by Kim Wilkins
All I need to know is disclosed to me.
Across the miles I touch her heart and tell her to come.
He is protected always by divine love.
And one which, after last night’s strange noises, laid a chill over Maisie’s heart. I call the black presence.
What black presence? And who were the other people she had written about? Maisie sighed. She would never know, and she wasn’t even sure she believed in witchcraft – white or black. She carefully placed all the objects back in the chest the way she had found them, and decided her grandmother had no spare sheets. That made sense given the condition of the rest of the house. She was overcome by a vague, nauseous headache, so she lay down on the bare mattress.
She dozed for about half an hour before she was woken by a voice heard faintly through the double glazing. Sitting up, she looked towards the window, expecting to see people walking past on their way to the cliffs. Instead, through the gauzy curtains, she saw a dark-haired man standing in the front garden, calling to a fat ginger cat who was digging beneath one of her grandmother’s rosebushes.
“Tabby. Bad girl.”
An off-white van was parked at the end of the front path. Maisie rose and moved closer to the window to see if the man would leave now he had his cat. Then she noticed he had a wire basket containing a trowel, gardening gloves, and gardening fork. And, on closer inspection, the dark-haired man was not a stranger at all, but the young man who had posed for a photograph with Sybill. She checked her appearance in the mirror, then went to the front door.
“Hello,” she called, as she stepped out into the cold, cloud-lit day. “Can I help you with something?”
He turned with a start. The cat, Tabby, began to run towards her.
“Tabby, no,” he said. But Tabby kept on running, straight past her and into the house.
“I’m sorry,” he said, approaching her. “She used to live here. I didn’t know there was anybody home.”
“She used to live here?”
“Yes, with the previous occupant,” he said. Some exotic accent lingered subtly around his r’s and o’s. “Sybill.”
“My grandmother.”
“Oh. You’re Maisie. Nice to meet you.” He extended a hand in greeting. “I’m Sacha Lupus.”
“She knew of me? She knew my name?”
He seemed surprised. “Oh yes. She spoke of you often, though I gathered that you had never met.” Up close Sacha Lupus looked as though he may have been Russian or Romanian or Polish. He was about a head taller than she, with dark, watchful eyes, clear skin and a full mouth.
“No, we hadn’t. In fact, I didn’t even know her name until I got here yesterday. My mother never talked about her.”
“That’s a shame. She would have loved to meet you. She was a special woman. I liked her very much.”
“Did you…find her?”
He shook his head. “No, no. I only discovered she was dead when I came to do the gardens a few days later. Reverend Fowler came up to tell me. She took sick one night and tried to get herself down to the village for help. They found her body about a quarter mile from here.”
Even though she hadn’t known Sybill, the story touched her. How cold and pathetic to die alone on the road like that. “Why didn’t she just phone for help?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps she panicked. In any case, I took Tabby with me, but maybe you’d like her for company. I’m sure she’d rather be here than in my tiny flat.”
“You live nearby?”
“I live at Whitby.”
“I’d love to have her, but I don’t know how long I’ll be staying. This isn’t permanent.”
“Take her. She’s a good mouser, and unfortunately there’s a problem here with mice. Just call me when you want me to come back for her. I’m in the phone book.” He fished in the pocket of his jeans. “Oh, and here are the spare keys. Sybill gave them to me in case, well…in the end somebody else found her.”
Maisie took the keys. “Thanks. And thank you for keeping the garden even though she’s gone.”
“It’s been my pleasure. I won’t bother you again. I’m very sorry if I gave you a fright.”
“Oh, please. Feel free to keep looking after the garden. I’ll pay you whatever Sybill was paying you.” The words left her lips before she had even thought about it. Just how was she going to pay him? She was already praying for the exchange rate to improve just so she could afford to send Adrian a decent Christmas present.
Sacha grinned. “She didn’t pay me. It was a labour of love.”
“Oh. Then I won’t impose on you any further.”
He picked up his wire basket. “Well, I’ll see you when you need me to fetch Tabby then.”
“Yes, fine. Lupus was your surname right?”
“That’s right. L–u–p–u–s. I’ll see you.”
He turned and headed toward his van. She desperately tried to think of a way to get him to stay. He knew stuff about her grandmother. He was fiercely attractive.
“Sacha,” she called just before he opened the van door.
He spun around. Was he glad she had called him back? No, that was just wishful thinking. “Yes?”
“I know you’ll think I’m a dope, but would you mind showing me how to light the fire?”
They sat in the lounge room, a healthy fire crackling in the grate, drinking coffee. Not only did he know how to start a fire, he knew how to find the kettle, the cups, even the cat food which Tabby was noisily crunching in the next room. She had watched him the whole time in the vague stupor of somebody besotted with beauty, musing all the while on the nobility of gardening as a profession. Imagine not going to university, not pursuing a glorious career, but spending all one’s working life with hands in the soil. It seemed beyond worthy.
“So, how long have you been a gardener?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m not a gardener. I only did it for your grandmother. She and my mother were friends.”
