The Resurrectionists

by Kim Wilkins

  “My father has a noble trade, and I should be proud to learn his business. After all, our poetry has paid for nothing yet.”

  “But it will,” Virgil declared emphatically. “I know that it will.”

  “Enough!” Charlotte cried, and then did the most spectacularly shocking thing. She climbed across Edward’s lap. That is, she put a knee either side of him and sat there, facing him, her bosom close to his face. Edward responded by laughing and burying his nose right between her breasts. I glanced away quickly.

  “It’s true, Gette,” Virgil said softly, ignoring the other two completely. “I know your mother must think I’m a ne’er-do-well, and not a fit suitor for such a wealthy young woman as yourself, but I shall make a fortune, I promise. My poetry is good – you can hear that for yourself – and I am certain it is better than other work that is published daily. I shall earn enough for a grand house in the countryside, and then I shall have you by me always.”

  I gazed into his eyes, feeling my own well with tears. To be by him always was what I wanted more than anything in the world. “Virgil, we have only a few days.”

  “But you’ll write to me? You’ll stay true to me?” His voice was earnest, almost desperate. “By the time you come back next year I may be wealthy and your mother will gladly allow me to call.”

  “I fear that things will have changed too much within that year, Virgil.” I was thinking now about Papa’s cousin and how Mama’s disdain for my own choice may lead her to recommend a swift marriage for me.

  “But how can I live?” he asked. “How can I live if you are not to return?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Charlotte let out a squeal of laughter across from us. Edward had loosened her dress and stays, and freed one of her breasts. His mouth closed over the nipple and she threw her head back in delight. I purposefully rearranged myself so that my back was turned to them and I could not see them any more. The wind gusted in the tree branches around us, and I shivered with cold and with revulsion. Why must Charlotte cheapen herself so? In doing so, she cheapens Love.

  “We could run away,” Virgil said, so quietly that at first I could not hear him.

  “Pardon?”

  “We could run away. Together.”

  I am not a fool. I know that Virgil had little money of his own, that running away would cut me off from my family, from the luxury to which I was accustomed. But I imagined us, living humbly together, a rural life perhaps. I could milk cows for him. I could make bread for him. As long as we are together, surely that is all that matters.

  “Virgil, I don’t know if it would be wise,” I said, for although my imagination was in love with the idea, I needed for him to sway my reason.

  Instead, he nodded. “Perhaps you are right. I couldn’t take you away from the elegance and comfort that is due to you. Come, let me walk you back to your aunt’s.”

  He stood and helped me to my feet.

  “I’m taking Gette home,” Virgil said to Edward and Charlotte.

  I dared a glance over my shoulder at them. Her breast was covered now, but I could see his hand moving under her skirts. “Good evening,” she said to me with that smug, knowing look.

  “We may see you again tomorrow night,” Edward said, smiling up at me.

  “Good evening,” I said, trying to sound frosty and wishing I wasn’t so interested in just which exact location he was placing his hand.

  And so here I am at home again. Virgil did not kiss me last night, and I am sorry for that. All was too serious for kisses, but still I wished to experience that feeling again. And, God forgive me, I have not been able to stop thinking about Charlotte and Edward, and imagining in a guilty way if Virgil and I will ever do those same things. I know it is wrong, and in fact I am almost too ashamed to write it down. But if we were married it would not be wrong.

  But alas, we are not destined to marry, are we? Who could have guessed, little book, that at such a short acquaintance you would become the repository of such tearful speculations? I am thankful to be so tired, for otherwise all these thoughts crowding my mind would keep me awake until dawn I am certain.

  Sunday, 15 September 1793

  I cannot write for very long because my life is about to change forever. I shall explain as quickly as my pen can keep up. Yesterday, Virgil sent me a letter in his own beautiful hand, with a few new and sublime lines of poetry enclosed. Mama saw me receive it and press it to my bosom, and followed me upstairs later to demand to read it. I had to refuse. You see, in the letter he outlined his plan for elopement, and addressed my concerns about how we would live. He and Edward sometimes do work for a certain Doctor in a village some miles from York in the North Country. Virgil proposes for us to escape to this village, where he will earn enough money to support us for as long as it takes to have his poems published, which he assures me is but a few months away at the longest! Edward’s great-uncle owns a cottage up there in which we might live for a nominal rent.

  When Mama pressed me to give her the letter, I threw it into the fire though I would have dearly loved to keep it. We had such a great quarrel as to make Aunt Hattie come upstairs and intervene. Mama is now determined that we will return to Lyon tomorrow at first light. But, and my pen shakes as I admit this, I shall not be here tomorrow morning. It is nearly the appointed hour. I must pack you safely among my things. I can scarcely believe it, but by the next time I write it will be from my new abode on the Yorkshire coast. And I shall be Mrs. Virgil Marley.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Maisie placed the little book in her lap and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were aching from the effort of deciphering the old writing and she needed a break. She had only read half of it, but she was hungry. She tucked the pages back in the iron box and placed it in an empty space on her grandmother’s bookshelf. Maybe tomorrow night she would finish it off. It would be good to have a break from the television; when she was alone she always watched too much.

