriving the plant of ever coming to seed. She found it difficult to rationalise why anyone would buy flowers only to watch them shrivel and die. It seemed pointless and selfish. 

Occasionally, though, she would succumb to stopping  in to the florist, just to have a look. She could see how the luxuriant, long stemmed anthuriums from the tropics, with their perfectly formed waxy petals, could easily transform the drabbest room. But Sara always reached the same conclusion: no matter how beautiful, flowers were not a necessity and did not add value to her life. 

The Maestro changed all that. It was not unusual for him to spend £2000 per month on flowers. His was a penchant for extra large bouquets and he insisted that his house be full of them. 

Sara took charge of ordering flowers for the Maestro. Soon she began to appreciate them not just for their ephemeral beauty but also for the way they made her feel. They lightened her mood, they made her house feel like a home. 

Sara glanced at her watch. Four o'clock. It was still warm and bright outside. She slipped off her shoes and decided to stretch out on the bench to do some reading. 

The current issue of
Good Housekeeping
proved to be fascinating stuff - everything from the latest fashion, creative interior design, how to plan a party for one hundred guests and a fool-proof recipe for chocolate cake.  

Somewhere between adding the flour to the creamed butter, sugar and eggs, stirring the flour in a figure eight motion, Sara heard the now familiar voice. 

"Hello, Sara." 

The voice was very low. Sara felt the same annoyance as the first time Gillane had descended upon her out of the blue. She sat up, her skirt safely pulled down over her knees. 

"Did you come down the path? I didn't hear you." 

Gillane looked down at her, arms crossed against his chest, a duffel bag at his feet.  

"I took the short cut across the meadow. Sorry if I gave you a start," he replied, his eyes flashing at her.  

Sara waited to see if the faint look of bemusement on Gillane's face would transform itself into a full blown smile. 

She abandoned all expectations for a smile and returned to her reading.  

"Please go ahead and help yourself to what you want in the cellar," she said without looking up from her magazine. 

She hoped he would leave quickly. 

"Thank you. I won't be long." 

Sara watched Gillane walk towards the cottage. The sun cast a long shadow across his tall frame. He had removed his jacket and she could see through the thin, white cotton shirt. He was very athletic, lean but powerful, like a fencer or dancer. She wondered why he had never married. 

She waited for a few minutes before going into the cottage to make herself a cup of tea. The door to the cellar was open. She could hear Gillane moving around below. The light bulb at the top of the stairs began to flicker dangerously and went out completely. 

Not wanting to go the aid of the unfortunate Gillane, who by now was surrounded by complete darkness, Sara made a swift exit from the cottage and returned to the bench.  

The sun was still shining very brightly but a few dark clouds had appeared in the sky. The atmosphere felt sticky, humid. 

Sara finished her tea and lit a cigarette. She looked down at her bare feet and thought how ugly they were. The first two toes on each foot were miles longer than the rest. Her feet looked totally neglected. She felt embarrassed by the sight of them and hurried back into the cottage to find a pair of shoes. 

She went into the kitchen, curious to see what had become of Gillane. She found him standing near the sink, his forehead covered in blood. 

Gillane was pressing a kitchen towel against his head and grimaced when he saw her. 

"Damn light bulb went out," he muttered.  

"Perhaps you should sit down. Is it a deep wound?" Sara asked, pulling out a chair. 

Gillane sat down.  

From what Sara could see, he had hit himself on the temple just on the hair line. The wound wasn't very deep but a thin stream of bright red blood was flowing out of it.  

"The blood will stop in a few minutes. I'll get some witch hazel to clean it up for you," she said, hurrying off into the bedroom. 

She returned with the witch hazel and carefully dabbed the wound.