The Magic Cottage

CRACK

I DON'T SUPPOSE any of us slept well that night. We'd sat for a while and drunk coffee, but I guess we were too shocked to discuss Bob's hysteria, and maybe somewhat embarrassed by it. Midge had remained very quiet when Val discoursed upon the evils and the unpredictable results of drug-taking. Not that I added much to the conversation —my head was buzzing with other thoughts.

We turned in for a second time that night, and when Midge and I were in bed I held on to her, keeping her close against me; but she was unresponsive, as though Bob's behavior was partly my fault (and privately I felt a fool for not having found a discreet way of warning him off as soon as it sank in that he was turning on, even if it was only cannabis at that time). At least Midge wasn't scared, unlike me.

I needed to get my own head straight before I told her what I thought he'd seen down there in the kitchen, and I wanted her to be in a more receptive state: I was well aware by now that Midge had a peculiar kind of blind spot where Gramarye was concerned. Keeping my eyes closed for long was difficult lying there in the darkness, but I must have finally drifted off some time before dawn, although I awoke once or twice during the hours that followed, but not fully until I felt movement beside me. Midge was rising and I was grateful for the morning light. We went downstairs together.

Val arrived soon after, dressed and looking ready for business, events of the previous night dismissed for the moment. It was she who got breakfast organized and I discovered I was surprisingly hungry, although Midge hardly touched a thing. The meal was a dismal affair, even though Val, God bless her, did her best to spark up conversation on a variety of topics, none of them to do with the episode that was on all our minds.

Midge only brightened up when Rumbo appeared in the open doorway, birds already having begun to assemble behind him, trilling their impatient demand for food. Their arrival was somehow reassuring to her.

Val watched with a bemused smile as Midge broke bread and scattered the pieces outside, but Rumbo's sheer cheek evoked rumbling chortles from somewhere low in her ample chest. The squirrel jumped onto the table and scooped up bacon rind from my plate. He gnawed away, stopping only occasionally to chatter at us, presumably explaining his plans for the day.

I gave him a gentle poke with my finger. "You didn't meet our guest last night," I said. "Rumbo, this is Val— Val, this is Rumbo. He likes to eat."

"I can't believe it's so tame," exclaimed Val.

"Shhh," I warned. "Don't refer to Rumbo as an 'it'—he gets offended easily." His presence was beginning to revive my own flagging spirits.

"How on earth did you manage to get so friendly with him?" Val was standing with hands on hips, shaking her head.

"We didn't need to," explained Midge from the doorway. "He trusted us right from the start. All the animals around here are friendly. Flora Chaldean, the woman who owned Gramarye before us, gained their trust."

"She must have been quite a lady."

"She was."

Midge said that with such conviction that I turned toward her.

"Tell me about Flora Chaldean," said Val, collecting up used cups and plates. Rumbo hopped to the other end of the table, clutching the half-gnawed bacon rind protectively to his chest.

"We don't know a lot," I said, draining the last of my coffee. "Only that she was very old when she died, had lived most of her life at Gramarye, and that she had a reputation as a healer. We were told she had ways of curing animals and people."

"Curing them?"

"Well, minor ailments, I guess. Apparently she used potions and faith—I don't think major surgery was ever involved."

"And she lived here alone?"

I nodded. "Her husband died soon after they were married, killed in the last world war."

Val carried crockery into the adjoining room and dumped it in the sink. I followed with my empty coffee cup.

"I'll wash up," said Midge, hurrying in behind us and turning on the hot-water tap.

"Okay, I'll dry." Val made way for her. Then she said to me: "Shouldn't you ring Bob and see how he is?"

I glanced at my watch. "It's only a little after nine—he'll still be dead to the world." I smiled grimly. "But it'll give me great pleasure to wake him."

Only as I climbed the stairs to the phone in the hallway did it occur to me that Val might have wanted to be alone with Midge for a short time. Midge hadn't offered much in our conversation about old Flora, so maybe Val thought she might be more forthcoming in private. Despite the agent's rise-and-shine briskness (or rise-and-growl in Val's case), I had caught her casting one or two ruminative frowns at Midge. One thing that this woman didn't lack was perception.

I dialed Bob's number, fairly anxious about him, to be honest: I really wanted to know if he was all right.

The phone rang for a long time before Kiwi's voice came on. "Who is it?" she said, irritation undisguised.

"It's Mike. You got back okay."

"Eventually. My navigator slept most of the way, so I took a few wrong turns."

"How is he?"

"Speak to him."

Bob was on the other end almost immediately. "Sorry, mate," he said humbly.

"You prat."

"Yeah, I know. I can't understand it, though, Mike. I didn't take much."

"You'd been drinking as well. How come you sound so bloody normal now?"

"Was I that bad last night?"

"Jes—hasn't Kiwi told you?" I almost thumped the wall.

"She said I was a bit hysterical."

"I don't believe it. You were out of your skull!"

"Some nightmare."

