Resurrectionists (2 page)

Silence. Janet pushed her lips together.

“Mum?” Maisie asked.

Janet shook her head. “Are you trying to upset me?

Is that why you’re doing this?”

“But Mum . . . I’ve never met her. You and Dad never talk about her.”

“For a reason, Maisie.”

“What reason?”

Janet picked up a spoon and stirred her halffinished tea vigorously. “She’s a crazy old . . . she’s mad. She could even be dangerous.”

“I’m sure she’s not. It would be perfect, Mum. To stay with her out on some windswept moor while I recover.”

“Forget it.”

“I don’t need your permission.”

Janet fixed her with an icy glare. “But you do need her address. You don’t even know her name.”

Maisie feigned indifference as a ward against her mother’s temper. “Whatever. Just think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it.”

“Sleep on it. Please.” She looked around. The waitress was stacking chairs on top of tables. “I think they’re about to close. We should go.”

“I’ll get the bill,” Adrian volunteered. Maisie watched him move up to the counter then turned to look expectantly at her mother.

“The answer is no,” Janet said.

And so the first battle began.

***

Maisie booked a flight first thing Monday morning.

“She’s going to go nuts,” Adrian said as Maisie threw the airline ticket on the bed between them with a flourish. They lived together in a downstairs bedroom in Maisie’s parents’ house, a little cramped and cluttered, but it had its own ensuite bathroom and a separate entrance. Sometimes they could almost pretend they lived alone.

“She hasn’t objected to me going to England, just going to Yorkshire. In fact, she’s hardly spoken two words to me since Thursday night. I guess she thinks if she doesn’t get into a conversation with me I can’t bring it up again.”

“Do you even know where your grandmother lives?

How are you going to find her?”

“I know this much. She lives near the seaside and her surname is probably Hartley – that’s Mum’s maiden name. I’ll find her if it takes me all summer.”

“Winter. It’s winter over there don’t forget. You’ll freeze.”

“It’s better than waiting here all alone while you gallivant around the country being an opera star.”

Maisie fell back amongst the pillows. “I’m looking forward to it. Like an adventure.”

“Like finding a needle in a haystack.” Adrian lay beside her. “I’ll miss you.”

“You would have hardly seen me anyway.”

“It’s the distance. You’ll be on the other side of the world.”

Maisie shrugged. “We should get used to it. When my adventure is over I guess I’ll have to go back to playing in the orchestra, and you’ll be off all over the world without me.” She groaned and covered her eyes.

“I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about having to go back to the orchestra.”

“You’re crazy. I can’t imagine a better job.”

Maisie laughed. “God, you sound just like
her
. There’s a whole world out there, Adrian. There are millions of people who don’t even know there’s more than one Bach.” She uncovered her eyes and looked up at him. “Do you think my mother dyes her hair?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“There’s not a glimmer of grey and she says she doesn’t dye it.”

“Perhaps it’s natural.”

“She’s such an enigma. She’s so full of secrets.”

Maisie rolled over and picked up her airline ticket.

“This time she’s not going to win. I’m going to find my grandmother.”

Reverend Linden Fowler felt the cold more than most people. His bony body needed to be wrapped in four or five layers before he would venture into the church office most mornings, and even then he had to turn the radiator up to full and drink two hot cups of tea before he could think clearly enough to work. November was the worst time of the year with winter approaching and a wind which seemed to come direct from the Arctic roaring off the sea. As he walked the narrow path between his house and the church every morning in the chill air, he dreamed of tropical climes and sunny skies. He had no choice, however, but to remain here on the north Yorkshire coast. Solgreve’s tiny community needed him; it was a matter of Faith. Reverend Fowler was surprised on this morning to find Tony Blake, the stout village constable, waiting in his office. Rather than his uniform, the constable was wearing denim pants and a musty woollen pullover. The Reverend noted that he looked rather more stupid and slack-jawed without his crisp black and a badge to impress.

“Good morning, Reverend,” Tony said with a dip of his head.

“Tony. Is there some problem?” He went to the radiator and turned the dial up to the last notch, then hung his scarf and hat on a hook by the old bookcase.

