Resurrectionists (8 page)

“Give yourself a few more weeks. You’d be

surprised what you can miss. So where are you staying again?”

“Solgreve. Two bus rides away. It’s a tiny little village on the coast.”

Cathy nodded, put the bag over her other shoulder.

“I know of it. It used to be a busy fishing town up until the seventeenth century. Enormous cemetery right on the water, right?”

“Actually, it’s on a cliff. But yes, the cemetery is very big.”

“The reason I know about it is because our

archaeology department have been itching to dig up the graveyard for years. Apparently the locals put a stop to it. A lot of the families have been there for generations, and we couldn’t guarantee we wouldn’t accidentally disinter somebody’s great-greatgrandmother. It’s a real shame. The cemetery has one of the longest continuous histories in Europe. It’s never been built over or moved or reclaimed. I bet there are burials over a thousand years old there. Could be some amazing stuff in the ground.”

“That thought actually grosses me out a little.”

“It’s purely academic. Let’s hop on this bus. Your bag is getting heavy.”

“I said I’d carry it.”

“It’s fine. We’re not far from home now.”

Home was a single room in a boarding house, on a street of other boarding houses and bed-and-breakfast hotels. Cathy’s room was at the very top of a steep flight of stairs, beyond a communal lounge, a communal bathroom and a communal kitchen. Maisie couldn’t bear to think about having to share a bathroom.

“Here we are,” Cathy said, unlocking her bedroom door and letting them in. She hung her duffel coat and hat on a hook on the back of the door, and Maisie did the same with her overcoat. Cathy’s hair was straight, parted directly down the middle and so long that it was becoming wispy on the ends. Maisie had always wanted to pin Cathy down and style cut her hair.

“At least it’s warm in here,” Maisie said.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cosy. Some of the rooms on the west wing are like iceboxes.”

Maisie looked around. The room was small. A bookshelf and desk were crammed in under the single window, a tiny basin hid behind the wardrobe. Cathy’s walls were decorated with pictures: dolphins, Native Americans, mandalas, a poster listing the main character traits of Virgo, a “Sacred Sites 2000”

calendar. A hand-woven dream catcher, decorated with beads and feathers, hung from one end of the curtain rod, a large crystal from the other. Cathy had already pulled apart her bed: one mattress was on the floor made up for Maisie, and the other mattress was still on the frame.

“So,” Cathy said, settling cross-legged on what remained of her bed, “talk to me. About anything. I just want to hear somebody talk to me. And use my name as much as possible.”

“Well, Cathy,” Maisie said, giggling, “I’ve been here five days, Cathy, and I’m stuck up on a windy cliff-top, Cathy, and I miss my boyfriend, Cathy.”

Cathy laughed. “Yes, that’s it. Halleluiah, somebody knows my name. They call me Catherine in class because that’s the name I’m enrolled under. I never know who they’re talking to. You know, I always wanted to ask if Maisie was short for anything.”

Maisie shook her head. “It’s my grandmother’s name. That is, my paternal grandmother. I didn’t even know my other grandmother’s name until Tuesday night.”

“Why not? Didn’t you come here to sort out her things?”

“Mum never spoke of her. It was taboo to mention her in our house.”

Cathy raised her eyebrows and flicked a long strand of hair off her shoulders. “Really? Wow, we all thought the Fieldings were the perfect family.”

“You have no idea what goes on in that house.”

“Like what?”

Cathy’s interest was a little too eager. Maisie waved her hand dismissively. “Oh it’s not that bad. Not like
Flowers in the Attic
or anything. It’s just that my parents are kind of tense people. Adrian’s always saying we have to move out because the stress is bad for his voice.”

“So how come you haven’t moved out yet?”

“The stress of buying a house is worse. But who knows? Next year we might do it. Adrian’s just been signed to Churchwheel’s.”

Cathy clapped her hands together in delight. “Well done, Adrian. You know, Sarah and I always thought he was just gorgeous.”

“He is gorgeous,” Maisie said.

“And so sweet-tempered.”

“Yeah, that too.” She was getting annoyed now. Perhaps it was the “sweet-tempered” thing. People always said it about Adrian, and she always took it as an implicit suggestion that she was bad-tempered or miserable by comparison. “But he’s not perfect,” she continued. “He’s vain like a girl sometimes.”

