The Magic Cottage

THE GRAY HOUSE

THE "HOT" PASTIES Midge had bought in the village may have been lukewarm by the time we got to eat them, but they were delicious and filling. I wolfed down two to her one, and reached into the bag of apples she'd also brought home.

"I'll cook a proper meal tonight," she said.

"This is great," I told her between bites. "How was Cantrip?"

"Okay. The people in the shops were very friendly once they discovered where I lived."

"You told them?"

"They asked me in the greengrocer's and the baker's if I were just passing through. I thought they were a bit reserved until I let them know I was going to be a regular customer. Even then they looked suspicious until I told them we'd moved into Gramarye. They really opened up after that."

"They say anything about old Ma Chaldean?"

"Mike, don't call her that."

I looked toward the ceiling. "No offense, Flora. Just my way."

"They didn't talk much about her, but I gathered she was something of a local legend; someone who kept very much to herself, though."

"That's not surprising living all the way out here."

"It's not so far from town."

"It might have been for an old lady. Y'know, we never did find out what she died of."

"Old age, I'd imagine," Midge replied, and there was an element of regret in her voice. "I hope she didn't suffer alone out here."

"I doubt it. She'd have called a neighbor or friends on the phone, I'm sure. The social services hereabouts probably kept a close eye on her as well. All the same, life must have been sad for her, living on her own, with no relatives, not seeing many people."

Midge twisted in her chair so that she could see out of the open kitchen window. "I don't think so. I don't think she was ever really lonely in Gramarye." Her eyes were not focused on the view outside, but on somewhere distant, not on this planet.

"You're getting weird, Midge," I warned.

She laughed, instantly back in this time and space. "Weird, am I? Who used to lie down on railway tracks and make me swear undying love? Who eats hardboiled eggs with the shell still on? Who came home on New Year's dawn wearing a policeman's helmet and no trousers? Who—"

I held up a hand. "The egg was for a bet. Anyway, that was in my youth."

"The helmet escapade was two years ago."

"See how I've aged? Come on, we've got work to do." My policy is to change the subject when on shaky ground. I rose from the table, the chair scraping against the floor tiles. Midge reached out and touched my arm.

"You've worked hard all morning, so why don't we take a break? There's no great urgency to get everything finished at once."

"There's a lot of scrubbing, painting . . ."

"We haven't explored yet. Let's go for a walk, get some fresh air, find out just where we're living."

"I don't know . . ." I said as if pondering.

"You're such a fakeout, d'you know that? You can't wait to get out of all those chores."

I grinned. "You're right. They'll still be here tomorrow. Shall we drive somewhere?"

"No." She disdainfully drew out the word. "I want to look at our surroundings. I want to go into the forest."

"That place? You mean it's real? I thought it was just a set."

"Titter, titter," she said, shaking her head.

Outside, warm air wafted over me as if I'd opened an oven door and I could feel its goodness seeping through to my bones. A bee droned by and hovered over flowers, spoilt for choice. A fluttering above our heads caused me to turn and look up; I saw there were birds nesting in the eaves of the roof.

"So that was it," I said aloud.

Midge regarded me curiously. "That was what?" She followed my gaze.

"I thought we had mice in the loft. I was just getting ready to take a look earlier when you called me. It must have been birds mooching around up there."

"Inside?"

"I'm not sure. They could have got through the eaves. I'll check it out later."

"My man," she sighed, and dodged my pinching fingers.

We climbed the embankment on the straight side of the cottage rather than take the steps around the curve, me pulling Midge up behind, grasping a tree branch that leaned over from the top of the incline for support. We crossed the stretch of grass, scrub and single trees and, hand in hand, like babes, we went into the woods.

That wasn't quite as easy as it sounds, because first we had to find a way through the tangle of bracken and blackberry bushes which formed a dense barrier along the forest's edge. There were several openings, but not all were obvious at first glance and some only led into a second line of defense. Still, we eventually found a way in and it wasn't long before the cottage behind us was lost from view and the air had become gloomy damp. Our feet sank into what felt like a springy deep-pile carpet and Midge informed me that the topsoil was formed by dead leaves, plants and decomposing animals. The last part made me feel uncomfortable and it didn't help when she further informed me that what we walked on was filled with living organisms that broke down and rotted the abovementioned. That was how the forest thrived rather than becoming cluttered up with litter year after year—nothing was wasted, every dead thing, plant or animal, contributed to the life of something else. Interesting, I told her, and so it was.

