Maestro Read online

  Despite her late breakfast, Sara was hungry again. She ran into the bakery across the road from the unfriendly grocer and bought herself a ploughman's lunch: cheese and chutney wrapped in white bread. The staff in the bakery squinted and stared. Sara took the sandwich back to the car to eat, away from prying eyes.

  Once over Cumbers Bridge, she put her foot down hard on the accelerator. She passed Downswold and five minutes later, came to the Meer valley. On either side of her, the hills stretched out forever. Millions of years ago, a giant river had run through the valley. Today, the flattened hills were covered in wheat and bright yellow rapeseed.

  The road began to wind perilously and Sara slowed the car down. Just in time. A hundred yards on, she was confronted by a flock of sheep, packed tightly across the road. Fifteen maybe twenty sheep in all but there was no room for them and the car.

  Sara turned the engine off. She heard a whistle followed by "Go on then, go on then." The sheep jostled over to her side of the car, pushed along by a black and white collie, too absorbed to notice her. An elderly man, a farmer, came up last holding a long stick. He tilted his cap at Sara but did not return her smile.

  Seven minutes later, Sara was in Goldarn. Ten times bigger than Glymeer but the same cobbled streets and ancient stone buildings. The shape of the town was different though. The streets appeared to run from East to West converging into a sort of Italian or French type "place" or square where one would normally expect to see fountains and statues. Instead of historical ornaments, ten or twelve stone islands filled with flowers had been positioned strategically around the square with enough room between them for cars to park. Around each island, cars fanned out like giant petals of a sunflower.

  Sara parked her car. She would need a map of Goldarn or maybe she could just go exploring. Another idea came into her head. A month was a long time. She didn't like walking or even the countryside. And there was little else she could think of doing, out here in the sticks. Public records, archives, that sort of thing. She could do a little digging of her own. That way, hopefully, the hours and the days would pass quickly.

  Sara locked the car and surveyed the square. Many of the cars parked around the flowers were new. People going about their business were dressed for the warm weather - not fashionable but neat in appearance. The women wore flat leather sandals to brave the uneven cobblestones.

  A young woman, standing not far from Sara, was busy chiding a crying toddler.

  "Stop crying, Paul! You can't have it and that's that!"

  Sara interrupted her.

  "Excuse me."

  The woman looked startled.

  "Be quiet!" she shouted at the child who continued screaming his head off, then to Sara: "Yes?"

  "Can you tell me if there's a public library here. Somewhere where they keep the town's records?"

  The child was tugging at its mother's arm, screaming even more loudly, furious by now at being ignored. In between scowling at the child and at Sara, the woman managed to respond.

  "A library? There's a building that has books and things. Over there, near the Police station."

  She pointed across the square in the direction of a National Lottery sign. Not waiting to be thanked, she dragged the child away.

  Indeed the police station was next door to a newsagent, home of the Lottery sign. On the other side of the police station, Sara saw a sign saying TOWN HALL. Sara pushed open the heavy wooden door. The smell of musty old books and dust confirmed she was in the right place. An ugly metal desk faced the door. A woman sat behind it, hair drawn back tightly into a schoolmistress chignon. She was wearing thin rimmed reading glasses which as she moved her head up and down, inspecting the newcomer, made her eyes look far too big for her head.

  "Can I help you?" enquired the woman, eyelids flickering.

  "Do you keep records here from twenty years ago?" Sara asked politely, approaching the desk.

  "Many more than that. Eighty-five years."

  The eyelids performed an even more intense routine.

  "May I have a look?"

  "At WHAT precisely?"

  "The LOCAL PAPERS from twenty years ago. PLEASE!"

  Sara heard herself shout.

  "Do you know how to use MICROFICHE?"

  "I'LL LEARN."

  Satisfied that she had intimidated Sara sufficiently, the little woman got up from behind the ugly desk.

  "Come with me."

  No more than the size of a ten year old, the prim little thing walked stiffly ahead. She led Sara to a dimly lit corner of the room surrounded by dark wood cabinets. She bent down slightly and pulled out a shelf, the type of shelf an artist would keep his drawings in.

