by Kim Wilkins
“No. Just checking the fuel gauge. I should have asked you to put some diesel in. This thing always says it’s full when it’s not. You have to tap it a few times.” He did so, then leaned back. “It’s fine. I’ll make it home.”
The quiet, the intimacy, were overwhelming her. Her hand, as though it had intentions of its own, wanted to reach for his.
“Thanks again for dinner,” he said.
“I’ll tell Cathy. She did a great job.”
“Yeah.”
“She’s nice, isn’t she,” Maisie said, because she couldn’t think of what else to say.
“Yes, but she’s not like you.”
Maisie had to turn her face away to hide a stupidly delighted smile. “I guess not. She’s so…”
“Uncomplicated.”
“She’d probably hate for me to say it, but yes. I think she’s uncomplicated.” She turned back to him. “Do you think I’m complicated?”
“You told me so yourself.”
Had she? She didn’t remember that. This wasn’t getting her any closer to finding out what she really wanted to know, and luckily she’d drunk sufficient to be bold enough to ask. “Why didn’t you tell me Chris was your girlfriend?”
He blinked in surprise. “What?”
“I was expecting a guy. But I got your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you she was a girl, but she’s not my girlfriend. Is that what she said?”
“Yes. That you were taking a break.”
He shook his head. The lights on the dashboard illuminated the right side of his face in soft blue. “No. Chris is just a friend.”
“Then why would she say that?”
“It’s complicated.”
“So am I – I’m sure to understand,” she said, smiling.
He shrugged, a you-asked-for-it gesture. “Earlier this year we used to…well, we um…every time I was in York we’d have sex.”
A hot flush spread up her body. Jealousy and excitement warred in her blood. “Oh. I see.”
“But I made it clear it was nothing more than…than that. She knows she’s not my girlfriend. And she’s not some poor, sad creature who’s been used and abused by me. We haven’t done it for months, so…anyway, she was probably just being mischievous. She’s like that.”
Mischievous? Why didn’t he call her stupid? Deluded? Cretinous? But his voice was coloured with fondness, and now she had to cope with knowing that the short blonde girl – Janet would have called her “common” – had enjoyed in real life what Maisie had only daydreamed about.
“Maisie?”
She looked up.
“You’ve gone all quiet,” he said. “Do you think I’m a bastard?”
“No, of course not. What you do is none of my business.” Try as she might, she couldn’t make her voice sound natural. It baffled her. She was so disappointed in him.
Sacha smiled at her. One of his hands left the steering wheel and was making its way to her cheek when he stopped suddenly, his gaze going past her to the house. She turned to see that Cathy had opened the door and stood in the hallway, peering out at them. When Maisie turned back, his hand was once more on the steering wheel.
“When are you going home?” he asked.
“I still don’t know.”
“I thought you were changing your flight.”
“I didn’t. As it stands, my return flight is in mid-February.” She glanced over her shoulder again. What was Cathy doing? Keeping an eye on her? “I should go inside.”
“Sure. I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye.” She opened the door and stepped out into the cold night. As Sacha drove off, she made her way down the path to the front door where Cathy was waiting for her.
“It’s cold out here,” Cathy said.
“You could have waited inside.” She immediately regretted the snap in her voice.
“I wondered what had happened to you. You were gone so long.”
They went into the house and Maisie closed the door behind them. “He was warming up his car.”
“I’m making caramel rabbits. Go wait in the lounge room. I’ll get them.”
Maisie settled in the lounge chair while Cathy pottered in the kitchen. She stared into the fire, and in her mind the scene played out as it hadn’t in reality. Sacha had touched her cheek, leaned in to kiss her, that amazing top lip coming to rest on her own. Beyond that, she didn’t care. Just one kiss would do her. And a kiss wasn’t cheating on Adrian, not really. She closed her eyes and felt a humid warmth spread through her lower body.
“Here you are.”
Maisie opened her eyes. Cathy held out a mug, the one with “best friend in the world” written across it. She hoped Cathy hadn’t chosen it on purpose.