Enjoying herself, she pointed out trees and things, not in an attempt to broaden this city slicker's education, but to get me interested and involved in my new environment.

Oak, ash, sycamore, maple—I began to appreciate the different shapes and characteristics (not that I was quite as dumb as I pretended). She explained that there were several layers to a forest. Subsoil, topsoil, and the field layer, which included herbaceous and woody plants, tree saplings, bracken and stuff. Then there was the shrub layer which contained the flowering shrubs such as hawthorn, dogwood, elder, etc. These were topped by the forest roof, or canopy as she called it; up there was where most of the big boys nested, predators like the tawny owl and the sparrow-hawk, along with others such as the carrion crow, magpie and that bunch.

I mention all this not as a nature lesson, but as an indication of how keen Midge was to indoctrinate—no, wrong word: instruct is better—me in the ways of the countryside. She dearly wanted me to become part of it, as was she, knowing in her Midge-wise way that I'd need substitute interests now that I was away from the hustle of our other life-style.

And I played along with her, not just to please, but because I genuinely wanted to embrace this different kind of world. You could say I'd become a little disillusioned with the last one, although again that wouldn't be entirely accurate; I think I was just looking for something more, maybe something better than I'd known so far. That's probably true of most of us, I suppose, but not many get the opportunity to change. Maybe if I'd known what I was going to find I wouldn't have been so eager.

We stopped by a fallen tree, much of the insides rotted away to a brown clumpy powder, dark green moss creeping up what was left of the bark. Ferns did their best to camouflage the trunk further, but the tree's deadness hung around the quiet glade like a ghost over a grave. Bright red patches caught my eye and I moved forward for a closer inspection.

Squatting down, I said over my shoulder to Midge, "Take a look at these, then tell me there's no such thing as pixies and elves."

"I never said there weren't." She knelt close to me. "Oh. I should leave those alone if I were you, Mike."

I prodded the toadstools with a finger. The cluster could have come from a child's storybook, something from one of Midge's paintings, so fairy tale did they appear with their light stalks and scarlet roofs dotted with white patches.

"Poisonous?" I asked, fascinated.

"They'll give you a very nasty tummy for a few days. They're fly agaric mushrooms, and most definitely not for eating."

"They look pretty enough. You think there are any elves at home?" I tapped on a roof.

"Elves don't come out when there are humans around. Let's leave them in peace or they may get cross."

Hands against knees, I pushed myself up. "Right. I don't want any hex put on me." I looked at her seriously and said, "I wonder if there's—"

"No, Mike, you'll only find those kind of 'magic' mushrooms in some parts of Wales as far as I know. I very much doubt if they grow in Hampshire."

I could tell she wasn't pleased with my curiosity and I drew her close. "Hey, you know I wouldn't touch anything like that."

She relaxed into me. "The thought frightens me, Mike. If anything happened to you like before . . ."

The words were left suspended, but Midge was referring to my bad old days and ways when I toked a little, snorted some—nothing heavy, no needles, just pass-around stuff that was hard to avoid, moving in my particular circle of musician friends. One night at a party someone had slipped me some bad coke. I'd turned blue, they told me later, and was out of it for three days. Midge had never left my side all the time I was just hanging on, my breathing a touch-and-go thing, and she nursed me through the aftermath, never once scolding, always caring, treating me like a sick baby. I was lucky to pull through with no brain damage and no police prosecution—I guess they thought I'd had enough punishment, and anyway, it wasn't me who was in possession. As far as drugs were concerned, that was it for me. No more, never again. They hadn't been exactly a habit before, and I'd never been on the really hard stuff, so leaving them alone wasn't difficult. But maybe now you'll understand why I was so shaken when I'd mildly freaked out in Gramarye's round room on that first day. Some mistakes in life are hard to escape from.

I cuddled Midge and stroked her hair, the quietness of the forest itself producing its own calming effect.

"You still trust me, Midge?"

Her reply came unreservedly. "Of course I do. I don't want to be that scared for anyone ever again, that's all."

She looked so small and forlorn I couldn't help but smile. "I'd cut off a leg rather than cause you worry," I said.