“I see.” Not a gardener. A poet perhaps? A sculptor?
“I work in a bakery.”
“Oh.” A baker.
“I serve behind the counter and sweep the floors.”
She didn’t know what to say. “That’s nice.”
“My mother and Sybill worked together for a short time in the eighties. Did you know your grandmother was a well-respected psychic?”
Maisie shook her head in astonishment. “No. Really? I found some witchy things in a chest, but I didn’t realise she was a psychic.”
“Yes. People used to travel miles to consult her. The police in York even got her to work on a couple of child disappearance cases.”
“The taxi driver said he remembered dropping a rich woman off here once.”
“It would have been a client. She was considered the best.”
“Wow. That’s amazing.”
Sacha finished his coffee and put the cup down. She felt a momentary anxiety. Would he leave now? “It’s why she wasn’t very popular around here,” he said.
“Not popular?”
“In Solgreve. Haven’t you noticed something about the residents?”
She shook her head. “I only arrived yesterday. I haven’t even looked in my back garden yet, let alone been to town.”
He laughed. “You’re in for a shock.”
“Why? What’s wrong with them?”
“It’s not that there’s something wrong…well, I don’t know. Perhaps I’m about to be offensive.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They’re all very religious.”
“Like fundamentalist looneys?”
“I think they’re just ordinary Anglicans, but yes, they act like fundamentalist looneys at times.”
“The whole town is like this?”
“Practically. There’s only three hundred and twelve people living here. Three hundred and thirteen counting you, and you can be sure that as soon as they know you’re here it will make them nervous.”
“Th
ey already know I’m here. Reverend Fowler came up to introduce himself last night.”
Sacha smiled. “I bet he didn’t just come to introduce himself.”
“Come to think of it, he did seem kind of anxious that I tell him when I’m leaving.”
Tabby trotted in to sit between them, delicately licked a paw.
“Sybill was particularly unpopular for doing her magic rituals out the back under the oak tree,” he said. “They eventually asked her to stop.”
“And did she?”
“I think she just did it later at night, when she was sure nobody was watching.” He checked his watch.
“Would you like another coffee?” she asked, hopefully.
“No, thanks.” At least he didn’t say he’d better be going. At least he looked like he was happy to sit in her lounge a little longer.
“So when you say your mother used to work with Sybill…?”
“Fortune-telling. My mother is Romany.”
“A gypsy?” God, he was a gypsy. More exciting than a gardener or a baker by a long shot.
“Yes. My father was gado. Upper class English, an anthropology professor. Sent me to a fancy school but I didn’t finish.”
So what if he didn’t finish school? He was a gypsy. “That’s so interesting. Where is your mother now?”
He shook his head, clasped his hands between his knees. “I don’t know. Wandering around somewhere. We sometimes go for months without hearing from each other. Anyway, what about you? Why are you here?”
She felt so boring by comparison. “I came to find Sybill. Or at least to find her house and maybe learn a bit about her. Back home I’m a cellist with the City Symphony.”
“Really? Did you bring your cello?”
“No. I’m a bit sick of it at the moment.”
“I’ve never known a musician who could bear to be parted from her instrument before.”
“It wasn’t even what I wanted to do. My mother’s a famous pianist, my father’s a famous conductor. I kind of got pushed.”
“What would you have rather done?”
She leaned back in her chair and thought about it. Nobody had ever actually asked her that before. “I’m not sure. I always preferred the piano, actually, but Mum wasn’t too keen.”
“Jealous?”
Maisie shook her head. “No, I just wasn’t very good. Perhaps I could have studied history instead of music. I could have been a history teacher.”
“Sybill was interested in history. You can tell from her book collection.”
Maisie glanced up at the crowded bookshelf. “I guess the problem is I can’t imagine liking anything enough to want to do it for the rest of my life. I don’t like the idea of having to choose a career and stick by it. I’m twenty-four. If I’m lucky I’ll live another sixty years. It’s just too long to be doing the one thing.”
“I know what you mean.”
She got the sense very strongly that he did, in fact, know what she meant. It made her think of Adrian who never knew what she meant, and that made her feel guilty – entertaining a pretty boy in her lounge room while Adrian was so far away and missing her.
He checked his watch. “Listen, I have to go,” he said gently, as if he anticipated the disappointment it might cause her.
“Oh, of course. I shouldn’t hold you up.”
“But I want you to feel free to phone me if you have any other questions about Sybill you think I might be able to answer.”
“Thanks. Thanks very much. And please drop by any time if you’re out this way.”
“I’m hardly ever out this way.”
“Well, if you want to check up on Tabby,” she said lamely, feeling like an overeager fool for asking him.
He pulled himself to his feet and Maisie followed him to the door. “It was nice to meet you,” she said.
“Likewise. I’ll see you again.” In a minute he was starting his van. Tabby was rubbing against her ankles. Maisie waved him off then went back inside, half wishing their exchange could have lasted a little longer, and half wishing she wouldn’t hear from him again. She was lonely and vulnerable, and he was a gypsy. God, a gypsy.