"You didn't have a fucking nightmare! Don't you remember any of it?"

"Not much. Pretty scared, was I?"

"You saw something downstairs in the kitchen, Bob. Surely you recall that?"

There was a pause. Then, "Look, Mike, I freaked out—I don't know what I imagined I saw, or even if I went down there."

"Kiwi said you did."

"Okay, okay, maybe I did. Everything's a bit . . . you know, hazy. I'm really sorry I upset everybody. How did, uh, how did Midge take it?"

"Oh, she thought it was bloody hilarious."

"Apologize for me, willya?"

"That's not gonna work." I shook my head despairingly. "Just think back, will you, Bob? When you were lying on the floor against the wall, when I came over to you—d'you remember anything happening with the walls? Anything that was . . . weird?"

"Are you nuts? Nothing happened to the fucking walls. I took a lousy hit, that was all, so don't blow things up out of all proportion, Mike. I feel bad enough already."

"There's more to it than just a bad trip. You saw something in the kitchen that terrified you, and when you were upstairs you felt the walls closing in."

"There's nothing unusual in that, is there? I mean, things coming out of the brickwork, monsters lurking in the dark— that's pretty standard stuff on spoiled smack."

"You said yourself you didn't take much."

"Enough to pick up bad vibes."

"What?"

Again a pause, a long one this time.

"I gotta get back to bed," he said finally. "I'm not feeling as good as I might sound. Let me give you a call in the week, Mike, maybe say sorry to Midge personally. Take care of yourself."

"Wait a minute—"

The receiver went dead. I toyed with the idea of ringing him back, but somehow it didn't appeal. Perhaps I was reluctant to press him further. I went back to the kitchen.

They were sitting side by side on the doorstep, Midge with her chin resting on her raised knees, arms tucking in the nightshirt she wore behind her legs. Val was leaning back against a porch post, stout legs stretched out onto the path before her. Birds pecked breadcrumbs, unperturbed by her brogues. The two women stopped talking when they heard my approach and looked over their shoulders at me.

"How is he?" asked Midge, and she really did look anxious.

"Would you believe he doesn't remember a thing?"

"Oh yes, I'd believe that," Val commented dryly. "He was so far gone last night, anything's possible."

"Could be he doesn't want to remember," I said.

She regarded me quizzically, but I said no more.

Midge stood. "I ought to get dressed and tidy up."

"I'll give you a hand to straighten things upstairs," I volunteered.

"No, you chat with Val for a while. I won't take long."

I caught her arm before she could pass by. "Bob says he's sorry."

She managed a thin smile. "I'm glad he's okay, Mike, but I don't want him here again. You know why."

I drew her into my arms, not the least embarrassed by her agent's presence.

"I'm sorry too," I whispered.

She hugged me back only briefly, and there was something feeble about the effort. "You weren't to know," she said. "I don't blame you, Mike." Even so, her eyes didn't shine for me as much as usual. She turned and disappeared up the stairs, leaving me standing there watching empty space.

"You've got a problem."

Val was in the doorway, blocking daylight and slapping dust off the back of her skirt.

I raised my eyebrows, wondering how much Midge had told her.

She stepped inside, walking-shoes clomping over the tiles. "Next door." She indicated with her head, "Huh?"

"Hadn't you noticed? I spotted it when your squirrel friend hopped onto the range. It's only a hairline now, but it could get very dangerous later."

"What are you talking—"

"The crack in the lintel above the range. It's not that easy to see at first, I know."

I went through, ignoring Rumbo, who was into the pots and pans cupboard beneath the countertop, unwisely left open by someone, and made straight for the iron range.

The crack was there all right, running from top to bottom of the stone. I gingerly touched the lintel and it seemed solid enough. I was shaking my head in disbelief when a shadow loomed up from behind.

"You should get that seen to as soon as possible," Val advised. "In fact, I'm surprised you didn't do so before you moved in; that could kill someone if they were bending over the range and it collapsed. I dread to think what will happen when the stone's heated by fire in the winter. Goodness, are you feeling ill? You look quite pale. That lintel's not going to fall in right away, you know; after all, it's lasted for some time by the looks of it."

I straightened and faced this largish woman, someone whom I'd always felt had held me in mild disdain, who didn't actually dislike me—there had never been any true animosity between us—but who wasn't madly in love with me either; and something in my demeanor must have alarmed her, because there was genuine concern in her voice when she said, "I think you need to tell me about things, Mike."

And I did. We sat at the table and I went through everything with her, from the first visit to Gramarye, to the bizarre events of the previous night.

Then I went back, adding details, offering my own theories, feeling foolish in parts, but carrying on, getting it all off my chest.

Only the reappearance of Midge, standing at the foot of the stairs, brought my ramblings to a halt. Her face was screwed up in utter wretchedness and was blotchy-wet with tears; one hand buried itself in her hair, fingers working against the scalp.

I thought she'd overheard everything I'd said. But her other hand was pointing to the stairway behind her.