The Resurrectionists

by Kim Wilkins

  “It sounds great.”

  Bus timetables were consulted and it was decided that Cathy would meet her at the bus station in York on Saturday at noon. Cathy chatted for a few minutes about how expensive living in England was proving to be. Maisie was only half-listening. Outside she had heard a soft thump near the laundry door. Was it Tabby? There it was again. A soft thump and slither. If she hadn’t seen that cloaked figure the previous day she wouldn’t have suspected anything other than the cat, but her imagination was unstable.

  “Hey, Cathy,” Maisie said, “you’re into all that supernatural stuff, aren’t you? Spirits and so forth.”

  “I have an interest. Why?”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen one.”

  “What are the chances my grandmother is haunting me?”

  “Have you seen her?”

  Maisie became embarrassed. “No, I’ve just heard a few noises. It’s probably nothing. This is an old house.”

  “Let’s talk about it on the weekend,” Cathy suggested.

  “Okay, sure.”

  “See you Saturday.”

  She replaced the receiver and strained her ears. No more sinister noises. “Tabby?” Softly, walking down the hallway; Tabby was on the washing machine, ears pricked up. She turned to look at Maisie, miaowed. Maisie stroked her tail, trying to relax.

  “If you see the ghost of my grandmother, Tabby, be sure and tell me,” she said. “I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask her. And I could use the company.”

  It was sometimes the case that Adrian went for days without seeing his girlfriend’s parents, even though they all lived in the same house. If Janet was busy with students, and Roland was busy rehearsing orchestras, it was not unusual to have the house to himself. The first time he saw Janet since Maisie had left was Friday morning. He was in his pyjamas in the sunlit kitchen making toast for breakfast. She came in, as always perfectly dressed and tidy-haired, and gave him a bemused look.

  “Dressed for a power meeting, I see,” she said.

  “Sorry. I thought I was home alone.” He could still be embarrassed by being caught in transit wrapped in a towel or his pj’s. Now he had the Churchwheel’s contract, he and Maisie had to think seriously about moving out.

  “Have you heard from Maisie?” she said, going to the cupboard for the coffee jar.

  “Yes, I spoke to her Wednesday. She got there safe and well.”

  “Did she mention anything about her grandmother?”

  Adrian looked up from buttering his toast. She had her head down, concentrating very hard on her coffee cup.

  “Um…I guess so.” He didn’t want to have this conversation.

  “So she knows about her then?”

  “She found out that she was a fortune-teller.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “She said something about…well…it’s silly really.”

  “About the arrests?”

  “Arrests? What arrests?” Adrian was shocked.

  The kettle started whistling and Janet reached over to switch it off. She made her coffee in silence. Resolute silence.

  “Janet,” Adrian said gently. “What was your mother arrested for?”

  She shook her head. “It will all come out soon enough.”

  “Was it to do with the other stuff…the witchcraft?”

  “Oh, so Maisie knows about that. Ridiculous nonsense, isn’t it? Casting circles and saying incantations and all that rubbish.” She poured some milk in her coffee and made to leave the kitchen.

  “You don’t believe in it?”

  “The most magical thing my mother managed to do was make her daughter disappear.”

  “Then what about the arrests?”

  Janet put up a graceful white hand. “Don’t ask me anything else. Nobody would listen to me before she went, and I won’t talk about it now. She’ll find out soon enough.”

  And with that she departed to the piano room, leaving Adrian standing in the kitchen to wonder what grandmothers can be arrested for, and if that should make any difference to Maisie’s safety.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Maisie found herself anxiously peering through the window as the bus pulled in to the stop outside York train station. York’s medieval walls stood cold and grey under the dim sky. Her eyes passed over them only briefly. She was looking instead for…

  “Cathy!” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but when she saw Cathy Ellis standing there, long red hair tucked under a crocheted hat, skinny body wrapped tightly in a grey duffel coat, she couldn’t control her excitement. She was the first person off the bus.

  “Maisie!” Cathy exclaimed, grabbing her in a bear hug which somehow didn’t seem inappropriate even though they had never been close. The most social thing they had ever done together was go out for coffee after choir rehearsals in a group of eight. Maisie had always found Cathy and her sister too blunt, too smugly comfortable with themselves, and way too fond of Adrian. But now, all was forgiven.

  “What have you done to your beautiful hair?” Cathy exclaimed.

  “It bugged me so I got it cut.”

  “Oh no. We all used to be so jealous of your hair.”

  “It’s not that short.” Maisie self-consciously pulled at a curl.

  “It barely comes to your shoulders. What did Adrian think?”

  “He didn’t say anything.”

  Cathy had taken her bag and grabbed her elbow, and was leading her away from the bus stop.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Cathy said. “I’ve been terribly lonely.”

  “Don’t you have friends at your uni?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I’m doing research, not coursework. The only subject I have is Old English and the students are all quite tight with each other because they’re doing a lot of classes together.”

  “What are you researching?” They were crossing the road now, past a statue and under a huge tree which was probably fantastically green in summer, but now was bare.

  “I’m still narrowing it down. Probably something about early medieval women’s domestic roles.”

  “Sounds interesting.” Maisie didn’t mean it.

  “It is.”

  “I can carry my own bag if you like,” Maisie offered, feeling guilty.

  “It’s fine. Let me spoil you. You’re the only Australian accent I’ve heard in nearly three months. How was the weather back home when you left?”

  “Not too bad. Starting to get hot.”

  “You know, I used to hate the heat when I lived there, but now I’d give anything for just a few days in the sunshine.”

  Maisie shook her head. “I will not miss the Brisbane summer. I swear I will not.”

  “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-great-grandmother. 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.”

&n
bsp; 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 donate
d 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?”