The Magic Cottage

NOISES

THE SOUNDS OF tapping woke me, sharp noises in various rhythms, breaking into my dreamless sleep. My eyes opened with none of their usual reluctance and I twisted my head toward Midge to find her wide awake and smiling happily. She was peering over me at the window beyond, the source of the tapping.

Turning my head the other way to follow her gaze, I spotted the culprits. Three or four birds were perched on the window ledge and they were pecking at the glass as though indignant that .we were still in bed.

"Oh Christ," I moaned. "Did you put in an alarm call?"

"No, they took it on themselves to get us up."

"What time is it?"

"Just after six-thirty."

"I don't believe it. You think they're a permanent feature?"

"Likely as not. It's lovely, isn't it?"

I pulled the pillow over my head, although in truth I was wide awake. "Quiet would be lovelier."

"All part of country living, Michael. It certainly beats the sound of rush-hour traffic and pneumatic drills."

"Only just."

She whipped back the covers and crawled across me to reach the window. I rolled over into the warm space she had left behind.

"Say hello from me," I told her, pulling the sheets up around my chin.

She stooped close to the window and I relished the sight of her naked little rear. Although there wasn't an ounce of unnecessary flesh on Midge's body, there were delicately sensuous curves there that never failed to delight and absorb me. I wanted her back in bed.

She cooed at the birds and began a conversation with them. Even when she tapped the glass on this side, they didn't fly away. Instead they cocked their heads and chirped all the more loudly, while others fluttered above them, their wings brushing against the panes.

"I think they're demanding breakfast," Midge called back to me. "I bet Mrs. Chaldean fed them all the time."

"Well, tell 'em Gramarye is under new management. No freebies any more."

I'd closed my eyes for a few moments in case sleep wanted to snuggle back in, and the next thing I knew, Midge's weight was sprawled across me.

"You pretend you're so mean," she said, tweaking my exposed nose painfully, "but underneath that rough, grizzled exterior lies a heart of pure . . ." another tweak " . . . granite."

I twisted onto my back and she straddled me, her eyes gleaming with mischievous pleasure. It was hard to protest with the pink tips of two small but beautiful breasts hovering only inches away from my lips.

"You're embarrassing the wildlife," I told her.

She ducked her head to kiss me, her tongue a soft-stabbing probe, her mouth moist and sweet. My hands broke cover and reached out to grasp her hips.

The vixen was only toying with me, though. "We've got a lot to do," she whispered in my ear, not forgetting to dampen that orifice with her wayward tongue, just to ensure all my senses were fully alert. "I'll go down and start the breakfast while you shave and generally make yourself civilized."

"Hey, it's early," I whispered back, not wishing to make the birds blush. "And anyway, we've got a whole month to get ourselves organized. This is our very first morning and it should be celebrated." By now my tongue was doing its own persuading.

False coyness wasn't part of Midge's nature: what she enjoyed, she embraced. She embraced me.

Lifting the sheets, I pulled her in and her body, cold from the early-morning air, was delicious against mine. Now Midge and I had always been compatible in the fullest meaning of the word—our bodies, not just our personae, seemed to have been made for each other (and I mean that literally)—and our lovemaking had always been beyond this side of heaven; but the mutual ecstasy we experienced that first morning in our new home was far greater than anything that had gone before. Don't ask me why, just call it magic. Yeah, just call it Magic.

Later, dressed in old sweater, faded jeans and sneakers (my usual uniform), I followed Midge down and found her in her dressing gown crouched on the kitchen doorstep, feeding the multitude. The birds—wrens, blue and great tits, wagtails, chaffinch, a real multiracial gathering it seemed—showed hardly any caution, a few of them actually pecking food from her hand, while others advanced within touching distance. I noted that size had nothing to do with boldness.

Midge was gently encouraging them with words I couldn't hear, and I chuckled when a wren perched on her wrist and dipped into the palm of her hand with its tiny pointed beak. I waited until the last slice of bread had been broken up and the pieces devoured before I stepped from the stairs into the room. An invigorating freshness breezed into the kitchen from the open front door and, although it was still early morning, there was no intrusive chill.

"Heeey, what's this?" I pointed to the table where the breakfast setting included a bottle of champagne and a glass jug of orange juice.

