Maestro by Samantha van Dalen Page B

pulled down, the crates removed. Sara wondered if John would ask her where she had been going to so early in the morning. He might even already know. 
    Sara stopped outside the post office. Impulsively, she thought of knocking on Mag's door and telling her what had happened. But that would mean a cup of tea, which she didn't want. She needed a Scotch and a cigarette. What could Mag say anyway? She would be too busy crying. The time for talking was over. Leave it alone. 
    There was no sign that Gillane had checked in on her at Downswold during the day. No note on the front door. The upturned, uprooted rose bush still sat forlornly on its head. Sara lifted it up and leaned it against the stone island. 
    The cottage smelt dank and musty. Sara heard water dripping and went to check the taps in the bathroom and bedroom. All six taps were tightly shut.  
    Sara changed into her dressing gown and washed her face. She went back in to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. The Scotch was better than water, she thought, listening to the drip, drip, drip, echoing around the room. 
    The sound seemed to be coming from the cellar.  
    "It can wait," Sara muttered, lighting a cigarette. 
    The Scotch and cigarette soothed her nerves, releasing her from the edge. She drew up the other kitchen chair and placed her feet on it. She sat there inhaling deeply on her cigarette and sipping her drink. It was late and she should eat. 
    The dripping was getting louder. Sara imagined that the cellar must have been flooded with the heavy rain from the night before and the day before that. Two days of rain that had seeped under the house. 
    Sara put the stove on and cooked up a couple of sausages. Her diet of fried meat, breakfast, lunch and dinner time, was starting to bore her. She was missing the delis in London. The olives, pitta bread, houmous, calamari, the escargots à la bourguignonne she was so fond of treating herself to, they all belonged to a faraway place. And to her life with Carl. She comforted herself with the idea of buying all of the above and more on her return to London. 
    The sputtering sausages had temporarily drowned out the drip, drip, drip. They were ready now and rather than face counting the drops while she ate, Sara put on a cd. Music from the film Un Coeur en Hiver . Gentle enough to transport her away from the paucity of her meal. 
    Two sausages and three plums had successfully fought off her fatigue. Sara dutifully washed up the dishes and wiped the kitchen table. 
    Eight o'clock. She longed for a soak in the bath. 
    Un Coeur en Hiver was midway through. It would be a shame if it finished while she was lying in the bath. 
    Sara pressed STOP on the cd player cutting the music off. Just as her finger touched REPEAT, she heard it again. The damn dripping. Louder this time, sharp and dull like a gong. 
    Irritated by the sound and frustrated at being denied the chance to rest, Sara abandoned the cd player and went in search of the torchlight. 
    She had forgotten which of the kitchen drawers she had scuttled the torchlight into. She opened them all, banging each one shut. When she eventually found it, that drawer got the same treatment. 
    She repeated the banging and cursing as she struggled with the lock on the cellar door, her strength diminishing with each bang, kick and curse word. 
    "Lift it up! Jam it in! Turn the goddamn key! Turn! Open! Bloody hell!!!" she yelled, cursing the door and herself. 
    She wrenched the door open and stood a chair against it. She pulled on the light bulb above her head and shone the torchlight down onto the stairs. 
    Her breathing raspy, her chest tight, Sara's feet finally touched the floor. The tunnel of light beaming out of the torch created contorted shadows around the bric à brac strewn over the cellar floor. Her foot knocked against something. She looked down to see the empty wine bottles and kicked them away. She stood in the middle of the cellar flashing the torch around