“Could be. I saw a man snooping around Sybill Hartley’s cottage yesterday. Asked him what his business was, and he told me he’s a solicitor. Works on behalf of Mrs Hartley’s inheritors.”

“She had family?”

“In Australia, Reverend.”

Reverend Fowler released his trapped breath. “Oh. Well, that’s a long way off. Perhaps they’re just finding out how much it’s worth. If we’re lucky they’ll order the old place knocked down.” He shook his head. “The last thing we need in Solgreve is new people, Tony.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.”

“Did you get this solicitor’s name?”

“I got his business card.” Tony handed over a white square of card. The solicitor’s name was Perry Daniels and he kept offices in York.

“Awful warm in here, Reverend,” Tony said.

The Reverend waved a hand in dismissal. “I’ll take care of this. Keep an eye on the place, won’t you?”

“Of course. Of course I will.”

Tony closed the door quietly behind him as he left. The Reverend paced his office, studying the card. It was a habit of his to pace, and the beige carpet was worn in a path from door to bookcase. His office was not lush and tidy. Rather, the furniture was built of that chunky amber-toned wood that was popular in the sixties, his desk scarred and ink-stained, the curtains and other fittings a sickly olive green. He came to rest near the window, looking out over the vast expanse of Solgreve cemetery, the sea a grey-blue streak beyond it under a slate sky. No, he wouldn’t call Perry Daniels in York. It would only make the solicitor curious, and curiosity was best deflected away from Solgreve. The cottage was old and rundown, and the chances were that the solicitor was inspecting it merely to estimate the property’s value. Who would come to a remote, freezing village like Solgreve and want to live in a centuries-old stone house with a sagging roof and rising damp? He was quite sure Solgreve would remain safe from the eyes of the world. Adrian was halfway up the stairs, under orders from Maisie to get tea for them both, when he heard Janet and Roland Fielding engaged in heated discussion in the lounge room above him. This was one of the hazards of living with his girlfriend’s parents: the unbearable discomfort of witnessing the occasional family argument. He was about to turn and go back to their room when he realised they were talking about Maisie’s trip. Guiltily, he paused to listen.

“We can’t stop her going, Janet,” Roland was saying. “She’s a grown woman and she can go on a holiday to England if she wants.”

“But we can’t let her go up to Yorkshire.”

“I think you’re being foolish. What your mother did was no great sin.”

“Not once, Roland, but twice. Twice they caught her.”

“She was old and bewildered. Perhaps even senile.”

“Never. Not my mother. You forget that I know her. I know about her foolish ideas, and I know about her stupid obsessions. And you, no matter how lapsed a Catholic you claim to be, you ought to be appalled at the idea of your daughter being part of that world.”

There was a short silence. Possibilities started to race through Adrian’s mind. Was Maisie’s grandmother some kind of criminal?

“Even if there was any danger in Maisie meeting her grandmother, Janet, that danger has now passed. You know that.”

“But Maisie’s like her, she always has been. Being in that environment might . . . I don’t know . . . stir things up. Besides, for all we know the house could be ready to fall down around her.”

“It’s not,” Roland said. “I sent your mother’s solicitor up there. He says it’s a bit rundown, but still livable.”

“You did what? Behind my back?” Adrian

recognised that tone. Janet’s frighteningly icy indignation was rare, but unnerving. It was the reason everybody avoided fighting with her.

“Now don’t lose your temper.”

“Don’t lose my . . . you contacted my mother’s solicitor without telling me?”

“She’s determined to go, Janet.”

“I’ve told her she can’t, so she won’t.”

“Perhaps we should get her up here so we can all discuss this rationally.”

Adrian realised now would be a good time to head back to his room. He turned and started down the stairs just as Roland rounded the corner. At precisely that moment Maisie opened the door of their bedroom.

“Hey, where’s my cup of tea?” she asked.

“I . . .”

“Maisie,” her father said. “Can we have a word with you?”

Janet was suddenly at Roland’s shoulder. “Adrian!

You must talk some sense to her.”

Adrian stood trapped between them all on the stairs.

“What are you talking about, Mum?” Maisie

asked, her black eyes narrowing.

“Adrian, please. It’s for her own good. You wouldn’t want her to be in any danger, would you?”

