The Magic Cottage

GRAMARYE

YOU'VE SEEN the film, you've read the book. You know the one—there've been so many: The young couple find the home of their dreams, the wife's ecstatic, the husband's happy but more controlled; they move in, the kids (usually one of each) tear around the empty rooms. But we know there's something sinister about the place, because we've read the blurb and paid our money. Slowly, THINGS start to happen. There's something nasty in the locked room at the top of the old creaky stairs; or something lurks in the cellar below, which is possibly itself the Gateway to Hell. You know the story. At first, Dad's oblivious to his family going nuts around him—he doesn't believe in the supernatural, or things that go splodge in the night; to him, there really is No Such Thing as a Vampire. Until something happens to him, that is. Then all hell breaks loose. You know it like you wrote the story yourself.

Well, this is similar. But different. You'll see.

We drove down to Cantrip the following Tuesday (our work-style allows such freedom), Midge having called the number in the ad the day before and finding it belonged to a real estate agent. He'd told her a little more about the cottage, not much, but enough to increase her enthusiasm. At present it was unoccupied, the owner having died some months earlier; it had taken this long to have the deceased's affairs sorted out before the property could be put on the market. Midge was on edge throughout the journey and kept telling me she didn't expect too much, the place would no doubt be a huge disappointment, but it did sound interesting from the agent's description, it could just turn out to be ideal . . .

The journey took a couple of hours or so, maybe closer to three by the time we'd taken a few wrong turns looking for the village of Cantrip. Still, the scenery, once we reached the New Forest with its wood- and heathland, was worth the long drive in itself. We even came upon herds of ponies and, although we didn't actually catch sight of any deer, there were plenty of signs telling us they were about (and for a city-bred boy, that's almost as good as the real thing). The weather was May-fine, the air crisp and bright. We'd kept the windows of the hatchback down once we were off the last highway, and despite her barely-hidden apprehension, Midge had joined me in choruses of Blue Suedes and Mean Womans and the like (I was going through my old rock period that morning, my musical mood varying from day to day). The fresh air was making me hoarse before we saw the village ahead.

I have to admit, Cantrip was a bit of a letdown. We'd expected thatched roofs, old inns, and a village green with its own rusty-handled pump—National Trust stuff: what we got was a fairly uninteresting high street whose houses and shops must have been built around the late twenties or early thirties. No, it wasn't quite that bad on closer inspection—there really were some ancient properties of crumbling character among the less-old structures—but the overall impression was pretty drab. I could feel Midge's heart sink.

We crossed the bump of a small bridge and drove into the high street, keeping our eyes peeled for the real estate agent's and our disappointment to ourselves. We found his office jammed between a post office-cum-grocer's and a butcher's shop, the frontage so small we'd gone past before Midge tapped me smartly on the shoulder and indicated.

"There!" she cried, as though she'd discovered the Missing Link.

A cyclist wobbled by, scowling because of the car's sudden halt. I shrugged a friendly apology and pointed at Midge so that she could take the blame, but didn't catch his grumbling response. Probably just as well: he looked a mean local.

After reversing into a space, Midge and I left the car and strolled to the agent's office, Midge suddenly nervous as a kitten. Now this was something new to me. We'd been together a long time and I was used to her occasional skittishness, especially when she'd accepted a new commission (I should have mentioned that Midge is an illustrator, and a damned good one, specializing in children's books: you'll see her work on the shelves alongside Shirley Hughes and Maurice Sendak, although you'd know her as Margaret Gudgeon), but nervous of a brick-broker? I quickly realized it wasn't the agent but the prospect of viewing the cottage thai had unsettled her. Hell, the mood had been building from Sunday through to now, and I couldn't understand why.

I pulled her to a stop before pushing open the door and Midge looked at me distractedly, her attention more involved in what lay beyond the glass.

"Take it easy," I told her softly. "There'll be plenty more for sale and we may hate this one anyway."

She took a quick breath, squeezed my hand and went in ahead of me.

