Resurrectionists (9 page)

Maisie looked up to see a tall man in his forties gesturing hopefully to Cathy’s seat.

“Sorry,” she said. “I have a friend.”

He nodded and moved to another table. Cathy came back in with a tray.

“Here,” Cathy said, plonking the tray down on the table and settling behind it. On the tray were two more ciders and two cheese and pickle sandwiches.

“Just perfect,” Maisie said, taking hers. The cheese was thickly hand-sliced and the pickle generously slathered on the fresh, white bread.

“Was he trying to pick you up?”

“Don’t know. Perhaps.”

“Do you realise what you said before?” Cathy asked.

“When?”

“When you talked about leaving. You said ‘I should go home’.”

“So?”

“So, you called it home.”

Maisie waved a dismissive left hand. “No. Just a figure of speech, I assure you. There is nothing homelike about Solgreve for me at the moment.”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad. It’s your

grandmother’s house after all.”

Maisie took a sip of her cider. “I guess I’m comfortable at the cottage. It’s cosy and kind of fun going through Sybill’s stuff. But the locals aren’t fond of me.” She and Cathy had already discussed everything: anxious Reverends, strange night-time noises, hostile villagers. There had been times when Maisie felt they had talked so much there wouldn’t be any words left inside them for emergencies.

“Don’t worry about the locals. If you don’t tell any more of them who you are, or where you’re staying, or even how long you’re staying, then they won’t get their noses all out of joint thinking that you’re going to be a village-witch like your grandmother. They’re probably just worried you’ll start bringing in the new-age trade again. If what your gardener friend said is true about them being religious folk, it must have bummed them to see all those people driving straight past the church on their way to consult a fortune teller.”

Her point seemed to make sense, but Maisie wasn’t sure if it was the sense born of inebriation. “I guess you’re right.”

“You’ll survive. Think of it as an adventure. That’s what gets me through when I’m really depressed about being lonely and far from home.”

“I can’t imagine you being depressed.” Since Maisie’s arrival, Cathy had been almost unbearably positive.

“Well, not depressed so much as disillusioned. You know, I would march right up to that Reverend Whatsisname and lie outright. Tell him you’re going home just after Christmas. He might pass it on to the villagers and then they might be a bit friendlier. I mean, it’s not entirely untrue. You will go home sometime after Christmas.”

“Nearly two months after. I think I might have trouble lying to a priest.”

Cathy rearranged herself so she was cross-legged on the seat. “Why?”

“You know, the whole God thing.”

“You believe in God?”

Maisie shrugged, swallowed the last bite of her sandwich. “I suppose so. Don’t you?”

“Not the biblical God. I believe in a great spirit, a universal energy. He or she wouldn’t mind if you bent the truth a little to get some peace of mind.”

“I don’t think about things like that much. You know, spiritual matters.”

“I think about it a lot.”

“So what do you think about the sounds I’ve been hearing around the cottage, and the thing that I saw . . . do you think I have a ghost?”

“I don’t know. It could be your grandmother trying to contact you from the other side. Get your gypsy boy to phone his mother and ask her. If she’s a medium, she’d be able to tell you.”

“I don’t know if they’re in touch.” She couldn’t imagine herself asking Sacha such a weird question. He’d likely think her a head-case.

“Sybill might just be hanging around to see what you’re doing to her place. You said you two never met in this life; perhaps she’s curious about you.”

“Well, I wish she wouldn’t. She’s scaring me.”

“Don’t be scared. She won’t hurt you.”

Maisie wished she could be as confident as Cathy. Her mother had been so adamant that there was some kind of danger in going to Sybill’s cottage. Could she be certain her grandmother would be a good spirit after death, and not a malignant one?

“Anyway,” she said, forcing a bright tone. “It’s probably more likely to be the wind and the old architecture making me hear things. And cats often find a favourite place to sit.”

“Providing you still have a cat when you go back.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. I left a mountain of food and clean litter. Don’t make me feel guilty.”

“I’m surprised your grandmother didn’t have a catflap for her.”

“My grandmother had bars on her windows and double deadlocks on both doors. I think a cat-flap may have constituted a breach in her defences.”

