Resurrectionists (42 page)

“Oh, my god.”

“Luckily, I was a tenacious little foetus. Mum went to stay with her sister until I was born, but then Dad wanted us back so Mum returned.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t know any better,” Cathy said. Her voice was too even, almost as though she were suppressing the real horror of her origins with an affected calmness.

“Dad got paid once a week. He’d drink half his pay cheque, come home, and beat Mum up. The next day we would go shopping for groceries. I came to understand that if my mum was bruised and stiff, it was time to go shopping.” Her voice dropped. “Mum put up with it for four years and then one night, Dad crossed the line.”

“What did he do?”

“He beat up on Sarah. She was only five. It was bad enough to put her in hospital. I remember the night so clearly. Waiting at the hospital, Mum’s sister coming for us, talking to welfare people, being told we weren’t going to see Daddy again.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Cathy flicked her hair off her shoulder, almost nonchalantly. “So we lived with Mum’s sister for a while. Mum was a mess, she couldn’t work. Mum’s sister had us doing the housework as soon as we were old enough to hold the vacuum cleaner. But then we met a really good teacher in grade five. Sarah and I were in the same year at school, and this teacher saw that we were a bit ragged and unpopular, and she encouraged us. We sang in the choir and we got better grades . . . I guess that was a turning point. Mum and her sister had a fight soon after that and we had to move and change schools, but we’d already had some sense of what it was like to be involved in things or to achieve something. Sarah and I moved out together after high school and went to uni together, and we’ve both made our lives okay.”

“Wow. I had no idea it was so bad.”

“So, I don’t know what it feels like to disappoint your parents,” she continued. “Mine never had any expectations in the first place.”

Maisie finished her drink and placed the cup beside the chair. “I guess you must think my problems are pretty insignificant.”

“Not at all. It’s relative. I’d say, despite everything, that I’m a happier person than you.” Cathy’s drained her drink. “Do you want me to take these empty cups to the kitchen?”

“Not yet. We can talk some more if you like.” Maisie wasn’t quite sure what to do with Cathy’s story. Should she offer comfort? Encourage her friend to express her rage? Ignore it and hope it went away?

Cathy yawned. “So, tell me the real truth

about Sacha.”

“What about him?”

“Come on, Maisie. What do you really think

of him?”

Maisie hesitated. Cathy had just opened her heart and told her the awful story of her childhood, so Maisie felt she owed a little honesty. And really, where was the harm? Cathy was in Yorkshire. Her family was in Brisbane. Opposite ends of the planet. “Everything I say is strictly in confidence,” she said quietly.

“Of course. That goes without saying. So you really do like him, hey?” Cathy wriggled in her chair. “I knew it. I could tell.”

“Well, I hope
he
can’t. I don’t want anything to come of it.”

“You’d never cheat on Adrian, would you?”

“Of course not.” Just a little kiss – that wasn’t cheating.

“I just don’t understand, though. Adrian should be enough for any girl.”

“Adrian’s wonderful. But . . . when you’ve been with the same person for so many years . . . I don’t know, it’s like having a bottomless packet of your favourite biscuits. After four years, it’s still your favourite biscuit, but they’ve gone a bit stale because the packet’s been open so long. But you’re not supposed to be greedy enough to open another packet, because you have a bottomless packet right there on hand.”

Cathy giggled. “Let me get this right, then. Sacha’s a fresh packet of biscuits?”

“Yes. I guess so.”

“What kind of biscuit?”

“What do you mean, what kind of biscuit?”

“Use your imagination. Like, a Tim Tam? Or a Scotch Finger?”

“Ooh, something chocolaty and exotic and rich.”

“And Adrian’s one of those honey biscuits with the white icing.”

“Exactly, a Honey Jumble.” Maisie laughed, then she stopped herself. “This is awful. Poor Adrian. I shouldn’t talk about him this way.”

“Hey, some people love Honey Jumbles. Don’t feel bad.”

“Well . . .” Maisie had begun to feel unsafe, opening herself up like this. “I think it’s past my bedtime. I’m going to have a shower.”

“Okay then.”