  She went to the kitchen and thought about the diary as she wolfed down a Pot Noodle. A French aristocrat and an eighteenth-century dandy eloping to Solgreve. How fascinating; better than Jane Austen. By comparison her life was positively dull. No need for her to elope with Adrian; her parents would probably be more excited than she if they married. She rinsed her fork and threw her rubbish away. Time to think of other things, mundane things. She needed a shower. She needed company and it was still a day and a half away. She went to the back door and called Tabby, who was sniffing around at the base of the old oak tree. Had the tree been there when Georgette lived in the cottage? How different had it been then?

  “Tabby, come on girl.”

  In typical cat fashion, Tabby decided she’d rather sit a few paces from the back door in the dark and not come in just yet. Maisie left the door open a crack and returned to the bathroom. She couldn’t face showering under the unpredictable hose-nozzle so she started to fill up the bath with hot water and found some strawberry-scented bubble bath in the bottom of the cabinet: probably manufactured in 1976, but it would do. A bath was a good way to relax, to contemplate. Darkness would complete the mood. She turned out the light, disrobed, and slipped into the water.

  “Aah,” she said, and because it was nice to hear a human voice, even though it was her own, she said it again. Longer. “Aaaaah.” That sounded like a relaxed person. She leaned her head back on the porcelain. The dark was not so bad, not so spooky, when the electric light was only four steps away and the television buzzed quietly in the background. Her toes were poking out of the water at the other end of the bath. The nails were painted black, a contrast against her pale skin. When she’d painted them she’d still been at home. Miles and miles and miles away. Might as well have been on the other side of the universe.

  “Shit,” she said, palming the stupid tears off her cheeks. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to think of anything but home. Tabby’s cold nose nudged at her elbow.

  “Hello, puss
,” Maisie said. “Did you close the door behind you?”

  She heard the cat settle next to her. A warm, dozy feeling began to descend on her limbs. It wouldn’t be wise to go to sleep in the bath. What if she slipped into the water and drowned? Nobody would find her. Nobody would notice her missing. Adrian would call but assume she was out. Sacha would think she’d gone home. Tabby would have to catch mice and drink bath water to stay alive.

  Stop it. Morbidity was not to be encouraged.

  Even if she did go home, she knew what to expect: a long summer without Adrian; more long hours working with people she didn’t understand or (be honest) like; her mother always preparing to be disappointed in her; her father looking at her as though he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to have such a musically ungifted daughter – a mix-up at the hospital perhaps? She’d be no closer to…

  To what? That mythical moment when happiness would just magically materialise? When fulfilment was suddenly hers? She had no idea at all what it would take to bring her to that moment. She didn’t even know where to start looking for it.

  A bell in the distance. It would be Christmas soon. Perry Daniels had said it might snow. She had never seen a white Christmas before.

  She began an unknowing descent into a light doze. The bell seemed to be tolling down a long tunnel – a sound that was both metallic and organic. Something familiar about it.

  And somebody running. Somebody with cold bare feet. An unspeakable horror in pursuit.

  With sudden ferocity, the back door slammed shut. Maisie sat up with a start, her heart racing. Tabby skittered off, her tail bushy with fear.

  “What the…?”

  The wind gusted frantically outside. The windowpanes rattled, and raindrops shook violently out of trees.

  Maisie put her hand over her heart.

  “Tabby?”

  It was okay. Just a blast of wind. At least the back door was closed now. She had been dreaming, hadn’t she? That strange bell sound, the awful feeling of something pursuing her. But it had felt horribly, almost unbearably familiar. She grabbed her towel and got out of the bath, switched the light on. Not enough light. Soon, every bulb in the house was burning. As she approached the bathroom again, she saw Tabby sitting on the laundry windowsill, her tail switching restlessly.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” Maisie demanded, instantly hating her desperate tone. Calm down, be nice to the cat. Right now she’s your only friend.

  Breathe.

  She dried herself and pulled on her dressing gown and a pair of woolly socks. Loud television would fix it. The faintly strawberry water swirled down the plughole. Light nausea curled into her stomach.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  In the lounge room, Maisie turned the television volume up. What she needed was a Caramel Rabbit. Lots of hot milk, rum, caramel topping and a tiny dollop of honey. That would relax her. She busied herself in the kitchen. Tabby was now enthusiastically playing hockey with a bottle cap across the kitchen floor. Maisie stepped out of her way as she skidded into the refrigerator door. The microwave hummed and she watched her cup turning around inside. It was one of those novelty mugs, with a mouse and a cat hugging, and “best friend in the world” written across the top. She wondered who had given it to her grandmother, who her “best friend in the world” was. Maisie had never had a “best friend” or even known someone who would buy her such a gift. She supposed Adrian was technically her closest friend. Other people she saw in groups. She wasn’t given much to gossip or to sharing personal feelings with other women: they never liked her. Or at least she imagined they didn’t.

  Suddenly, Tabby dropped her bottle cap and pricked her ears up.

  “What is it, Tab?” Maisie asked.

  The cat dashed out of the kitchen.