Inside, the office was less cramped than it should have been, because although narrow, the single room stretched back a fair way. Pictures and details of properties covered the length of one wall like badly pasted wallpaper. An ample-sized secretary thrashed a typewriter just inside the doorway, while further down a man in a neat gray suit and thick black-rimmed glasses, seated behind an untidy desk, looked up.

I peered over Midge's shoulder and said, "Mr. Bickleshift?" (Yeah, I promise you.)

He appeared not to mind his own name, because he smiled broadly. No, not really; I think he just liked the look of Midge.

"Yes indeed," he said, rising and waving us forward.

I nodded at the secretary, who had stopped clattering to give us the once-over as we passed, and I might just as well have greeted a sullen whale for all the expression she showed.

"You'll be Mr. and Mrs. Gudgeon," Bickleshift surmised, reaching across his desk to shake Midge's hand then mine. He designated two chairs angled toward him on our side.

"No. She's Gudgeon, I'm Stringer." We both sat and the agent glanced from face to face before following suit.

"Then it's only you, Miss Gudgeon, who is looking for a property." I'm not sure, but he may have said Ms. just to show he was part of the new order.

"We both are," Midge replied. "And it's the cottage advertised in the last Sunday Times that we want to see. I told you on the phone."

"Of course. Flora Chaldean's roundhouse."

We both raised our eyebrows and Bickleshift smiled.

"You'll understand when you see the place," he said.

"And Flora Chaldean—she's the woman who owned the cottage?" asked Midge.

"That's correct. Rather an, er, eccentric old lady. Well-known hereabouts, something of a local character, you might even say. Well-known, but not much known about her. Kept very much to herself."

"You told me she'd died . . ." said Midge.

"Yes, some months ago. Her only surviving relative was a niece living in Canada. They'd never met, apparently, but Mrs. Chaldean's solicitor eventually traced the niece and advised her of her inheritance as next-of-kin. I imagine there was a small amount of money left also, but I doubt it amounted to much: I understand Flora Chaldean led a very frugal existence. The niece instructed the solicitor to sell up and send on the proceeds."

"She didn't want to see the place herself?" I asked.

Bickleshift shook his head. "No interest at all. However, Flora Chaldean was sufficiently concerned about the fate of her cottage to have a certain proviso inserted into the Will regarding its sale."

Midge looked anxious all over again. "What kind of proviso?"

The agent's smile widened to a grin. "I don't think it's anything for you to worry about." His hands came up and flattened themselves on the desktop so that for a moment, with elbows bent sideways, he resembled a bespectacled grasshopper. "Now," he said breezily, "I suggest you take a look at the cottage, then we'll discuss the details if you find you're interested."

"We are already," Midge responded and my foot flicked at hers: no need to appear too keen before bargaining started.

Bickleshift reached into a drawer and brought out a set of keys, three in all, old and long, attached to a ring and labeled. "The cottage is empty, of course, so feel free to have a good look round. I won't accompany you unless you specifically want me to; I always feel clients prefer to inspect on their own and discuss things freely between themselves."

It was Midge who reached for the keys and she grasped them so reverently you might have thought they were the Keys to the Kingdom.

"Fine," I said to Bickleshift. "So how do we get there?"

He drew us a quick map which was simple enough provided (as he stressed) we didn't miss the small turn-offs. Then we were on our way.

"Okay," I said as I steered through a winding lane, a leafy canopy overhead subduing the light and cooling the air. "I still don't get it."

Midge looked at me curiously, but she knew—oh, she knew—what I meant.

"You act like you're already in love with the place." I tapped the wheel with the back of my hand. "C'mon, open up, Midge. What's got into you?"

Her fingertips sank into the hair at the back of my neck and she lightly stroked; yet her voice was a little distant. "Just a feeling, Mike. No, more of a conviction that it's going to be all right for . . . for us."

The slight pause didn't go unnoticed by me. "Then how come I don't feel the same?"

She was back with me, eyes shining with humor. "Oh, probably because anywhere that isn't within walking distance of a pub, a Big Mac, and a three-in-one cinema isn't civilized to you."

I was hurt. "You know I want to get out as much as you."