  "1968, December. The next drawer would be November. The next October and so on."

  She walked away towards her desk, no doubt eager to torture the next visitor.

  Sara fiddled with the machine for reading microfiche and decided she would start in January instead of December.

  Nothing much happened apparently in January 1968. The local paper, the Goldarn Voice, was mostly filled with news of the exceptionally harsh winter. "FOUR FEET SNOW ON NEW YEARS EVE" read the headline on 01 January. No international news - nothing on American civil rights or the Viet Nam War. Local births and deaths were listed meticulously although an obituary page was notably absent. The local "news" was barely enough to fill the twelve pages of the paper. There were some interesting recipes, which alleviated Sara's boredom, for culinary treats like Cloutie dumpling and Cock-a-leekie.

  In March, a young girl disappeared. Sarah Lunn, twenty-one years old of Glymeer, had not been seen for two days. Since the twelfth of March. Sarah's family were asking for information about their daughter's whereabouts.

  A record snowfall of six feet was recorded on the same day. Farmers would be facing bankruptcy if the spring didn't quickly set in. The heavy snowfall and Sarah's disappearance were not recorded in the paper until the fourteenth. Two days.

  The fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth - nothing about Sarah. Nothing in April, May, June, July - just news of the glorious summer. August 23rd "MISSING GIRL CASE CLOSED". Inspector Jay, Chief of Police, issues a statement. No evidence to suggest the girl had come to any harm. He feels obliged to close the case.

  So someone, a young woman, had gone missing in Glymeer, twenty years ago. But what did that have to do with Downswold and Guillaume Gillane?

  "It's 4.45 pm. Please leave the building."

  The prim little woman had crept up behind Sara. Arms crossed squarely across her tight bosom. Sara thought she looked comical, not the least bit intimidating but more like a garden gnome which had suddenly sprung to life.

  She stood up and packed away her reading glasses and notepad.

  "Thank you for letting me know you are closing. I'll just put the microfiches back in their shelves."

  On her way out, the gnome muttered, "Goodbye." Sara reciprocated with an equally inaudible, "Thank you," before passing through the heavy wooden door.

  ****************

  Dinner that evening for Sara was simple: fried sausages, mashed potatoes, and the remaining red wine. Sara laughed to herself at her stunted culinary abilities.

  "Not exactly Cordon Bleu but those sausages were tastier than any I've had in London. Must be happy pigs," she giggled to herself.

  Her mind wasn't really on the food or anything else except the strangeness of her situation: supposedly on holiday but she was aware that a sinister shadow had descended upon her. Was it worth pursuing?

  The wine finished, she needed Scotch and a proper glass to drink it in. She opened the kitchen cupboards to look for one and at the same time was driven by an irrational fear that she might find something incriminating. She also knew that if she didn't find anything, she would be terribly disappointed. Midway through her search, she ran to lock the front door, ever more anxious not to be found in such a crazed state.

  Her heart was racing at the rate of knots.

  "Why am I be
having like this?"

  Nothing in the kitchen. All spotless, everything put away neatly in place. Not even a rogue spider nestling in the dark recesses of an empty cupboard.

  "What I am looking for anyway?"

  A slug of whisky and a cigarette calmed her nerves. She sat down to think. She hadn't formed an impression of Gillane to say that he was good or bad; their brief meeting had been similar to being asked the time by a perfect stranger at a London tube station. Faceless, indifferent, abrupt. Now, she felt as if she were being forced to ask the stranger his entire life story.

  "This is absurd."

  The cellar door was locked. The bunch of keys yielded a possibility; she tried it in the keyhole. The key stuck. She pulled the door in hard then tried again. This time the key turned. She pulled the door open and was surprised to find herself standing at the top of what seemed to be a staircase. She groped the walls on either side of her. No light switch. Something brushed against her head. A pull switch. She yanked it and a solitary light bulb flickered on directly over her head. She jammed the door open with a chair and ventured down the narrow staircase.

