The Magic Cottage (3 page)

Midge settled back and scanned our surroundings as we sped by.

We soon came clear of the trees, rough grass verges on either side of the lane opening up into stretches of heavy green bracken and yellow gorse, pushing back the thick woodland as if to say enough is enough. The sun was high now, at its zenith, and the sky around it was bleached a pale blue. We’d chosen a perfect day for a trip into the country and my enthusiasm was picking up once more, despite the disappointment of Cantrip itself.

Midge clutched at my arm. ‘I think I see it,’ she said with restrained excitement.

I squinted but didn’t catch anything.

‘It’s gone,’ said Midge. ‘I thought I saw a splash of white ahead, but now the trees are in the way.’

The car was rounding a long sweeping bend and the woodland was coming back at the road with a vengeance. In places, leafy low-hanging branches brushed against the windows.

‘This forest could do with a trim,’ I grumbled and then we saw the cottage, set back from the road, a low, weathered fence, with many of its uprights reclining at angles or fallen out completely, bordering the front garden. The small gate was closed and a sign, peeling and weary-looking, was battened across the struts. In beautiful but faded script, the sign said:

Gramarye

The Cottage

So there it was before us. And on initial observation the cottage
was
enchanting.

I’d pulled the car over onto the grass in front of the crumbling fence and now we both sat staring at Gramarye, Flora Chaldean’s roundhouse, Midge, it seemed, as if in awe, and me – well, let’s say pleasantly surprised. I’m not sure what I had expected, but this wasn’t quite it.

The building really was round, although the main section facing us was conventionally straight, only one end curving away (we were to understand the structure a little later), and it was on three levels if the attic was included, so maybe ‘cottage’ was the wrong description. Yet it did look like a cottage, because it was set into a grassy bank which somehow reduced its size. The bank swept around from the sides, moss-covered stone steps eating into the left-hand slope, levelling down to the front garden. There were trees on the rise, some with branches scraping against the white brickwork, and beyond was further woodland (wouldn’t you know?). The windows at the front were small and multi-paned, adding even more charm to the general setting, and the roof was of discoloured red tiles.

Okay, that was our first glimpse, and the overall impression was more than pleasing.

‘Mike, it’s wonderful,’ Midge said in a kind of hushed breath, her gaze roaming over the wild colours rampaging through the garden area, flowers that had got used to having their own way.

‘Pretty,’ I had to admit. ‘Let’s take a closer look before—’ Midge was already out of the car.

She ran round to my side and stood facing the cottage, the brightness in her eyes increased. No disappointment, no disillusionment, there. She bit nervously into her lower lip, but all the while her small smile remained. I joined her and slipped an arm around her slim waist, studying her expression at first, and smiling myself. Then I turned to take in Gramarye more fully.

A tiny shock of recognition touched me, but the sensation was fleeting, too nebulous to be understood. Had I been there before? No, never in a thousand years. I couldn’t remember having even visited this part of the country at any time. Yet there was something familiar about . . . I shrugged off the feeling, putting it down to some form of déjà vu, perhaps a peculiar but mild backlash of anticipation.

There was no need to ask Midge her impression so far: it was all there shining in her eyes. She left me and slowly walked towards the gate; I had to call out to remind her of my existence. She turned and my mind freeze-framed.

The shot’s with me now, always will be, clear and sharp, and almost mystical: Midge, small and slender, dark hair falling without curls close around her neck, her lips slightly parted, and in those sweet blue-grey eyes that tilted a little at the corners, a gleam of wonder and joy, an expression that disturbed me yet made me happy for her at the same time; and she wore jeans, a loose short-sleeved blouse tucked into them, sandals on her small feet; and behind her loomed – no, not loomed, because the whole scene, with Midge in the foreground, blended so well, was so complete –
stood
Gramarye, its white walls now visibly crumbled and stained, windows lifeless yet somehow observing, the grounds sun-dazzled with colours, while beyond and around was the all-encompassing forest. You might say it was a storybook scene, and certainly one to be impressed on the mind.

Then she’d turned back, breaking the spell, and was leaning over the gate’s catch. The entrance squealed open and Midge stepped inside as I moved to join her. I reached to take her arm but she was gone again, tripping down the overgrown path like an eager child, making for the cottage door.

I followed at a more leisurely pace, noticing that on closer inspection the late-May flowers were not quite as bright as they had appeared from the distance. They had, in fact, that end-of-summer look, when most flora is past its prime and wearying into decline, their petals curled and dry. Not to put too fine a point on it, they looked pretty sick. Weeds flourished everywhere, healthy enough specimens there. The path was made of flat broken stones, and long grass pushed through the cracks, almost smothering the hard surfaces in parts.

I found Midge peering through a grimy curtainless window, one hand forming a shadowed tunnel between forehead and glass. Grubby though the panes may have been, they were of good old-fashioned thickness – I could see smooth ripples near the base where the glass had relaxed before hardening. Unfortunately, the frames were rotting and flaky.

‘Not exactly House-and-Gardens, is it?’ I ventured, leaning forward to peer in with Midge.

‘It’s empty,’ she said.

‘What did you expect?’

‘I thought there might still be furniture inside.’

‘Probably auctioned off soon after the Will was settled. We’ll have a better idea of how the place could look without the old lady’s clutter.’

Midge gave me a reproving glance as she straightened. ‘Let’s see around the outside before we go in.’

‘Uh huh.’ I was still gazing through the window, wiping at the glass with my fingers for a better view. All I could make out was a big black range set into a chimney breast. ‘It’ll be great cooking on that.’

‘The range? It’ll be fun.’ There was no dampening her enthusiasm.

‘More like a forge,’ I added. ‘I suppose we could have both – an electric cooker as well as that monster. Still, no shortage of wood to fuel the thing.’