“Thanks, Cathy.”
Her friend settled in the chair Sacha had sat in, nearly kicking over his empty glass. For a few minutes they joined in reverie, staring into the fire and sipping their warm drinks. Tabby came into the room, fresh from an evening nap, stretching one leg then the other behind her. Maisie dropped her right hand down the side of the chair and the cat rubbed her whiskers on Maisie’s fingers.
“I thought you said he was good-looking.”
Maisie looked up in surprise. “Don’t you think he’s good-looking?”
“He’s okay. But his eyes are too close together, his nose is kind of pointy, and his lips are way too big. And he’s too skinny.”
Maisie stared at her in astonishment. In what alternative universe was Cathy living?
“You obviously disagree,” Cathy said from behind her mug.
She feigned a shrug. “It hardly matters anyway.”
“Don’t pretend, Maisie. You couldn’t keep your eyes off him. I’ve seen starving men look at three-course meals less avidly.”
“That’s not true. I like him but it’s not…you know, out of control or anything.” She almost laughed, realising she had just said the exact opposite of the sick, sad truth. “Why are you worried about it, anyway?”
“Because I know and like your boyfriend. Who, by the way, is ten times better looking, more talented and smarter.” Cathy nursed her mug between her fingers. “I just don’t want you to have an emotional accident.”
“An emotional accident? What the hell is that?”
“You’re getting grumpy with me.”
“No I’m not. Really, I’m not. I just don’t know what you’re talking about. Sacha’s just a friend, I’m not in any danger.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
They fell silent. Maisie drained the last of her drink.
“It’s a bad term, anyway.”
“What is?” Maisie asked.
“Accident. An affair can’t be an accident.”
“Will you stop it?” Maisie said, forcing a laugh. “I’m not having an affair.”
“Because there are too many decisions to make along the way. People are always saying, oh, one thing led to another and before I knew it we were having sex. It’s like they can’t help themselves. But they forget they can stop at any point. That there’s about a hundred conscious decisions along the way.” She shook her head. “It’s not an accident. It’s always an act of deliberate disloyalty.”
“Is the lecture over now?” Maisie asked.
“No lecture. Just making an observation.”
“Adrian is in no danger of losing me, Cathy. I don’t know where you got the idea from.”
“I guess it’s a mystery,” Cathy replied, turning her attention to the fire again.
Maisie sipped her drink, tried to slip back into her semi-drunken reverie.
“How long have you and Adrian been together anyway?” Cathy asked, casually.
Maisie calculated in her head. “Just over four years.”
Cathy leaned forward, stretched her hands out to the fire. “Was he your first serious boyfriend?”
“No.” Maisie said. “I had a boyfriend in high s
chool. And then I was going out with this other guy when I met Adrian. Why all the questions?”
“Just curious. God, you’re not good at this girly talk stuff are you.”
Maisie laughed at herself. “I guess not.”
“So tell me. How did you meet Adrian?” Cathy drew her feet up onto the chair.
“My father brought him home. They were working together and Dad had him over for dinner. I was smitten.” She smiled in the firelight, remembering the first time they saw each other. “He was smitten.”
“Love at first sight?”
“Maybe it was. In any event, the boyfriend didn’t stand a chance. Adrian and I were just friends for a few weeks, but I couldn’t get him out of my mind. We eventually both broke off the relationships we were in and got together.”
“Your dad must have been happy.”
“Both my parents were. I think it was the first time I got something right in their eyes.”
“Oh, nonsense, your parents are crazy about you.”
“Cathy, what can I say? You’re making judgements on what you see on the outside. Yes, we all get dressed up and head out to concerts together like a happy, affluent family. But they’re so disappointed in me. My mum’s a genius, my dad’s a genius. I’m just a girl.”
Cathy fell into silent reverie. Maisie warmed her hands on her cup.
“Do you want to know what my parents did?” Cathy said softly.