  Unlike the rest of the house, the cellar was in a state of confusion. Broken chairs, wooden planks, gardening tools, garden pots, a rusty Aga, empty wine bottles strewn over the cellar floor as if they had been thrown from the top of the staircase. A thick film of dust, testament of neglect, covered everything. Mr. Gillane obviously had no use for the things here.

  Sara began to sneeze. The light bulb flickered dangerously. She flew up the stairs.

  "I can't bear this anymore. I'm going to bed."

  All through the night, Sara lay awake. Her body in repose but her mind rambling on. Sometimes she dozed off but for short periods, only to reawaken, jolted out of her sleep, her head rattling with words. Words and pictures of people she didn't know.

  Blessedly she was awakened for good at dawn. The robin chirping noisily on her windowsill forced her out of bed. She felt as if she had not slept at all. Her head was heavy, her body cold. She needed coffee, fast. She slid on her dressing gown, walked into the kitchen and stood beside the sink waiting for the coffee maker to deliver the miracle liquid.

  Outside, it was barely light but she was able to discern the figure of a man. A tall man, hastily retreating to the back of the garden.

  Chapter Four.

  Sara's first reaction at seeing a man beating a hasty retreat from her garden was one of shock. That dazed feeling when the mind goes completely blank. Fear then set in. Fear and disbelief.

  She wasted no time dressing and drank her usual morning coffee with equal speed. She intended to go straight to Guillaume Gillane, demand a refund and return to London.

  On the way out the front door, something compelled her to stop in her tracks. Gillane would either be embarrassed and return her money or be very grateful that she was leaving. Goldarn and Glymeer were only six miles apart. There had been no other visitors besides her in the Town Hall. Perhaps he already knew.

  Sara headed into Glymeer. The bakery, which doubled as a cafe, was abuzz with people enjoying an early morning breakfast. The smell of frying bacon and strong coffee was comforting.

  She could see John Sheeley across the road packing fruits and vegetables into place for the day's trade. Sara looked at her watch. 8.00 am. She wondered if John was the man she had seen in her garden. No. He was too stocky and not very tall. Surely at the crack of dawn, he would have been busy on his farm.

  "G'day. Can I help?"

  It was Sara's turn in the queue.

  "Er..yes, a strong coffee please. And a full breakfast."

  In her haste to get out of Downswold earlier, the meagre slice of toast she had attempted to eat, had lodged in her throat making her wretch. Away from the cottage now, she was hungry again.

  "Shall I bring it to you?" cooed the pigeon-esque attendant.

  "Yes, thanks."

  Sara found a free table near the window. Pleased with the bird's eye view of the single street running through Glymeer, she observed the inhabitants going about their early morning routines.

  The post office cum newsagent was doing a brisk trade. Everyone who came out was carrying a newspaper under an arm. There was a fair amount of chattering going on as well. Those who came out, greeted those going in, pausing for a few moments to catch up on the latest news. Village life where everyone knows each other.

  "Here you go."

  Sara's breakfast arrived; a gargantuan portion of fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, sausages and chips.

  "Twice in less than one week," she chuckled to the waitress, "any fatter and I'll be out of a job."

  The waitress did not laugh. Several sizes beyond size eight, she appeared perplexed by the remark. Aware that she had made a major faux pas, Sara offered a big smile to the waitress by way of an apology.

  She finished her breakfast then walked off to the post office. By now the morning crowd had gone and the post office was empty.

  Sara was surprised to find Mag behind the counter. Mag recognised her immediately and scowled.

  John's words suddenly came back into Sara's head. Mag knew more than him about the missing girl, Sarah Lunn.

  Sara wavered at the entrance to the post office, half wanting to run. She could feel her breakfast defying gravity. A paper. A newspaper. Buy a damn newspaper.

  "Hullo," her lips quavered into a weak smile. "Is there a local newspaper here?"

  Mag thrust her arm above the counter and pointed towards a rack near the door.

  "The Goldarn Voice," she said impatiently, "Over there."