She sniffed, but the traces of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. "Where would I keep a spare leg?"

"You'd find leg room somewhere."

She groaned so loud a bird fluttered from a nearby bush. "That's awful." She picked up broken leaves and threw them at me. "That's really awful!"

Ducking and brushing the debris from my hair, I ran from her. She followed with more woodland dust in both hands, but sprawled over a hidden branch, hitting the deck in a shower of crumbly leaves.

She swore and I waggled a finger at her. "Now, now, what would all the little kiddie fans think if they heard that kind of talk? Did Enid Blyton ever use language like that? Did Christopher Robin ever speak that way to Winie-the-Pooh?"

I ducked again as the branch she'd tripped on came sailing by my head.

"Tut-tut," I said. "Does your publisher know about this vicious streak?"

"I'll get you, Stringer. You just wait, I'll get you." She then went on to describe what she intended to do to certain delicate parts of my anatomy once she laid hands on them.

I kept out of reach. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. Did Gretel ever do such things to Hansel? Was Jill ever like this to Jack? Did the princess ever threaten the handsome newt with such sadism?"

"Frog."

"What?"

"It was a frog, not a newt."

"Whatever turns you on, babe."

She was on her feet and coming at me, so I ran, chuckling at the outraged shrieks from behind. The odd missile bounced off my back as we raced through the trees, but I easily outdistanced her.

We'd come quite a ways through the forest already, following what seemed to be some kind of vague path with several even more vague tributaries branching off, and before I knew it, like stepping across the threshold between night and day, I was out in the open.

Sunlight dazzled me for a moment, but after a few rapid blinks and raising a hand to shield my eyes I found myself looking across a broad sloping meadow. At the bottom, and backdropped by continuing woodland, stood a large gray house—well, a mansion really.

The buildings had two principle storys with dormer windows set in a hipped roof above, chimney stacks ranged across the top like upended boxes. There must have been eight or nine long windows extending along the ground floor and as many smaller windows above those. I could make out a wide flight of steps leading up to a fairly big entrance; there was no porch, but square columns and a cornice projected from the walls to frame the door. The meadow ran directly down to a rectangular turning area, with no lawns to separate them, and the driveway angled around the quoined corner of the house, presumably to a public road through the forest.

The place was certainly isolated and the grayness of the walls gave it a dark broodiness, despite the sunlight. Although the setting was beautiful, I couldn't help but feel there was something very uninviting about the house.

Soft footsteps creeping up from behind and then pincer arms moving around my waist, clawed hands reaching for those delicate parts which I'd run so hard to protect. I grabbed Midge's wrists before she could inflict any damage and she let out a yell of frustration. Turning and crushing her to me so that she was powerless, I bit into her small nose.

She jerked her head away, laughing and breathless at the same time, her wriggling to break free eventually subsiding when she realized the struggle was useless.

"Bully," she said sulkily, but loving every minute of it.

"Gonna behave?"

"Hummph."

"What was that? I didn't quite hear."

"Rat."

"Agreed. But you haven't answered my question."

I felt her head nodding against my chest. "Does that mean yes?"

A muffled grumble and more movement.

"Okay." I let go, still wary.

She stepped away and kicked my shin.

"You bloody cow!" I yelped, hopping and rubbing my injured leg.

"My dad taught me how to deal with creeps like you before I was out of pigtails," she taunted, dancing out of reach.

I sprawled, aiming for her ankles, just managing to grasp one and bringing her down on top of me. We rolled a short way down the sloping meadow, Midge giggling and cursing, beating at me with clenched fists, while I tried to hold on to her, enjoying the feel of our bodies tight against each other's.

We came to a panting stop, me on my back, Midge resting half over me. Her eyes were wide when she saw the house.

"What a strange place," she said, the words uneven because of her breathlessness.

She sat up and I rested on one elbow to stare with her across the meadow. "Looks grim, doesn't it," I remarked.

A breeze swept up the gradual incline, ruffling the grass; it touched us briefly and sped by. I shivered, although I was warm.

"I wonder who lives there," said Midge.

"Someone with more money than we'll ever see, and someone who obviously likes privacy. Even the entrance is facing away from the road."