Midge looked over her shoulder and smiled up at me. "Another part of our celebration. I smuggled the bottle inside a packing case yesterday." She stood, brushing crumbs from her hands. The birds outside continued their chatter, perhaps demanding a second course. I went to Midge and squeezed her so hard she gasped.

"You're something else," I said, and my voice was husky-soft.

"The birds have eaten your breakfast," she responded.

My grip on her loosened. "Tell me that ain't so."

She nodded gravely, but didn't stop smiling. "I was going to give you Buck's Fizz and toast, but what was left of the bread from yesterday went to our feathered friends. There were so many of them I got carried away. Sorry."

"You're sorry."

"I'll get to the shops as soon as they're open, I promise."

"The cupboard's really bare?"

"There's a few stale biscuits left . . ."

"Wonderful." My voice was flat, but I was only posing and she knew it.

She stood on tiptoe to kiss me. "You open the bubbly and I'll get the biscuits."

"You sure your pals don't want the champagne too? Maybe they could bathe in it."

My nose took a tweaking again and she scurried away to the adjoining room where the biscuits were presumably moldering.

As it turned out, breakfast was terrific. Even Midge, who normally would never touch the grape, had some champagne with her orange juice, and we toasted each other's health and happiness and sexual prowess, and we munched on the biscuits (which were not too bad, incidentally) in between. Our third or fourth salutation was to Gramarye and our mugs clunked together—as yet we hadn't unpacked the glasses—in a most satisfactory way. Those of the birds who were still interested watched from the open doorway, no doubt wondering what we were cackling over.

After "breakfast" it was all business. Midge bathed and dressed while I washed the mugs and recorked what was left of the champagne (bad form, I know, but I wasn't going to waste it). I took another look at the lintel over the old cooking range while I was in that part of the kitchen, still puzzled by the fact that the hairline crack had apparently sealed itself. Funny how memory can accommodate the mind when things are illogical; I suppose it's a reflexive instinct because we need some kind of mental order to prevent ourselves from going crazy. I began to reason that what we'd actually seen was a shriveled cobweb matted against the side of the dark stone, and it had only looked like a crack to us in what was, after all, an area of dim light.

Partially satisfied with my theory, I started unpacking what was left inside the cardboard boxes and was pleased when I came across the transistor radio. I switched it on and jumped when the static roared out at me. Quickly turning down the volume, I tried tuning in to a clear station and when I hit music I extended, then swiveled the aerial. The reception was still crackly. Thinking the batteries might be running down, I reached back inside the box and found the electric cord which I attached to the radio and plugged into a wall socket. The heavy static persisted.

Muttering to myself, I switched off the set, turning as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"Problems?" asked Midge as she entered the room.

"We must be in a bad reception area," I told her, "although I'm surprised it's this bad. We may need an outside aerial, maybe on the roof."

She didn't seem concerned. "All right, I'm just off," she said. "Anything you need from the village?"

"Uh, I'll probably remember when you get back. Watch yourself with the locals, 'specially those with bug-eyes and high foreheads."

She gave me a reproving glare, then blew a kiss and was gone. I sauntered to the door and watched her hurry down the path, stooping to sniff at flowers here and there as she went. She waved back at me from the gate, then climbed into the car and started the engine. Pulling hard left to swing the Passat off the grass shoulder, Midge gave me a final wave good-bye. The car disappeared around the bend and I was alone in the cottage.

I loitered in the doorway for a short while, enjoying the bright freshness of the day, a little light-headed from the champagne and orange juice.

So far, so good, I told myself.

The rest of the morning was spent unpacking, moving furniture, reassembling units, fitting plugs, looking for items that had gone astray—the usual run of things when you move house and begin to wonder if your life will ever be organized again. Fortunately, having lived in an apartment for so long, albeit a large one, we didn't have that much furniture to bring with us; even so, what we had was easily adequate for Gramarye.

Eventually I found myself upstairs in one of the attic rooms which, I have to admit, was the place I'd been itching to get to all morning. That's where my musical equipment had been put, you see, and was the intended location for my own simple recording studio. I squatted on one of my amps and considered the problems.