She gave a short laugh. "Perhaps not quite as much, but all right, I admit your values have changed recently. I'm not sure our complaining neighbors haven't had something to do with that, though."

"Yeah, I'll agree I need somewhere to play when I want and as loud as I want, but that's not all of it. And anyway, I didn't appreciate their noise too well, either."

"Nor me. Or the traffic, or the dust—"

"—or the hustle—"

"—and the bustle—"

"—Let's get away from it alllll—" we harmonized, putting our heads together.

When she'd stopped giggling, Midge said, "It's true, though. Sometimes I think the whole city's going to collapse in on itself."

"You could be right." I was busy looking for a turning on the left, one of those that Bickleshift had warned us not to miss.

"I know it's weird," she went on, lifting from her lap the information sheet the agent had given us, "but when I looked through the paper on Sunday, this place seemed to fly out at me. I couldn't concentrate on any others, my eyes kept coming back to this one. It was as if everything else was out of focus."

I moaned, long and low. "Midge, Midge, I hope you're not going to be disillusioned."

She didn't reply, just looked straight ahead. And suddenly I wanted to turn the car around and go back the way we'd come, and keep on going, right back to the smoky old city. A shiver of premonition? Yeah, I think it was. But such things were uncommon to me then, and I thought the feeling was only cold feet at the prospect of moving out. Maybe she'd been right: I wasn't ready yet for the little house on the prairie.

Of course I kept going. What kind of fool would I have looked if I'd U-turned? What good reason could I have given? I loved Midge enough to make changes in myself and I knew that what was good for her would eventually become good for me. She had values and motives that I admired and loved her for, and I'm not too proud to say that I felt a need to acquire some of those ideals for myself. I'd had too many good times and not enough right times. She made right times.

The turn I was keeping an eye out for soon materialized and the agent had been correct—it was easy to miss. I slowed the car, almost coming to a stop to take the sharp corner. Our Volkswagen Passat used up most of the road as it gathered speed, and we were still in a wooded area, trees brimming the lane right up to the edge. The roadway dipped and curved too, and Midge loved every yard we covered, her eyes alight, while I concentrated on taking the bends, occasionally stealing glances at her happy face.

"Shouldn't we have reached the cottage by now?" I was beginning to wonder if I hadn't taken the wrong turn.

Midge consulted the sketched map. "Shouldn't be far—"

I'd slammed on the brakes, an arm automatically stretching across Midge's chest to hold her back even though she was belted in. She rocked with the car and turned to me in surprise.

"Will you look at the nerve of that guy." I indicated the road ahead with a nod.

The squirrel was sitting upright slap-bang in the middle of the road, nibbling an acorn or something between its paws, pale tan-to-white tail fluffed up behind. The little devil didn't appear to be oblivious of us—it kept darting its tufty head in our direction—but we didn't seem to bother it any.

"Oh, Mike, he's gorgeous!" Midge was leaning forward as far as her seat belt would allow, her nose only inches away from the windscreen. "He's a red. I heard they were coming back to this part of the country. Oh, he's lovely!"

"Sure, but he's—it's—taking up the road." I was about to thump the horn, but Midge must have read my mind.

"Let him stay there for a moment," she urged, "he'll move on soon enough."

I sighed, although I quite enjoyed the sight of the furry little brute munching its lunch.

Midge clicked free of her seat belt and peered out of the side window, smiling all the while. That was just too much for our friend: he dropped the acorn and scampered off.

I couldn't help but laugh. "Terrific. It didn't turn a hair at this great, noisy, metal monster, but your grinning face sent it into shock."

Then I had to eat my words. The squirrel streaked back, retrieved its lunch, looked our way for a second, and hopped up to the Passat on Midge's side.

"Hello," Midge said nicely.

I couldn't see, but it might have smiled back. I leaned over and just caught sight of the stirring of undergrowth as the squirrel departed once more. I expected Midge to give me one of her smug smirks, but there was only immense and innocent pleasure on her happy face. I pecked her cheek, amused, and shifed the automatic gearshift into D. "Onward," I said.

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

We soon came clear of the trees, rough grass shoulders 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