  “Not the laundry again,” Maisie groaned, following Tabby. A half moon glimmered a little light in through the louvred windows. The microwave stopped and beeped loudly. Tabby had already leapt up on to the washing machine and now sat there staring out the window. Maisie pushed her face up to the glass and peered out. To her horror, she could see a figure standing beside the oak tree, pressed up close to it, just half a silhouette. She pulled away from the window and flattened herself against the laundry door. Had he seen her? Was it a he? She crouched down next to the washing machine and cautiously peered over the sill again. Perhaps it was just a shadow. She watched the dark shape for a few moments, wishing that the moon were bright enough to illuminate it clearly. The shape didn’t move, and she started to believe it was merely a shadow behind the oak.

  But then it detached itself from the tree and took one pace out. She stifled a cry of horror. It was a human shape, all right, and it looked like it was wearing a long cloak of some description. She dashed to the telephone and had the receiver to her ear before she realised she didn’t know the local police station’s number. The phone book was still lying on the floor next to her chair. With shaking hands she leafed through the pages and found the number, then dialled.

  “Constable Tony Blake.”

  “Constable Blake. This is Maisie Fielding from the cottage on Saint Mary’s Lane. There’s an intruder in my back garden.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “There’s a person in my back garden. Standing by the tree. I’m alone and I’m afraid. Could you come by?”

  There was a short pause, and Maisie had been certain he was going to refuse. But then, reluctantly, he said, “Sure. Sure. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t open the door to anyone but me. I’ll knock three times.”

  He hung up. She turned the television and all the lights off, crept back to the laundry and surreptitiously peeked out the window again. The figure was still there. She waited, watching, with the awful sensation that the figure was watching her in return. But that wasn’t possible. With no lights on in the house, he couldn’t see inside. Tabby made a low growling noise, her tail swishing madly. Maisie turned to the cat. “Who is it, Tabby?” She wished she could shake the feeling that the figure wasn’t flesh and blood. She wished that she couldn’t see the outline of a cloak and hood, like that apparition she had glimpsed last week.

  She turned back to the garden, and the shape was gone. She pressed her face close to the glass. Definitely gone. But she had only looked away for a second, maybe two. How could it have disappeared so quickly?

  For a few moments she merely gazed at the garden. A knock on the front door made her jump.

  She rushed to the door, then realised there had only been two knocks. She stopped about a metre away, heart thudding in her chest. The village constable had told her to let no-one else in, that he would knock three times. And it had only been a few minutes since she had called him. He couldn’t be here yet.

  She licked her lips. Her throat had gone dry. “Who is it?” she managed to say faintly.

  Knock, knock.

  Jesus, this was unbearable. Why couldn’t her grandmother have installed a peephole when she was putting all the deadlocks on the door?

  The deadlocks. Had she shot them all when she came in? Her eyes quickly ran over the door. Only one of them was locked. As she stood, paralysed, one of the handles started to move, as though someone were trying it from the outside.

  She reached out. Her hand was trembling. With a sudden movement, like touching a snake, she clicked the other deadlock into place. The handle stopped moving. Moments passed. The microwave peeped once to let her know it had been five minutes since her milk stopped cooking. Darkness all around her and the intolerable pressure of fear in her chest.

  Then, clearly, three short knocks.

  “Who is it?” she called, terrified.

  “Constable Tony Blake.”

  She snapped the locks and pulled the door open. A big, burly man in a musty police uniform stood there. His face looked like it was made of granite, and his narrow eyes were hostile.

  “Whoever it was, they came around the front and they knocked,” she said breathlessly.

&nbs
p; “Probably campers. Kids on Christmas holidays. Let me check out back.”

  Maisie showed him into her house almost reluctantly. She could hear that Tabby had resumed her hockey game in the kitchen. Constable Blake opened the back door and strode out into the garden, flashing his torch about. She waited for him by the door.

  “Whoever it was, they’ve gone,” he said, returning to the house.

  “Thank you for coming, anyway.”

  He fixed her with those hostile eyes. “I used to say this to your grandmother and I’ll say it to you. This house is too far from the town for a woman living alone. It’s dangerous. You could be in danger.”

  Maisie thought he sounded like he relished the idea. She locked the laundry door. He stood, barring her way into the hallway. She felt very small next to him.

  “For your own safety, get yourself off to Whitby or Scarborough, or somewhere there are more people and a properly staffed police station,” he continued. “If you’d called half an hour later I would have been off duty. It’s not safe here for you.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, willing him to move. She was beginning to regret calling him. Phantoms in the garden suddenly didn’t seem as menacing as the big policeman blocking her way.

  Suddenly, thankfully, he turned and was heading back down the hallway to the front door. “Well, if there are people with mischief on their minds, they’re always going to come here first. The cottage stands out, alone here, and it’s an obvious target.”

  “Thank you for coming. I’m sure your car must have scared them away.” Just go.

  He stopped and turned to her once more. “Remember – I’m off duty between ten p.m. and six a.m., and Sundays. If it’s an emergency…” he said this word emphatically “…you can call me at home. Otherwise, just keep everything locked and don’t answer the door.”

  She nodded. He bade her goodnight and headed towards his car. She closed the door with some relief and carefully locked it. She headed to the laundry window and once again looked out.