Maisie went to the bathroom, wished for a long, hot, steamy shower, but only got a disappointing trickle which left a red burn on one side of her body while the other side was all gooseflesh. Afterwards, she pulled on her pyjamas and a dressing gown and made for her bedroom. Cathy stopped her in the hallway.

“Don’t be cross, but I’ve broken your spare bed.”

Maisie laughed. “How on earth did you do that?”

“I sat too close to the edge and one of the legs kind of buckled. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. But where will you sleep?”

“I’ve dragged the mattress in front of the fire – and I found this. Look.” She held up a skinny exercise book. Maisie took it from her and opened it.

“Is it your grandmother’s handwriting?”

“Yes, it is. It looks like she was taking notes about something.” Maisie flicked through the pages, scanning quickly. “It’s her notes about Solgreve. It’s all here by the look of it – the witch burnings, everything.”

Cathy yawned. “Well, tell me if you find anything in there I didn’t know about. I’m off to bed.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

Maisie took the exercise book to read. Mostly scattered notes, obviously scribbled down as things occurred to her, or as she found them out herself. Maisie read for pages without finding anything new. There were references throughout to Georgette’s diary, with the occasional question mark in the margin, or an underlined word. Shortly after Sybill’s notes about the witch burnings (where she had underlined “cursed ground” with intensity), Maisie came across some jottings which awoke her curiosity.

Virgil and the Wraiths (cemetery) – Anglo-
Saxon/pagan: religious ritual? (Diary no. 3). [AS:
Magical; pantheistic; earth/trees/space; Jutes (?); priests
perhaps; possibly imported Scandinavian gods; tree
spirits; power of chaos.] MAKE CONTACT.
Maisie read it again, trying to figure it out. At least she now knew for sure that there was a third section of the diary. But what were these “Wraiths” in the cemetery? She remembered the last part of the diary, where Virgil spoke of the dark shapes he thought had pursued him at his work. The dark shapes who were still hanging around Solgreve. So, was all the information about Anglo-Saxon paganism an attempt to explain what or who they were? Perhaps it was already explained in the diary, which made Maisie twice as eager to find it.

The last, underlined, scrap of note had captured her imagination the most, however.
Make contact.
Sacha had told her that Sybill’s specialty was communicating with the dead, and Maisie herself had read the spell in the trunk. Had the old woman tried to speak with the Wraiths? If she did, and if she learned anything from it, it wasn’t written in this notebook. The rest of the pages were mutely empty. Maisie scanned each one carefully, but they were all blank. She rose from her bed to place the notebook on the dresser, and turned the light off. She lay in the dark for a while, looking up at the ceiling with her mind bouncing between two chains of thought: Sybill and Sacha. Neither thought brought her any peace.

From his bedroom window, Reverend Fowler could make out the lights burning in Sybill’s cottage. He could never sleep after one of his pilgrimages below the abbey, so he sat up in front of the radiator, watching through the dark. With that special attunement which men trained in the ways of the spirit had, he could sense some kind of protective veil over the house. Did that mean Sybill’s protection spell was still working? Was that possible? The other explanation was that the girl was a witch too, but surely not powerful enough at such a young age to make the spell work. It didn’t matter anyway. The point was just to scare her, not to injure her. The last yellow light at the cottage extinguished. He wondered how long they would wait before they came. Not long. An hour or two, perhaps. He supposed he could watch, sitting there in the dark, for the lights to come back on. That would tell him that his request had been granted. But if he did watch, he’d feel too much a party to it, and he’d rather pretend he wasn’t. So he climbed back into bed and closed his eyes, knowing he would not be the only person whom sleep would shun that night.

Adrian put off calling Janet as long as he could. But knowing Maisie was getting angrier and angrier at him for not sorting the whole business out, he finally summoned his courage and marched down to the public phone in the foyer of the Auckland Music and Arts College where he was teaching. He inserted a fresh phone card, and dialled Australia. As he was due home in less than a week, it would be wise to ensure he still had a home. Roland answered, and Adrian nearly lost his nerve.

“Ah, hi, Roland, it’s me.”

“Hello, Adrian. I thought you might call.”