“But he works in a bakery, Tabby,” she said to her new companion. “Sweeping floors. It’s not very noble, is it?” Of course, Tabby wouldn’t have cared. The ginger cat would have thought anybody who fed her was noble enough. She sighed and wished for the temperament of a housepet.
Maisie spent the afternoon cursorily tidying the kitchen while Tabby ran around getting underfoot and eagerly sniffing in cupboards for evidence of mice. Next time she checked her watch it was nearly three o’clock. It would be dark soon – she pulled Tabby out of a cupboard and closed it – and she still hadn’t been into the back garden or for a walk out to the cliffs. She grabbed her overcoat and her keys and went out the laundry door.
The wind had picked up since the morning, and the smell of the sea was heavy on the gusts that tangled in her hair. She walked down under a massive oak tree, between two rose beds, and then into the trees behind Sybill’s house, most of them made crooked by the years of insistent winds. The sky had come over dark grey and threatened rain. Maisie took deep, delirious breaths of the cold air. This was what she had imagined it might be like living here: stormy, windswept, exhilarating. Already she could hear the sea pounding the shore. She jammed her hands in her pockets, telling herself she should have worn gloves and a scarf.
But how brisk, how thrilling this kind of cold was. She wove through the trees. Most had lost their foliage apart from a few resolute yellow leaves clinging here and there to fine, bare branches. Moss grew in thick patches upon them. Sodden leaves formed a spongy carpet beneath her feet. The waves grew louder as she approached the cliffs. Finally, she emerged on the other side of the wood, and followed a dirt path down to the cliff’s edge.
Under the lowering sky, the steel-grey sea and the curve of the headland spread out before her: to the north, ragged cliffs and a rocky outcrop; to the south, the cliffs becoming steeper, the cemetery laid out right to the edge, grey stones stained with black moss and leaning this way and that. Patches of long yellow grass grew here and there, spots of bright colour against the deep wet green. And below her, crashing over and over on to the black rocks, the ever-mobile sea. Her teeth were chattering against each other, but she felt she had never seen anything more beautiful in her life. Suddenly, it seemed worth coming all this way.
After following the path that ran along the cliff’s edge for about half an hour, she was desperate to get inside to the heating. Her ears ached and her fingers felt like icy sticks. Still, she dreaded the long evening ahead. Daylight was already dissolving around her and would not emerge again for fifteen hours – longer, if the rain set in. She headed back through the wood and returned to the garden. In a gust of wind, the enormous oak tree shook some brown leaves down upon her, and upon the mossed roof of the cottage. She rested her hand upon the tree trunk, trying to imagine her grandmother performing magic rituals here. Was it possible one could grow fond of a person one had never met? Because that’s how she was starting to feel towards Sybill. Eccentric, psychic, creative Sybill. Her grandmother.
“And for all those years you were kept from me,” she said softly.
She turned slowly towards the house, then froze in astonishment. A dark shape, a hooded figure, shifted a shadowy reflection in the glass of the laundry window. Worse, it looked as though it were standing just behind her right shoulder. She spun round to check but could see nothing, and when she turned back to the laundry window the apparition was gone. Her heart sped a little, her skin shivered, but she remained rooted to the spot.
What if somebody was in the house? But no, the windows were reflective, not transparent, especially now night had fallen.
Perhaps – perhaps it was the spectre of her grandmother in her ritual cloak. But she had seen the cloak and it was grey, not that dirty brown. And there had been no sense of a warm or eccentric old woman about that apparition. R
ather, something elongated and sinister.
No, she must be imagining things. She was still tired, disoriented. It was probably just the reflection of an oak branch bowing in the wind. She walked up to the house and let herself into the laundry. Tabby sat on the washing machine looking at her.
“Was it you, Tabby? Were you trying to frighten me?”
Maybe the cat, maybe a tree, maybe just the product of an overstimulated, overtired mind. It didn’t matter. The house was warm and Tabby needed to be fed. And tonight she would watch television, drink hot tea, listen to the wind buffet the window panes, and enjoy her solitude, her time and space to think about life.
And when ten o’clock came and she was tired enough to sleep and had forgotten (almost) about the thing she thought she had seen, she looked up towards the end of the house and saw Tabby sitting on the washing machine, gazing out the laundry window into the back garden. And, just as she did when she guarded a mouse-hole, the cat swished her tail back and forth idly.
As though she were watching for something.
CHAPTER FOUR
Adrian was a good singer and he knew it, but he also knew he was a bad mathematician, which was why he was embarrassed but not surprised when his phone call to Maisie woke her up.
“It’s one in the morning,” she said, and from the other side of the world he heard her yawn.
“I thought it was nine p.m.”
“You have to add two hours then change a.m. to p.m.”
“Ah. I must have subtracted.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad to hear your voice. It seems like years since I spoke to you.”
He stretched out on the bed. “So, tell me everything.”