Maisie wasn’t at all sure she did want to know. “Yes.”
“My mum got pregnant with me when Sarah was only two months old. Dad told her to get an abortion but she wouldn’t, so he tried to do it himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“He punched her in the stomach and pushed her down the stairs.”
“Oh, my god.”
“Luckily, I was a tenacious little foetus. Mum went to stay with her sister until I was born, but then Dad wanted us back so Mum returned.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t know any better,” Cathy said. Her voice was too even, almost as though she were suppressing the real horror of her origins with an affected calmness. “Dad got paid once a week. He’d drink half his pay cheque, come home, and beat Mum up. The next day we would go shopping for groceries. I came to understand that if my mum was bruised and stiff, it was time to go shopping.” Her voice dropped. “Mum put up with it for four years and then one night, Dad crossed the line.”
“What did he do?”
“He beat up on Sarah. She was only five. It was bad enough to put her in hospital. I remember the night so clearly. Waiting at the hospital, Mum’s sister coming for us, talking to welfare people, being told we weren’t going to see Daddy again.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Cathy flicked her hair off her shoulder, almost nonchalantly. “So we lived with Mum’s sister for a while. Mum was a mess, she couldn’t work. Mum’s sister had us doing the housework as soon as we were old enough to hold the vacuum cleaner. But then we met a really good teacher in grade five. Sarah and I were in the same year at school, and this teacher saw that we were a bit ragged and unpopular, and she encouraged us. We sang in the choir and we got better grades…I guess that was a turning point. Mum and her sister had a fight soon after that and we had to move and change schools, but we’d already had some sense of what it was like to be involved in things or to achieve something. Sarah and I moved out together after high school and went to uni together, and we’ve both made our lives okay.”
“Wow. I had no idea it was so bad.”
“So, I don’t know what it feels like to disappoint your parents,” she continued. “Mine never had any expectations in the first place.”
Maisie finished her drink and placed the cup beside the chair. “I guess you must think my problems are pretty insignificant.”
“Not at all. It’s relative. I’d say, despite everything, that I’m a happier person than you.” Cathy’s drained her drink. “Do you want me to take these empty cups to the kitchen?”
“Not yet. We can talk some more if you like.” Maisie wasn’t quite sure what to do with Cathy’s story. Should she offer comfort? Encourage her friend to express her rage? Ignore it and hope it went away?
Cathy yawned. “So, tell me the real truth about Sacha.”
“What about him?”
“Come on, Maisie. What do you really think of him?”
Maisie hesitated. Cathy had just opened her heart and told her the awful story of her childhood, so Maisie felt she owed a little honesty. And really, where was the harm? Cathy was in Yorkshire. Her family was in Brisbane. Opposite ends of the planet. “Everything I say is strictly in confidence,” she said quietly.
“Of course. That goes without saying. So you really do like him, hey?” Cathy wriggled in her chair. “I knew it. I could tell.”
“Well, I hope he can’t. I don’t want anything to come of it.”
“You’d never cheat on Adrian, would you?”
“Of course not.” Just a little kiss – that wasn’t cheating.
“I just don’t understand, though. Adrian should be enough for any girl.”
“Adrian’s wonderful. But…when you’ve been with the same person for so many years…I don’t know, it’s like having a bottomless packet of your favourite biscuits. After four years, it’s still your favourite biscuit, but they’ve gone a bit stale because the packet’s been open so long. But you’re not supposed to be greedy enough to open another packet, because you have a bottomless packet right there on hand.”
Cathy giggled. “Let me get this right, then. Sacha’s a fresh packet of biscuits?”
“Yes. I guess so.”
“What kind of biscuit?”
“What do you mean, what kind of biscuit?”
“Use your imagination. Like, a Tim Tam? Or a Scotch Finger?”
“Ooh, something chocolaty and exotic and rich.”
“And Adrian’s one of those honey biscuits with the white icing.”