  Sara shifted towards the rack. A huge variety of magazines but only one copy of the Goldarn Voice remained.

  "Maybe I'll get some magazines. That will pass the time."

  She could sense that Mag was observing her every move. Laying in wait for an opportunity, her eyes burning into Sara's back.

  "You staying at Downswold then?"

  Relieved that Mag had temporarily called off the hunt and was at least talking to her, Sara felt brave enough to reply.

  "Yes. It’s a lovely place. Has it always been rented out?"

  She turned to Mag to find her still safely behind the counter, scowling but not looking directly at her.

  "You renting it then?"

  Mag continued what she was doing: her thick sausage fingers stacking piles of pound coins. Her eyes averted from Sara's, she seemed preoccupied with her task.

  "Yes. For a month."

  Sara walked closer to the counter.

  Mag's right hand jerked out suddenly, decapitating a pile of coins. It was not the unfortunate coins that caused the expression of horror on Mag's face.

  "You a friend of that Gillane then?" Mag screeched, eyes wide open, her stout bosom heaving.

  Sara decided it was best not to get too close to the counter.

  "No. No. What's he like anyway? I've only met him once..." she replied, staring down at her shoes.

  "Keeps to himself..." Mag replied as she restored the coins into a pile of ten.

  Sara didn't let Mag finish.

  "Mag, who was Sarah Lunn?!" She blurted it out so fast her head throbbed.

  Mag immediately became apprehensive, fearful even. For the second time, the coins collapsed. She looked around the still empty post office, at Sara, at the door to the street, then back at Sara.

  "No way can I talk about that here!"

  She swung around and knocked loudly on a wooden door behind the counter.

  "Harold! Harold!"

  Sara heard someone shuffling behind the door. An elderly man, chewing on a pipe, came out.

  "What's yer trouble?" he crowed.

  "Keep things going for a while, will yer?"

  He nodded at Mag and stared at Sara, his face blank.

  Mag leaned over the counter and tugged at Sara's arm.

  "Go out the front," she whispered pointing at the door to the street. "Come round the back. I'll let you in."

  Sara hastily picked o
ut the last Goldarn Voice on the rack and a copy of Good Housekeeping for good measure. She paid the unsmiling Harold and went to find Mag.

  Sara assumed that the "back" that Mag had referred to was in fact behind the post office. A separate entrance on the adjoining side street, led directly into Mag's kitchen.

  Mag was waiting for her and opened the door. "Come in."

  The kitchen was sparsely furnished. Bare wooden floors, a small wooden table with two chairs. A large stone sink, a very old gas cooker.

  Mag filled a teapot with boiling water and brought it over to the table.

  "Sit down. Will you have a cuppa?"

  Sara nodded and chose the chair nearest the door.

  Two teacups and saucers had already been placed on the table, along with a plateful of biscuits.

  Mag was reading Sara's thoughts or so it seemed.

  "I usually have my tea now," she said.

  Sara was thinking to herself that Mag had been expecting her. Indeed, she had been waiting, anticipating. Why else would she have so readily invited her in?

  The two women sat looking at each other, neither wanting to speak before the other. Sara went first.

  "Did you know Sarah?" she asked softly.

  Mag clasped her hands together. Her face went red, her eyes filled with tears. She began to sob.

  "Aye. She was a good lass. Not a bad bone in her body. A sweet thing with the gentlest smile," Mag sputtered, wringing her hands.

  Clearly, the memory was painful. Sara felt wretched for upsetting the woman. But the tea had not even been poured. She had no choice but to stay.

  Mag blew her nose loudly into a white cotton handkerchief.

  "Here's the tea," she announced, getting up to pour it out. "How do you like it?"

  Sara was grateful that the sobbing had abated. To avoid any more hysteria, she would wait for Mag to continue at her own pace.

  "Just black. No milk."

  "Sugar?"

  "No thanks."

  "Have a biscuit then."

  Sara accepted a thick buttery shortbread and gave Mag a warm smile.

  "Mag, you remind me of my mother. She always makes me eat something sweet with my tea."