“You’re very lucky to have him. How great to be thinking of buying a house. You’ve got yourself sorted out so early.”

Maisie felt a quick pull in her solar plexus. Please, no, anything but that. Anything but being “sorted out” early. “Well, anything could happen. Adrian might have to take off overseas, or I might get a job in another state or something.”

“Are you applying for other jobs? Is it the Sydney Symphony?”

Maisie sighed and stretched out her legs. Her boots were starting to hurt her feet so she leaned down to unlace them. “No, I haven’t applied for other jobs. And if I did it certainly wouldn’t be with another orchestra. I’m tired of playing cello. I’m tired of that whole lifestyle.” She kicked off her left boot, then her right. “That’s kind of why I’m here.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked up and smiled. “I guess I’m on a journey of self-discovery. That’s the appropriate phrase for it, isn’t it?”

Cathy was looking at her in astonishment.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I’m just surprised,” Cathy replied. “We all thought you had the perfect life.”

“Who is ‘we all’?”

“Me, Sarah, the other choristers, the other musicians. Everybody looks at you and Adrian and thinks, yes they have it all worked out.”

Rather than being flattered, Maisie found herself getting irritated. “Really?”

Cathy nodded emphatically. “Sure. You know, Sarah and I come from a rotten family. Our parents split when we were little, our mum was on welfare. We got no encouragement in anything. I was offered this university place two years ago, and it’s taken me that long to save and to work out scholarships so I could even come here. At the moment, I don’t know how I’m going to pay my rent after my first year. I’m hoping to get a job over summer. Meanwhile, Sarah keeps dating losers who cheat on her, and a man hasn’t looked my way in about four months. In the light of all that, you with your rich and famous parents, your soon-to-be rich and famous boyfriend who’s all sweetness and light
and
good-looking . . . well, let’s just say you’ve always been the target for a lot of jealousy.”

Maisie didn’t know what to say. She was angry, but didn’t know if it was directed at Cathy, or her family, or herself. “You make it sound like I’ve got it easy,”

she said. But even as she said it, she knew it was true: she did have it easy.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Cathy said, seeming to sense Maisie’s irritation. “I’m just saying that’s how it looks from the outside.”

“I dare anybody to spend twenty-four years living with my mother and call themselves lucky,”

Maisie muttered.

“Let’s go have some lunch,” Cathy said brightly, clearly comfortable with conspicuous subject-changes. Maisie remembered she hadn’t had anything since a cup of tea that morning. “Good idea. I’ve just realised I’m starving.”

The church bells rang out from the cliff-top as Reverend Fowler farewelled his parishioners. The sky was clear and a cold northerly was blowing. The Reverend had learned over the years to take comfort in a clouded sky, because the clouds worked like insulation. On a day like this, the sky palely stretching into eternity, the distant sun visible off the horizon, it felt as though the world were shivering without cover on the edges of the cold, bleak universe.

“Thank you, Reverend.” Art Hayman, a fortyish man who had been born in Solgreve, shook the Reverend’s hand solemnly, not meeting his eye. It had not escaped the Reverend’s notice that Art had only put one pound in the collection plate this morning, the only non-paper donation of the day. This was the sign of guilt. This was the sign that Art Hayman had just found out what went on in the foundations of the old abbey.

“You’re welcome, Art. I hope we’ll see you again next week?”

Art nodded and mumbled, then headed towards his car. Of course he would be back next week. The Reverend had been doing this for more years than he could count, and they always came back.

The Reverend farewelled the last few stragglers and then thankfully took shelter from the cold in the church. He closed the doors behind him, muffling the ringing of the bells, and headed towards the altar to check the collection plate. He doubted that any church in the country could boast such a huge percentage of the parishioners regularly turning up for services, and he challenged even the big churches to fill a collection plate the way he did. A hundred and sixty people – more than half the population –

had turned up this morning, and all of them had donated at least five pounds.

Except Art Hayman.

