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Authors: Samantha van Dalen

Maestro (9 page)

BOOK: Maestro
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The rain of that morning had turned the bare earth into mud. Sara ran her hand along the bark of the walnut tree. It was rough, cracking in parts towards the base of the trunk. The higher her hand went, the smoother the bark became. Her feet sinking into the squidgy mud, she caressed the old bark with her hands.  

"Old tree, old tree, what secrets do you possess?" 

Her hand stopped. The bark felt perfectly smooth, like a shiny, varnished tabletop. But the tips of her fingers felt something else. Something that went against the grain, against the nature of the bark. 

She climbed onto the protruding base of the trunk and saw it right away. 

Etched into the bark of the tree, she read:  SARA LUNN 12.3.68 

Sara's first thought was that Sarah Lunn had been very tall. Or she had balanced precariously, a sharp instrument in one hand. It also struck her that it was a childish thing to do. She half expected to see SARA LOVES G. up there too but was relieved not to. 

She almost fell over when she realised the full extent of what she had just seen. 12.3.68 was the day Sarah Lunn had disappeared.

 

 

Chapter Nine. 

Sara bolted into the kitchen. Oblivious of her muddy feet, she ran through the cottage searching for her notepad. Her notes from the article in the
Goldarn Voice
confirmed the date. 12.03.68 was the day Sarah disappeared. The newspaper had reported her missing on the 14th, two days later. 

The engraved date in the tree proved that Sarah had been at Downswold on the very day she had vanished into thin air. She must have been bored, waiting for someone maybe and had passed the time, dawdling aimlessly away. 

But do young girls walk around with knives in their pockets. Very sharp knives, with long pointed tips? Unless, it was something that Sarah had found lying in the cottage. Which meant that she had free rein, not just to collect apples but into the cottage as well. 

Sara sat down facing the cellar door. She lit a cigarette. 

She knew intuitively, the sensation which defies reason or logic, that something in that cellar would lead her to Sarah Lunn.  

She would have to go to Goldarn and buy herself a torch, powerful enough to explore the cellar. She couldn't rely on the flickering light globe to show her the way. 

Tomorrow. First thing, tomorrow. 

A knock sounded at the front door, forcing her to abandon thoughts of both past and future. 

She opened the door to find Gillane standing there. 

"Hello," he said looking down at Sarah's bare feet. "Am I disturbing you?" 

"No..er..yes. I was just going to take a bath." 

"I won't keep you. I wanted to invite you for dinner at the house tonight. To thank you for driving me home, bleeding head and all."  

The word "bleeding" ran a chill up Sara's spine. 

"It’s very kind of you. But really not necessary." she replied starchily. 

Gillane was having none of it.  

"I insist. It’s the least I can do. Shall we say 7.30?" 

Sara resigned herself to his wishes. 

"As you wish. See you then." 

*********************** 

Sara took a long bath, a contemplative soak to prepare for dinner with Gillane. 

He had a way of popping up when least expected. And when he did, he was impossible to ignore: the towering athletic body, the black piercing eyes. 

An invitation to his house for dinner seemed odd coming from a man who hardly ever spoke. 

Their previous encounters had been uncomfortable. Sara had come away from them, relieved that they were over. Gillane's idea of conversation consisted of a few choice words divided by long intervals of silence. By anyone's standards, Gillane was no life of the party. 

At twenty-five past seven, Sara stepped into her car.  

The atmosphere outside felt humid and oppressive. All afternoon, the sky had been obscured by dense clouds. They were gathering with renewed urgency, the gods' wrath close at hand. 

Sara looked down at the light cotton dress and strappy leather sandals she was wearing. A crocheted blue shawl thrown around her shoulders coordinated with the darker blue of her dress.  An invitation to dinner had given her the opportunity to put on some makeup and tidy her hair, two things she had neglected to do since her arrival in Glymeer. 

As she parked the car outside Gillane's house, the rain started to fall. Barely out of the car and the single drops turned to a torrent, unleashed from the sky. Had she arrived one minute later, she would have been drenched to the bone. 

The rain had brought the wind with it, howling along, for company. 

Sara was already shivering in her flimsy dress as Gillane opened the door, umbrella in hand. 

"There you are, Sara. And on time. Please come in."  

He hung the umbrella on the coat rack near the door, then led the way down the hallway into the sitting room. 

Sara handed him a bottle of Vin de Table. 

"I'm embarrassed to offer you this but it was all they had in the village shop." 

"Thank you." Gillane replied, "Please sit down. What can I get you to drink?" 

"A scotch would be nice. With soda if you've got it." 

Gillane seemed slightly amused by her request. 

"Scotch it is. With soda." 

A crystal glass was placed beside her. 

Gillane took his place opposite and raised his glass to his lips. 

"Cheers. To your health." 

His long legs stretched out in front of him, Gillane was observing Sara over the rim of his glass.  

"How is your holiday going Sara? Are you enjoying yourself?" 

Sara hesitated before replying, sensing the question was rife with innuendo. 

"The important thing," she ventured, "is that I'm getting a lot of rest. But I must ask you how you manage to live here. The community is so closed." 

"It suits my needs. And I travel when I can." 

"Really? Where to?" 

"Europe. As often as possible." 

Sara jumped out of her chair, caught off guard by a sudden, loud clap of thunder. 

"Dear me," remarked Gillane, his voice crisp and low, despite the roaring thunder outside. "This weather is usually reserved for August. Shall we proceed to dinner to take our minds off it?" 