Midge pulled at my arm. ‘Could be very
avant-garde
in a “back-to-our-roots” sort of way. Come on, let’s take a look around the back.’

I pushed away from the window and she stabbed at my face with her lips, then was off again. I trailed behind, examining the front door as I went. The wood looked sturdy enough, although there were one or two thin cracks running the length of its lower panels. Above, set in the surround, were two narrow windows no more than four inches deep, and a pull-bell hung to one side of the door, mounted against the brickwork. The entrance was sheltered by an open-sided storm porch, which looked thoroughly useless to me. A coach lamp hung on the opposite side to the bell, its interior smeared with cobwebs. I tugged at the bell’s handle as I passed and its chime was dull and disinterested, but the
clunk
gave Midge cause to look back. I hunched over and did Quasimodo for her, mad-eyed and tongue filling one cheek.

‘Mind the wind doesn’t change,’ she called as she mounted the steps running around the building’s curve.

I lumbered after her, catching up on the fourth moss-layered step. Arm in arm we rounded the curve and began to appreciate better the cottage’s structure. The main portion certainly was circular, with the kitchen area (where the range was located) and the rooms above branching off as an extension. All very small scale, you understand. The shape certainly gave Gramarye character, and undoubtedly added an odd charm. Unfortunately, its general condition was as poor as the unhealthy flowers in the garden.

The brickwork, originally washed white but now greying and considerably stained, was crumbling in parts, the pointing virtually absent in several sections. Tiles littered the ground beneath our feet, so I imagined the roof to be pitted with holes. The steps had led us to another door, once painted a dismal olive green and now blistered and peeling, revealing rotted wood beneath. The door faced south and the woods that were no more than a hundred or so yards away across an expanse of tall grass and bramble, a few individual trees dotted here and there like members of a cautious advance party; a clearer area, obviously trampled down over the years, spread out ten or twelve yards from the building, with smaller trees – plum and crab-apple I thought, though I was no expert at the time – standing fruitless (and somewhat dejected, I also thought) closer to the cottage. On this side, because Gramarye was built into the embankment (or rise) the cottage appeared to have only two storeys, and was as round as an oasthouse. The apparent ‘ground’-floor windows were arched at the top and Midge had already left me to press her nose against one.

‘Mike, come and look,’ she called, ‘it’s fabulous inside.’

I joined her and was as impressed as she – although ‘fabulous’ was stretching it a bit – for the curved walls accommodated three longish windows which must have enabled the room to capture the sun’s rays throughout the day. Opposite, and through an open doorway, I could make out a hallway with stairs leading up and down; presumably another door led off into the squared section of the building from the hall. Sunlight fairly glowed from the walls, no shadowed corners to be found, even the dirt on the windows unable to suppress the radiance from outside. It looked warm and happy in there, despite the bareness. And oh yeah, it looked
inviting
.

‘Let’s sit for a moment.’ I’d noticed a weather-beaten bench tucked in the corner where the straight wall of the cottage peeled away from the circle; the wooden seat looked as if it had either taken root or had grown from the very earth itself.

‘I want to go inside,’ Midge replied impatiently.

‘Sure, in a minute. Let’s just take stock of what we’ve got so far.’

She was reluctant, but moved with me to the bench, where we sat and gazed out at the nearby woods. They seemed thick and impenetrable, but at that time not the least bit sinister.

‘It’s wonderful,’ Midge sighed needlessly. ‘So much better than I expected.’

‘Oh really? Between you and me, I thought you expected quite a lot.’

A frown marked her face, but didn’t make her any less pretty. ‘I – I just knew instinctively it was going to be right.’

I held up a hand. ‘Wait. We haven’t been in there yet.’

‘We don’t need to.’

‘Oh yes we do. Let’s not get carried away here. The ad said in need of renovation, right? That might just be enough to push it over our price. The outside alone’s gonna need a lot of repair, and God knows what the inside’s like.’

‘We can take that into account when we make our offer.’

‘I think that’s already been done by the agent. He told you over the phone the kind of price they’re looking for, but unless we go under that we could have trouble finding the cash to make the place liveable.’

I was saying all the wrong things to Midge, but I had to make her face up to the reality of the situation. She studied the ground as though an answer might lie in the soil. When she looked up again I could see stubbornness had set in – no, not exactly stubbornness, Midge wasn’t that kind of person; let’s call it a quiet determination. She was generally pretty soft, pliable even (a facet that often annoyed me when her agent pressured her into accepting commissions she didn’t really want either because of timing or subject matter), but underneath that lay a resoluteness which surfaced only when she knew she was absolutely right about something, or needed that particular trait to carry her through a difficult time. I suspected, in fact, that her quiet determination had been
born
out of bad passages in her life, and believe me, Midge had had some.

My arm went around her shoulders and I hugged her to me. ‘Just don’t want you to build your hopes too high, Pixie,’ I said softly, using the nickname saved for tender moments. ‘So far, I like the place myself, even though the location scares me a little.’

‘It’ll be good for your work, Mike,’ she replied, and there was an endearing earnestness in her voice. ‘It’s what you need, away from all those distractions, those . . .’

She had paused and I said the word for her. ‘Friends.’

‘So-called “friends”. And Gramarye will be so right for me, too. I just know I can work here.’

‘You don’t figure we’ll get lonely?’

She shook her head emphatically. ‘No chance. Not together, Mike, you know that. And have you already forgotten all those times we’ve talked of being away from everybody, somewhere out of reach, with no agents or musicians dropping in or sacking down for the night? Being lonely would be bliss. Anyway, I bet there’s a lively community hereabouts. We’ll soon make new friends, friends of a different kind though, and ones we can keep at a safe distance.’