The Magic Cottage

LOOKING

MIDGE SAW the ad first. She'd been scouring the classified columns of the Sunday Times for weeks, circling the more interesting properties with a red felt-tip, her enthusiasm for leaving the dirty city a little greater than mine. Every week she'd been presenting me with a whole number of red circles to peruse, and we'd go through each one, discussing their merits and drawbacks, following up those that survived. So far none had come up to expectation.

On that particular Sunday there was only one circle to look at. A cottage. Adjoining woodland, secluded position. Needed some restoration.

So what's so special? I thought.

"Hey, Midge!" She was in the kitchen of the apartment we rented near London's Baron's Court—a large place with high ceilings and high rent, and a complex of rooms that allowed for Midge's painting and my music, with never the twain unnecessarily meeting. But we wanted something of our own. Something "rustic" was in our minds although, like I say, Midge was keener than me.

She appeared in the doorway, dark haired and pixie eyed, five-foot-one of pure small-featured lusciousness (to me anyway, and I'm not unchoosy).

I tapped the newspaper. "Only one?"

Midge tossed the dishcloth back toward the sink—we'd just finished a late (very late) breakfast—and padded barefoot toward the sofa I loafed upon. She knelt, chastely drawing her summer-thin dressing gown over her knees. When she spoke she looked directly at the ad, and not at me.

"It's the only interesting one."

That puzzled me. "It doesn't actually say much. A dilapidated cottage is all it tells me. And where the hell is Cantrip?"

"I looked it up. It's near Bunbury."

I couldn't help grinning. "Oh yeah?"

"That's in Hampshire."

"At least that's in its favor—I was getting worried about some of the remote places you were taking an interest in."

"A remote part of Hampshire."

A groan from me. "Is that possible?"

"Any idea of how big the New Forest is?"

"Bigger than Hyde Park?"

"Somewhat. A huge what."

"And Cantrip is in the heart of the forest."

"Not quite, but you're getting warm." Then she smiled, her eyes even more pixieish. "Don't worry, you'll be able to get back to London for sessions easily enough. You can pick up highways practically all the way."

I ought to tell you now I'm a session musician, one of that quiet breed that earns a generous living behind the scenes of the upfront pop world, working in recording studios and occasionally backing touring artistes—usually those whose bands aren't allowed over from the States. My instrument's the guitar, my music—well, you name it: rock, pop, soul (I've even dubbed punk), a little jazz and, when I can, some light classical. Maybe more about all that later.

"You still haven't explained why this one," I persisted.

She was quiet for a moment, just studying the page as though looking for the answer herself. Then she turned to me. "It feels right,' she said.

Yep. It feels right. That's all.

I sighed, knowing Midge always had great intuition, but not quite prepared to accept it this time. "Midge . . ." I warned.

"Mike . . ." she said, just as gravely.

"Come on, be serious. I'm not trekking down to Hampshire just on a whim."

The imp took my hand and kissed the knuckles. "I like forests," she had the nerve to say. "And the price is right."

"There's no price mentioned."

"Offers invited. It'll be right, you'll see."

Mildly exasperated, but not annoyed, I replied, "The place is probably really run-down."

"All the cheaper."

"Think of the work!"

"We'll send the builders in first."

"You're a bit ahead of yourself, kiddo."

The merest shadow of uncertainty flickered across her face—or perhaps it was a sudden anxiety; I can read all sorts of things into that expression, knowing what I do now.

"I can't explain Mike. Let me call tomorrow, find out more. It could be totally wrong."

Her last sentence was hardly convincing, but I let things go at that. It was peculiar, but I was beginning to have a good feeling about the cottage myself.