Roland shook his head. “Janet. There is no danger any more.”

“There
is
!” Janet cried, stamping her foot like a small girl. “I know my mother and I know that if Maisie goes there she’ll be in trouble.”

The top of the stairs was barred by Janet and Roland. Maisie stood at the bottom looking furious. Adrian hated conflict; he was sure it was bad for his voice. Stress created digestive problems. Digestive problems created throat problems.

“This is not about your mother,” Maisie said, spitting the words out. “This is about you. This is about you having to control everything that I do. Now I’ve left the orchestra, you can’t bear to think of me doing something that you aren’t totally in control of.”

“Maisie, that’s not true.” Janet’s eyes started with tears and Adrian glanced politely away.

“I am going. And if you don’t help me find her, then I’ll find her by myself.”

“Maisie, no. Adrian, talk to her.”

“I . . .”

“Don’t bring him into it, Janet,” Roland admonished.

“Nobody ever listens to me!” Janet cried. Her face was flushed and a strand of her normally smooth hair had escaped and clung to her cheek.

“Everybody always listens to you,” Maisie shot back. “Everybody always has to do what you say or you behave like this . . . like a child.” Maisie turned her back and marched away. The bedroom door slammed behind her.

Janet turned on Roland. “Look at all the trouble you’ve caused. Why can’t you support me on this?” She too stormed off, and another door slammed somewhere within the house. Roland and Adrian stood looking at each other.

“I’m sorry about that,” Roland said.

Adrian shrugged. “I’d better go . . .” He indicated towards their room.

“Yes.” Roland glanced over his shoulder, then back to Adrian. “Yes, me too.”

“It’s not true, is it? I mean, Maisie won’t be in any kind of . . . danger from her grandmother?” It sounded almost laughable, but he kept a straight face.

“No. Any chance of that has . . . passed.”

Adrian felt a surge of relief. “Thanks. Good luck with Janet.”

Roland gave a small, strained smile. “She’ll come round. She has to.”

Four days before she was due to leave, Maisie sat alone in her bedroom reading a Lonely Planet guide and highlighting bed-and-breakfast hotels in Yorkshire. Adrian was at rehearsal for a series of Christmas concerts which would take him touring around the country throughout December. She already hated letting him out of her sight, knowing only a short time remained before they then wouldn’t see each other for months. They had been apart before, but usually it was Adrian going away for master classes and tours. It felt strange to be leaving him behind for a change. A brief knock sounded at the door and her mother came in. Maisie looked up in surprise. Janet had been icy towards her for weeks, not venturing down here once.

“Mum?”

Janet had strained lines around her mouth. She sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over her smooth hair. In her other hand she clutched something, so tightly her knuckles were almost white.

“Maisie, I have to say something to you.”

“What is it?”

A deep breath. “My mother and I . . .” She paused, turning her dark eyes downwards. Maisie realised, with embarrassment, that her mother was about to cry.

“My mother and I did not get along,” Janet

continued. “We had some fundamental differences of opinion which drove us apart. And I . . .” A tear skidded down her pale cheek. “I regret that a very great deal.”

Her words trailed off into little more than a breath. Maisie tentatively reached out a hand, but her mother withdrew, standing and facing the small window instead. “I don’t want that to happen with us,” she said, matter-of-fact.

“It won’t,” Maisie said, not sure if it were true. There was a long silence. Maisie watched Janet’s back. The quiet beat hard in her ears.

“Mum. You can still make it up with your mother.”

A shake of the head, but no reply.

“You could come with me,” Maisie suggested, guilty that she couldn’t imbue her voice with more sincerity. “It’s not too late. We’ll go find her together. You can . . . make amends.” Not apologise. Janet Fielding did not apologise.

That silence again, longer. This time Janet’s back trembled, as though she were trying to stop herself from crying.

“It is too late,” she said finally, quietly.

“No, it’s not. Come with me,” Maisie said, even though having to share her holiday with her mother filled her with sick disappointment. It wasn’t really escaping, it wasn’t really running away if her mother came with her.

Janet turned, face stony, held out her hand and dropped something on the bed. Maisie looked down. A set of keys.