But he would come round. They always did. In fact, the Reverend knew that if Art had been honest with himself he would have admitted that, in a way, he had known all along. Most citizens of Solgreve, whether they came to church or not, must suspect something. When villagers heard the news that Maria Thorpe’s breast cancer had gone into remission, or that Linda Mercer’s little boy had lived against all odds (though he had to be forcibly removed from intensive care at York), or that Allan Parker had walked again after fifteen years, they knew that this was not an ordinary place. That they were specially blessed in some way.

Usually, it was finding out about the bodies that bothered them. But no-one was being hurt. The bodies were just bodies – Lester Baines was not under orders to murder anyone. This is what the Reverend explained to people when they came to him, guilty and fearful, to admit that they had “just heard” about the abbey. In low, calm tones the Reverend always managed to convince them that it was all right, and within a few weeks the doubters would be back among the

congregation, blithely shoving money into the collection plate so that Solgreve would continue to function the way it had for . . . well, for centuries.

The Reverend sighed as he rolled the money up and pushed it into his pocket. Perhaps the truth wasn’t as innocent as that, really, though he would dearly love to believe it was. He had heard things which might turn an ordinary person’s blood to ice; things which, for a man of faith, were almost too awful to contemplate. But they were also things that weren’t necessarily true, and the Reverend willingly held knowledge at arm’s length. The door at the other end of the church suddenly burst open and Tony Blake walked in, tidy in his police uniform, and wearing a huge grin.

“Reverend, good news.”

“Close the door, Tony, it’s freezing.”

Tony did as asked then walked up between the pews to meet the Reverend halfway.

“What’s the good news, then?”

“We think she’s gone.”

“Sybill’s daughter?”

“Her granddaughter, Reverend.”

The Reverend nodded. Keeping track of

generations was not his strong point. “Convince me.”

“Elsa Smith saw her waiting at the bus stop yesterday with a suitcase. Elsa watched for the afternoon bus and didn’t see her come back. Last night I went past her place and the lights weren’t on. I checked every half hour or so, but nobody was home. And this morning, I knocked and knocked, but nobody answered. She’s definitely not there any more.”

Reverend Fowler shook his head. “I hoped for more convincing than that. What if she’s just away for the weekend?”

“She had a suitcase, Reverend.”

“Can Elsa Smith tell you how big it was?”

Tony shook his head. “I didn’t think to ask.”

The Reverend sat heavily on the end of a pew and considered. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“I’ve just got a good feeling about it.”

“Yes, yes, so have I.” The Reverend looked up.

“But it could be wishful thinking.”

Tony shrugged. “I’ll keep an eye on the place and let you know. If she doesn’t come home today or tomorrow, I’m going to be twice as happy as I am now.”

“I know what you mean,” the Reverend said,

clasping his hands between his bony knees. “Nobody would be gladder than I to see the girl disappear.”

“I really should go home.” Maisie and Cathy sat in a corner booth by the fireplace at the White Rabbit Inn. Somehow, her planned overnight stay had lasted until Monday night. She was starting to worry that Tabby might starve to death in her absence.

“I really should let you.” Cathy sipped a glass of cider. “I have a paper to write this week.”

Maisie shook her head, and was alarmed that the motion made her dizzy. Perhaps she had drunk too much. And this was the third night in a row. She knew the White Rabbit Inn so well now that if she closed her eyes she would be able to describe it perfectly: the high, grimy windows with their view of the dark sky outside; the red, patterned wallpaper; the watercolour of the Minster; the deep green tiles around the fireplace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you from doing your work.”

“No, don’t apologise. I have three months worth of social life to catch up on.” Cathy was wearing a green tie-dyed dress, a red crocheted vest and her hair loose about her shoulders. Maisie, in her usual greys and blacks, felt a bit colourless next to her. “Are you hungry?”

Maisie considered. “Yeah, but I don’t feel like going anywhere. It’s so warm in here.”

“I think they make sandwiches behind the bar. Does that sound okay?”

“Sure.”

Cathy grabbed her woven bag. “Back in a tick.”

Maisie turned to stare into the fire. It soothed her to watch the flames crackle and flicker. Her cheeks felt hot and she knew she was sitting too close, but what the hell. She had a warm, contented feeling in her stomach for a change, instead of that useless gnawing. Perhaps, just perhaps, she was starting to relax.

“Is this seat taken, love?”