Noise was one. I don't mean noise going out—who the hell could it bother?—but the sounds coming in might prove a nuisance. I didn't want every tape I made during the day to have a bird chorus. Fiberglass panels alternated with equal amounts of battening for bounce-back should overcome that particular problem, and two layers of plasterboard would also be needed for the ceiling. The room's two small windows would either have to be double-glazed or blocked in.

I mentally positioned a mixing desk, mastering machine and patch bay, forgetting for the moment the high cost of such equipment, content to enjoy the dream. Racks would be awkward because of the sloping roof, but the nineteen-inch assembling units could be spread outward instead of up if necessary.

What pleased me was that the atmosphere in the attic room felt so good. Certainly there was a mustiness about the place, but that could soon be cleared by leaving the windows open for a few days and installing heating for the colder times. I wondered what the acoustics were like and immediately reached for the pride of my guitars, a Martin 28.

When I took the instrument from its case I was surprised to find it needed barely any retuning after the move down. I chorded an E and the sound was rich and beautifully full, mellow but with that touch of hardness which could be softened or exaggerated depending on how the strings were struck. I did a few progressions, a few intricate runs, a few licks; I tried subtle augmentives and melancholy diminisheds and minor sevenths, loving the sounds, touching bass notes, taking lightning fingers up to the highest frets, filling the room and my ears and my mind with music, relishing one of those rare and exhilarating occasions when I felt total master of the ax.

Only the noises from the loft brought my playing to an abrupt halt and my head back to the attic.

I stared upward and I'm sure my mouth was agape.

No sounds now. Had I imagined them? I scanned the ceiling, my search coming to rest on the small square hatch that led into the loft. Rising slowly and wishing I hadn't watched so many horror movies in my misspent youth, I stepped forward so that I was directly below the hatch. My head tilted back and I examined the trapdoor that was only a couple of feet or so above.

My heart boogied when the sounds came again. I shuffled backward, almost knocking over the Martin balanced against an amplifier. I grabbed the neck to save the guitar from toppling and its strings vibrated metallically. My grip tightened across them to kill the noise.

I had no such control over the other noises, though. They came again, a kind of scratching scurrying. Maybe not quite that, but it was difficult to define.

Ahh come on! I said to myself, going into one of my self-conversation modes, away of goading myself on when I was uneasy about a situation. You're acting like a maiden aunt! The first time you're on your own in your new home and a couple of unexpected noises make you piss-scared. So there are mice up there. What can they do? Nibble you to death? It's an old house and bound to have lots of little creatures skulking around. Hell, this is the countryside and full of non-rent-paying lodgers! Birds, mice, spiders— But the cottage was empty before.

No, you just didn't find anything on that particular day. Now get up there and take a look.

Dragging over the room's one and only chair, I placed it beneath the hatch. The noises had died off, but that was no encouragement.

I didn't know why I felt so nervous—something to do with "fear of the unknown," I imagined—but my knees were less than firm when I climbed up onto that chair.

Now my face was only a few inches away from the trapdoor and I listened intently. Nothing there. Huh! No manacled, gray-haired, claw-fingernailed, dressed-in-tatters loony whom old Ma Chaldean had kept locked away for the past half-century because he, she—IT!—was the unfortunate product of family inbreeding. Oh no. No clinking of chains up there, no demented howls, just. . .

. . . Oh Christ, just that scurrying scratching sound. There it goes again, on the other side of the wood.

I stretched up a hand that wasn't very steady. The fingers flattened against the surface. I pushed.

The trapdoor resisted for about half a second, then lifted. Only an inch, that's all I opened it. Blackness inside hung on to its secret. I slowly began to straighten my arm and the gap widened like a dark and toothless mouth . . .

"Mike!"

I nearly toppled from the chair as the trapdoor banged shut (I thought I heard more scurrying noises up there). I hesitated, hand poised to try again, but Midge's voice called from the stairs once more.

"Mike, I'm back! Where are you? Come on, I've got something hot—well, it was hot—for your lunch! I raced back from the village so it wouldn't get too cold! Mike, can you hear me?"

"Yup!" I called down.

I glanced back at the closed hatch and shrugged. I was in no hurry to find out what was up there. Probably only mice in the rafters. Plenty of time to look later. Besides, I'd had hardly any breakfast and I was famished.

That was my excuse, anyway.

I jumped off the chair and went down to lunch.