Evidently, eating appeared a better option than talking.  

Sara followed her host into the adjoining dining room. 

An oval wooden table and six chairs were squeezed into the room. The table had been laid with two settings only. Knives pointing inwards, three of them and a soup spoon on the right of the dinner plate. Two forks on the left. White wine, red wine, water, liqueur crystal glasses, north east of the plate. A side plate, due west with a blinding white cotton napkin laying across it. 

Two large paintings adorned the walls. Subdued, the hues cloudy rather than bright as if eating for Gillane must be a relaxing experience.  Overwhelm the palate not the vision. 

"Sara, please sit down."

Gillane led her by the arm to the head of the table. 

Somewhat surprised at being given the seat normally reserved for the head of the household, Sara also observed that it was farthest from the door. 

Gillane disappeared into what Sara assumed was the kitchen and returned with a plate in each hand.  

Smoked salmon on thickly buttered wholemeal slices garnished with capers and a slice of lemon. Lime green blades of chive arranged artistically across each plate. 

A dry white wine accompanied the first course. 

Gillane impressed. That was another of his weapons.  Sara sat there embarrassed. To compliment her host on either the presentation of the meal or the quality of the wine would have been gauche. 

Gillane hardly spoke throughout the meal except to excuse himself as he disappeared to collect the next surprise to come out of the kitchen. 

He moved the evening along with a certain precision, which kept him firmly in charge. When he did speak, his conversation was polite, even cordial although tinged with a pronounced note of indifference. 

The second course was a velvety leek and potato soup with which they drank another glass of the white wine.  

Following the soup, Gillane carved a roast chicken at the table which he served with french beans sautéed in garlic and butter. 

This being the most substantial course, Gillane refilled Sara's glass more than once. As the chicken left the table, so too did an empty bottle of Bordeaux. 

Gillane refused all of Sara's offers to assist in the to-ing and fro-ing back and forth to the kitchen. Secretly, she was enjoying being waited on by a man but she had to admit as well that she was charmed by his efforts at having prepared such a lavish meal. 

Gillane returned yet again, this time thankfully, with coffee. 

"Shall we have this in the other room?" he asked, nodding towards the door. 

Sara was grateful for a change of scenery; the sitting room would be more suitable for relaxed conversation over coffee. 

She settled into a comfortable looking chair whilst Gillane poured the coffee. Very dark espresso in  demi tasses.   

"Would you like a liqueur to go with that?" he inquired, always the perfect host. 

"Thank you, just coffee will be fine." 

Gillane filled a glass with Grand Marnier, placing it alongside his cup of coffee. 

"That was truly a lovely meal. It was very kind of you to invite me over for dinner." 

Gillane had already finished drinking his coffee and was lighting a cigarette. 

"Is there anything else I can get you, Sara?" 

Sara shook her head vigorously. 

"I would like to hear more about you. In my head, I can't quite reconcile...," she regretted giving herself away so easily and continued, "you hardly say anything about yourself or your past..." 

"Is that so unusual?" Gillane shot back, his eyes blazing at her. "I don't know very much about you."  

Sara interpreted the tone of his voice and his reply to mean that she had been rude to ask for details of his personal life. 

"You're quite right," she replied curtly, "most people subsist on a diet of knowing very little about each other. Perhaps I will have a glass of that liqueur after all." 

Her triumph was short lived. The cloyingly sweet syrup Gillane handed her went straight to her head. 

Her head spinning, Sara rose uneasily from her chair. 

"Forgive me," she mumbled, "my curiosity has been getting the better of me. You're quite right. I should leave now..." 

"Please don't leave on my account, Sara. It’s raining heavily. You're quite welcome to stay until it subsides." 

Sara ignored him. She walked around the room distractedly, frantic to find her handbag and get out.    She found it and her legs gave way under her. She fell backwards onto a chair, her head throbbing. She was afraid she would be sick. 

She began to cry. 

"What's the point! What's the point! It’s hopeless..." 

Gillane came and sat next to her.  

"What's hopeless Sara? What's so hopeless?" he whispered, his hand caressing her back. 

Sara could not reply. She didn't know where to begin. She wanted to lie down. To go to sleep forever. 

"Do you want some more coffee? I'll go and get some." 

Sara lay back in the chair, weeping. She was cold. Tired.  

Gillane returned with the coffee and handed her a cup. She took a sip and gave the cup back to him, a lump in her throat prevented her from drinking any more.  

Gillane sat with her, his arm around her shoulder.  Sara leaned her head against him and he drew his arm around her tighter. 

The tears were rolling down her face. She wiped them away furiously but her hands could not stem the veritable river pouring out of her. 

Gillane placed his hand under her chin and drew her towards him. His lips touched hers gently then he kissed her forehead. 

"You mustn't cry, Sara. You mustn't cry," he murmured, his lips still on her forehead. 

He moved away and pulled her to her feet. 

"You need to get some sleep."  

He slipped his arm around her waist, supporting her. 

"Give me your car keys. I'll take you home." 

Too weary to resist, Sara surrendered the keys. 

The rain had abated into a fine drizzle.  

Standing in the doorway, Sara leaned against Gillane, his arms firmly around her. 

The lights above the doorway, shone into the darkness outside, the mist circled around them, the silence of the night, the stillness of time. Sara wanted it to last forever. One moment in her life when all there is, is exactly as it should be. 

Gillane drove her back to the cottage and carried her inside. He lay her on the bed and stroked her face.  

BOOK: Maestro
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