“Exactly, a Honey Jumble.” Maisie laughed, then she stopped herself. “This is awful. Poor Adrian. I shouldn’t talk about him this way.”
“Hey, some people love Honey Jumbles. Don’t feel bad.”
“Well…” Maisie had begun to feel unsafe, opening herself up like this. “I think it’s past my bedtime. I’m going to have a shower.”
“Okay then.”
Maisie went to the bathroom, wished for a long, hot, steamy shower, but only got a disappointing trickle which left a red burn on one side of her body while the other side was all gooseflesh. Afterwards, she pulled on her pyjamas and a dressing gown and made for her bedroom. Cathy stopped her in the hallway.
“Don’t be cross, but I’ve broken your spare bed.”
Maisie laughed. “How on earth did you do that?”
“I sat too close to the edge and one of the legs kind of buckled. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. But where will you sleep?”
“I’ve dragged the mattress in front of the fire – and I found this. Look.” She held up a skinny exercise book.
Maisie took it from her and opened it.
“Is it your grandmother’s handwriting?”
“Yes, it is. It looks like she was taking notes about something.” Maisie flicked through the pages, scanning quickly. “It’s her notes about Solgreve. It’s all here by the look of it – the witch burnings, everything.”
Cathy yawned. “Well, tell me if you find anything in there I didn’t know about. I’m off to bed.”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
Maisie took the exercise book to read. Mostly scattered notes, obviously scribbled down as things occurred to her, or as she found them out herself. Maisie read for pages without finding anything new. There were references throughout to Georgette’s diary, with the occasional question mark in the margin, or an underlined word. Shortly after Sybill’s notes about the witch burnings (where she had underlined “cursed ground” with intensity), Maisie came across some jottings which awoke her
curiosity.
Virgil and the Wraiths (cemetery) – Anglo-Saxon/pagan: religious ritual? (Diary no. 3). [AS: Magical; pantheistic; earth/trees/space; Jutes (?); priests perhaps; possibly imported Scandinavian gods; tree spirits; power of chaos.] MAKE CONTACT.
Maisie read it again, trying to figure it out. At least she now knew for sure that there was a third section of the diary. But what were these “Wraiths” in the cemetery? She remembered the last part of the diary, where Virgil spoke of the dark shapes he thought had pursued him at his work. The dark shapes who were still hanging around Solgreve. So, was all the information about Anglo-Saxon paganism an attempt to explain what or who they were? Perhaps it was already explained in the diary, which made Maisie twice as eager to find it.
The last, underlined, scrap of note had captured her imagination the most, however. Make contact. Sacha had told her that Sybill’s specialty was communicating with the dead, and Maisie herself had read the spell in the trunk. Had the old woman tried to speak with the Wraiths? If she did, and if she learned anything from it, it wasn’t written in this notebook. The rest of the pages were mutely empty. Maisie scanned each one carefully, but they were all blank. She rose from her bed to place the notebook on the dresser, and turned the light off. She lay in the dark for a while, looking up at the ceiling with her mind bouncing between two chains of thought: Sybill and Sacha. Neither thought brought her any peace.
From his bedroom window, Reverend Fowler could make out the lights burning in Sybill’s cottage. He could never sleep after one of his pilgrimages below the abbey, so he sat up in front of the radiator, watching through the dark. With that special attunement which men trained in the ways of the spirit had, he could sense some kind of protective veil over the house. Did that mean Sybill’s protection spell was still working? Was that possible? The other explanation was that the girl was a witch too, but surely not powerful enough at such a young age to make the spell work. It didn’t matter anyway. The point was just to scare her, not to injure her.
The last yellow light at the cottage extinguished. He wondered how long they would wait before they came. Not long. An hour or two, perhaps. He supposed he could watch, sitting there in the dark, for the lights to come back on. That would tell him that his request had been granted. But if he did watch, he’d feel too much a party to it, and he’d rather pretend he wasn’t. So he climbed back into bed and closed his eyes, knowing he would not be the only person whom sleep would shun that night.