Cathy checked her watch. “The pub will close soon. I guess it’s time for our last round. You know what that means?”

Maisie beamed, nodding eagerly. “Caramel

Rabbits. My shout.”

She stood unsteadily and headed to the bar. The last couple of nights they had closed their evening at the pub with a specialty of the house: hot milk, with caramel, honey and a shot of rum. Sweet and strangely comforting.

“Two Caramel Rabbits, thanks,” she said to the girl behind the bar.

“Five pounds. I’ll bring them out to you.”

Maisie fished in her pocket for the money.

“Thanks. We’re just sitting in –”

“I know where you’re sitting,” the girl said.

“You’re practically regulars now.”

Maisie went back to the lounge smiling. If only the locals in Solgreve were as friendly as the locals here. She slid behind the table and leaned back against the wall. “They’re coming.”

“It’s been great having you here.”

“It’s been great being here.”

“You know, Maisie, the first day you were here you said you were trying to discover yourself.”

“Did I? What a wanker.”

“I’m still curious. I mean, you nearly bit my head off on Saturday so I haven’t mentioned it again, but just what part of your life do you want to change?”

Their Caramel Rabbits arrived and Maisie waited for the waitress to be out of earshot before she answered. “I don’t know. Maybe all of it.”

“You’re going to have to explain this to me.”

Maisie sighed, reached a careful finger out to touch her cup. Too hot to drink just yet. “It’s just that sometimes I look around me, and for all the wonderful things I have, I feel I’ve settled too early. Like life is somehow over, the battle is won and I won’t know what to do with myself from here on. I’ll be trapped.”

“Trapped?”

“Yes. Trapped. Stuck. I want things to be different. But I don’t even know what I mean by that; perhaps to live somewhere different, meet different people, be something different myself.”

Cathy looked at her steadily. “You make life sound so difficult.”

“It is.” Maisie sipped at her drink. It tasted like the nectar of the gods.

“It’s not. It’s not a battle. It’s not all or nothing, now or never. It’s a
life
.”

Maisie laughed. “Why are you so goddamn welladjusted?” she asked. “I thought you had a crappy upbringing.”

“I guess I could have gone either way. Luckily I chose to be happy instead of tortured. Everyone can make that choice. And it’s really not reasonable to go around being tortured. That’s not life, that’s art.”

“Maybe life is an art. You’re painting Constables and I’m painting Van Goghs.”

“I’m playing Haydn and you’re playing Wagner.”

“God, anything but that. You know when I get back home, I mean, back to the cottage, I’m going to make myself a Caramel Rabbit every night.”

“A fine idea,” Cathy said, reaching out to touch her hand gently. “Happiness is all about simple pleasures.”

Cathy’s homespun, commonsense, new-age advice slid right off Maisie. “You know Haydn’s always bored me to death.”

Cathy laughed. “Then I can’t help you. Come on, let’s find a warm place to collapse in a drunken stupor.”

Tuesday at around two p.m. Maisie finally arrived back in Solgreve. As she walked from the bus stop up to the cottage, she made several vows to herself. Number one, she would control her homesick loneliness. Cathy was only a bus ride away, she could call Sacha if she wanted, and surely not every resident of Solgreve could hold a grudge against her grandmother. Number two, she would be cheerful when she met the locals, not mention her grandmother, and, as Cathy had suggested, imply she wasn’t staying very long. Number three, she had to make herself more comfortable at the cottage. She needed a CD player and a few good crime novels. She needed wine in the house all the time, and she had to stop eating microwaved noodles. Why be so reluctant to cook properly? What else was she going to do with her time? All of this starting today. But first, she had to drop off her bag and make sure that Tabby was still alive.

Of course the cat was fine, although her frantic weaving about between Maisie’s ankles may have pointed to Tabby’s own desperate conviction that she may starve. Her food bowl was empty, which made Maisie almost sick with guilt, but she still had plenty of water. Maisie gave her some cat biscuits and took the litter tray down to the back garden to empty it. As she was walking back towards the cottage, she stopped to look at the laundry window where Tabby usually sat, where Maisie herself had last week thought she’d seen something. She gazed at it for a few moments, focusing on her own reflection in the louvres and trying to see what it might have been that had appeared behind her shoulder that night. But she saw nothing. No branches or bushes with the right colouring or shape to match her vision of a hooded figure. A tiny shiver crawled up her right arm as she thought about how close the thing, whatever it was, had been to her.