"It looks . . . it looks empty"

"Maybe the owners are away, or maybe it's one of those old family estates that nobody can afford to run any more. The past few decades have been tough on quite a few lords of the manor, I hear."

"No, I didn't mean that kind of empty." She frowned, trying to put the feeling into words. "It looks bleak," she said finally. "Such a beautiful location, and yet the house seems . . . miserable." She looked down at me. "It feels unfriendly."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. Though, of course, there is the possibility that we're trespassing on private land. Somebody around here might get hostile if they see us." She was immediately scrambling to her feet. "Take it easy," I said, remaining where I was. "I was only kidding. We haven't seen any private-property signs."

She turned her head as if looking for approaching gamekeepers with loaded shotguns. "I don't like it here. I feel as though we're being watched."

I rose, brushing bits of grass off my jeans. "You're incredible. Nothing could be more peaceful and you've turned to jelly."

"I just feel uncomfortable. Let's go, can we, Mike?" Now I regarded her with some concern; there was an anxiety in her tone that the situation hardly called for. "Okay, Midge," I said, taking her hand, "we're on our way."

We walked back to the trees and I took one last peek at the gray house before entering the shadowy preserve. From that distance, Bleak House looked innocent enough.

We found the injured thrush some time later when we were almost through the woods, returning along the same path as our outward journey (at least Midge assured me it was the same path). She led the way unerringly while I followed behind, fingers tucked into the pockets of my jeans, occasionally whistling the dwarfs' Hi-ho song.

Midge gave me a start when she suddenly stopped dead and pushed out an arm against my chest. I froze, lips still shaped in a whistle.

"What's wrong?" I whispered, but she only waved her hand at me, then crouched low on the path. I heard a frantic scuffling movement and I dropped down myself.

Midge cleared foliage beside the path and a tiny, sharp cheep warned her off. The bird peered up at us with black startled eyes and twisted its head around in frightened jerks.

"Oh, poor little guy," Midge cried sympathetically. "Look, Mike, he's got a broken wing."

I shuffled closer on my haunches and the distressed bird flapped at the earth with its good wing, desperate to get away. Midge put out a gentle hand and its struggles immediately calmed, although it still eyed me with some alarm. She cooed softly and to my amazement the bird let her finger stroke its spotted chest.

"He's a mistle thrush," Midge quietly told me. "He must have flown into a tree or become tangled in bushes. It doesn't look like he's been attacked by any other animal— there's no signs of blood or wounds anywhere."

I studied the gray-brown bird for a moment, noticing how Midge's stroking was having an almost hypnotic effect on it; the dark eyes were becoming lidded as though the thrush were nodding off to sleep. "What are we going to do with it?" I whispered.

"We can't leave him here. He'd never last the night with all the predators in the forest."

"We can't take it home."

"Why not? We could keep him safe and warm for tonight, then tomorrow I'll take him into Cantrip or Bunbury, wherever there's a vet."

"Midge, the bird's wing is too badly broken—you can see how badly twisted it is. Even if the shock doesn't kill it, that wing's never gonna mend."

"You'd be surprised how tough these little guys are; he can be taken care of, you'll see." She cupped her hands around the thrush's sides and slowly lifted, the bird protesting only mildly. Midge cradled it against her chest and I think the thrush appreciated the comfort, because the shutters closed down completely and it seemed to fall asleep. She gazed down at the small feathery body snuggled against her with such tenderness that I felt something inside me melting. Soft as I was on her, there was always that capacity for extra lump-in-the-throat softness. Call me a sentimental fool.

We both stood and I put one hand over her shoulder as she led the way back along the path, her movement even more graceful so that the injured thrush would be disturbed as little as possible.

Soon I glimpsed a tiny flash of white ahead, and knew we were approaching the forest edge and Gramarye.

But I also glimpsed something else. At least, I thought I did, because when I tried to focus it was gone.

I thought I'd caught sight of a figure standing some distance away among the trees. Midge's attention was still on the bird cushioned in her hands, so I knew she wouldn't have noticed anything. I squinted my eyes again to sharpen my vision, wondering if I'd merely noticed a shadowy bush shifted by a breeze, and scanned that section of woods. Nope, nobody there.

Yet I found it difficult to shake off the impression of someone standing among the trees. A figure dressed in black, perfectly still and watching. Watching us.