“I guess I should talk to Janet,” he said, fiddling with the phone cord, “but I’ll be easily talked out of it if you don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Actually, I think it’s a very good idea. She’s just finishing up with a pupil.”

“Is she still angry?”

Roland gave a light laugh. “Of course she is. It’s what she does best. But don’t worry too much. You’re welcome to come back as far as I’m concerned.”

“Thanks, Roland.”

“Have you heard from Maisie?”

“Yep, she’s safe and sound. I’m still trying to convince her to come home. That’s why I’ll have to sort things out with Janet.”

“Yes. Well, she’s just here. Hold on.”

Adrian could hear Roland explain to Janet who it was. There was an urgent, whispered exchange which he couldn’t make out. He watched a pigeon land outside the double glass doors and peck at the ground. In the distance, up the stairs, somebody was practising endless scales on a piano.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Janet.”

Silence.

“I owe you a very large apology,” he said.

“Yes, you do.”

“I hope you can understand that I was in an unfortunate position. I couldn’t betray Maisie so I –”

“Betrayed me?”

Adrian sighed. “I guess you could say that.”

“Tell me something, Adrian. Do you agree with what she did?”

“Agree with it? What do you mean?”

“Leaving the orchestra. Do you think she made the right decision?”

“Of course not. But Maisie’s not like you or me or her father.”

Janet sniffed derisively. “Of course she is. She’s just having one of those mid-twenties indecisive periods, she’ll come around. But I’m concerned that when she does, it will be too late. If she loses her place in the orchestra now, she might not get it back. You know our Maisie’s not . . .” She paused, as though searching for the right words. “You know she isn’t an outstanding talent.”

“I still think she should be allowed to make that decision.”

“What else can she do?”

“She could do anything. She’s smart, she’s

attractive.”

“She has a music degree and no other experience. She can’t even type. Do you want her to go and work in a record store? There’s no money and no future in that. You know I’m right.”

Adrian wished Janet didn’t have such a knack for expressing things that he felt but would never voice. Even though Maisie was dissatisfied with her job, Adrian couldn’t help thinking she should stick with it – plenty of people went through periods of disenchantment with their choice of career, but managed to get through them. It was a matter of being adult, responsible. “I must admit I’ve thought it from time to time.”

“You can come back, you know. I was angry when I told Maisie to stay there. In fact, I want her back quite badly.”

“Thanks, Janet.”

“But I want you to do something for me.”

He knew there would be a catch. “What is it?”

“I want you to do your best to convince Maisie to rejoin the orchestra. I spoke to the director. The autumn season starts rehearsing in the second week of February. If she’s back in time, her job is safe.”

“Okay. I’ll mention it to her.”

“I think it’s better coming from you than from me. I’ve already told him she will come back, but you’re not to tell Maisie that. Let her think it’s her decision.”

Adrian didn’t reply. This was too much like plotting against Maisie while she wasn’t around. It made him uncomfortable.

“So, is she all right? Has anything come of the threatening phone call?” Janet asked.

“No. She seemed well and happy when I last spoke to her.”

“I’ve said all along, the big danger she’s facing over there isn’t material.”

“You mean her grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“But she’s dead.”

“Her influence could live well after her.”

“I find that a little hard to believe.” Or did he?

Since Maisie had been in Yorkshire, she had spoken oddly, had been too eager to talk about supernatural things and psychic powers. Though she had stopped around the time she went to London with the gardener.

“I know it’s hard to believe, Adrian.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “When you come home I’d like to tell you something about my mother.”

“What about her?

“Well,” now her voice was normal again, Janet Fielding at her confident best, “we’ll have to see. Do you want us to come pick you up at the airport?”

“No, I’ll catch a taxi.”

“We’ll see you on Tuesday then.”

“Okay. See you Tuesday.”

The phone beeped as he hung it up, and he

withdrew his card. The piano scales had stopped upstairs. He turned to the staircase and prepared to return to class, wondering what Janet planned to tell him about Sybill. He was dying to know.

The soft yet insistent knocking at Maisie’s bedroom door woke her in the early hours. She sat up sleepily, wondering what Cathy’s problem was this time.

“Yes?”

“Maisie, it’s me. There’s somebody at the door.”