“Sybill, if it is you,” she said under her breath,

“please don’t frighten me any more.”

Drinking with the locals was one of the Reverend’s rare pleasures in life. He lived a spartan existence huddled alone in his tiny cottage on the main street, had never married (not for want of trying), and generally had only his own thoughts for company. But every now and then a couple of the parishioners would come by and invite him over to the Black Cat for a few drinks. They always ended the evening with a standing invitation for him to join them, but the Reverend could never convince himself that they meant it. Drew and Wendy Beaumont, who had invited him, seemed far more interested in their conversation with Morris, the pub-owner, than they were in him. He sat with them, quietly sipping a beer, feeling conspicuous and uncomfortable. Still, it had been a good day so far. Not too cold, the arthritis in his knees not too severe, and Sybill’s granddaughter still hadn’t returned, leading him to think that Tony Blake was right. Laughter burst out around him, and he realised Drew was looking at him.

“What do you think, Reverend?”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I’m afraid I missed that. My mind was elsewhere.”

“Morris just said that . . .”

But the Reverend heard not another word, for the door to the pub had opened and a pretty girl in dark clothes stepped in and looked around. It was her. He felt his stomach sink, and an old anxiety jittered in his hands.

“Reverend?” Morris asked.

“Do forgive me,” the Reverend said, forcing a smile. “I’m rather preoccupied tonight.”

When he returned his attention to the girl, he noticed with horror that she was heading towards him, a friendly grin on her face. He waited for her to arrive, his heart beating madly. Did she know something? Sybill Hartley had known so much. Had she left evidence of her investigations lying around? Shortly after her death, he and Tony had tried to break into the house, but it was like a fortress. Tony had suggested burning the place down, but the Reverend had dismissed the suggestion. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

“Good evening, Reverend Fowler,” she said,

extending her hand for him to shake. He reached out perfunctorily, closed her hand in his for an instant, then let go.

“Good evening, Miss . . .” He trailed off, having forgotten her name.

“Fielding. But call me Maisie.” She looked

expectantly at him and he realised she was waiting for an introduction to his friends.

“Oh, forgive me. Maisie, this is Drew Beaumont, his wife Wendy, and Morris Dollimore who owns the pub.”

Maisie turned to Morris. “Hi. I was wondering if I could buy a bottle of rum. The off-license is closed. I think I left it a little too late.”

Morris nodded. “Sure.” He excused himself to the others. “I’ll be back in a moment.” The Reverend watched him move over to the bar.

“Reverend, I’m just back from York,” Maisie was saying.

The Reverend returned his attention to her.

“York?” he asked, bewildered. Why on earth was she talking to him? What was all this friendliness about?

“Yes. I have a friend down there. I expect I’ll be spending quite a bit of time with her. I shouldn’t be here much past Christmas.”

“Oh.” Pale hope began to wash through him.

“So you won’t be seeing me much. It’s a bit cold and dismal up here for me, as you suggested the first time we met.”

The first time they met. He barely remembered that now, but yes, he knew that he’d gone up there to find out how long she was staying. Here was his answer, his most coveted answer: not long.

“Dismal? Where are you staying?” Drew Beaumont asked in a friendly tone.

“Drew,” the Reverend said pointedly. “Maisie is living in her grandmother’s cottage, Sybill Hartley’s place. I’m sure it’s terribly cold and lonely up there.”

Drew looked into his beer, chastened. Even if people around here weren’t sure what went on in the foundations of the old abbey, they all knew that Sybill Hartley had endangered the whole village with her tourist trade and her incessant prying.

“I just thought I’d let you know,” she continued,

“and I won’t be taking you up on the offer of coming to a service.”

Once again, he couldn’t remember making that offer, but if he had made it, it would not have been sincere. He would have said it to deflect suspicion.

“Never mind. Do drop by the church office and let me know when you’re leaving.”