It was easy to appreciate why Midge was so susceptible to Mycroft and his phony promises.
Her drawing board loomed in the semidarkness, surface angled, the painting held flat against it. Without looking, I knew the moonlight was illuminating the picture in its own eerie fashion, creating a different texture, maybe yet another spooky dimension. I wasn't curious enough to take a peek.
Black shapes skittered across the floor to give me a start, hut I quickly realized that several of our night friends upstairs were leaving the roost, their winged bodies caught in the moon's glare, their shadows cast into the room. The sandwich consumed, I rose from the sofa, taking the drink with me, and wandered over to one of the tall windows, skirting the drawing board and studiously avoiding looking down at the painting.
The landscape outside was washed in that special brightness that had nothing to do with warmth, but a lot to do with ice and bleakness. So colorless was the grass that the expanse appeared frosty, and so deep were the shadows beneath individual bushes and trees that they were like black voids. The forest top wore an undulating silver-gray cover, an impenetrable layer over catacombed darkness.
I sipped milk, and liquid cold soaked into me. My eyes reluctantly scanned the dark boundary of woodland, looking for something I didn't want to find. Discerning a lurking figure would have been impossible anyway, so concealing were the shadows, but that didn't stop me searching, and the knowledge didn't even prevent a sigh of relief when I found nothing.
That relief was premature, though. Because my attention was drawn to something standing midway between the forest and the cottage. Something I didn't remember having been there before.
It was so still it could have been nothing more than a tall bush. But a pallid blob at the top of the motionless shape that could only have been a face said otherwise.
And another smaller whitish shape that now slowly rose up could only have been a hand.
And that hand beckoned me.
NOBODY THERE
I WAS SCARED. No, I was bloody terrified. But I'd also had enough aggravation for one day. I was hurt that I'd been accused of doping, confused by the afternoon's hallucination, and sick of being intimidated by this mystery onlooker who didn't have the nerve to knock on the door and properly introduce him- or herself. All that combined into anger inside me, which rapidly began to boil over.
I think dropping the glass of milk on my toes precipitated (he final eruption.
With a shout of rage, I ran for the door, hopping the first few steps because of the pain. Shooting back the bolts with as much noise as I could make (Midge managed to sleep through all this), I yanked open the door, and then I was out there in the night, racing back around the cottage to the side where the figure waited, slipping on grass still wet and mushy from the day's rain, robe flying open so that air rushed in at my exposed body.
I didn't care, though; enough was enough. I was going to sort out this bloody watcher in the woods once and for all. Forget about discarnate beings and women in black and shrouded apparitions and something wicked this way comes and psycho and omen and exorcist and the evil fucking dead—I was going to confront the beast that wasn't a beast at all but somebody playing silly bloody games at my expense. Whatever fear may have been in me was easily overwhelmed by a furious indignation.
I pounded across the open stretch, ignoring sharp stones or twigs that painfully stuck to the soles of my feet, enraged sufficiently to leave caution well behind.
But I was running out to nobody.
I made for the precise spot where the figure had loitered, judging the position by the line of the window I'd gazed from and a low clump of bushes to the left. I swiveled my head around without breaking pace, not slowing until I reached the place where I was certain the figure had beckoned from.
He, she—or whatever—couldn't possibly have darted back into the woods, nor raced to the other side of the cottage. There wouldn't have been time. But where the hell was it? It couldn't have disappeared into thin air.
I kept running, perhaps more in an effort to keep up my flagging bravado than anything else, scooting around nearby trees, swiping at bushes to flush out anything hiding there. Something did run out from beneath one clump of foliage, in fact, scaring me half to death, but it was small and scurrying, an animal more frightened than me.
That little shock cooled me down a bit, and I stood there looking left and right, in front and behind, chest heaving as I wheezed in breaths, shoulders slumped and perspiration already becoming cold on my near-naked body.
I drew the robe around me as I sank to the ground. And there, squatting back on my heels, I howled in anguish at the moon.
COMPANY
WE WERE SITTING side by side on the bench around the back of the cottage, Bob and I, six-pack between us, the sun beginning to glow red. The evening was warm and bumble bees still droned, not yet ready for bed. Our girls were downstairs, tossing salad, slicing ham and probably making a lot of fuss over what was supposed to be a simple meal.
Bob poured himself another beer, surveying the darkening forest opposite. He shook his head. "It's so fucking rural."
I grinned at his discomfort. "I'll take you for a walk in the woods tomorrow morning."
"Not without a long string, you won't." He drank and settled back, squinting up at the sun, then quickly averting his eyes. "Don'tcha find it aggravating, all this peace and quiet? I mean, it's great an' all that, but doesn't it piss you off after a while?"
"You get used to it," I told him.
"Yeah, but don'tcha miss . . ." he searched for the appropriate word ". . . life?"
"There's plenty of that around here if you care to look."
"No, not that kinda life, not nature. I mean—life. Something to do."
"Funny enough, that hasn't been a problem. Sure, I get restless now and again—that's why I enjoyed our session so much this week—but we're close enough to Big Smoke to jump in the car and drive up for the evening."
"And how often have you done that since you've been here?"
"We've only just settled in, Bob. We haven't had time to start yearning for bright lights again."
He wiped a beer dribble from his chin. "Yeah, well, you could be right. This could be the ideal way to spend out your days, listening to the grass grow, watching the birdies build their nests. You could start weaving baskets for a bit of extra cash."
I chuckled at the wind-up. "If you think I'm gonna stand a whole weekend of this . . ."
He slapped my thigh, enjoying himself. "Only kidding, Mike, honest. I think you've made a good move, to tell you the truth. Might even do the same myself one day; I'll wait for a few gray hairs to come through first, though. Hey look, there's that bloody squirrel again. He don't care, do 'e?"
Rumbo had hopped into view from the embankment side of the cottage, obviously still curious about our company for the weekend. He'd been on the doorstep when Bob and his girlfriend had arrived an hour or so earlier, and had scuttled away, keeping his distance but not disappearing altogether. I was pleased that he seemed to have overcome his shock earlier in the week. However, I hadn't quite got over mine yet.
I'd toyed with the idea of confiding in Bob about what had happened on Thursday last, but somehow I couldn't imagine my old drinking buddy taking me too seriously. In fact, I knew bloody well he'd hoot his head off. Why hadn't I told Midge of my night excursion to confront that sinisterly beckoning figure? Because she was too full of a new expectancy (connected with Mycroft, of course), the episode with the "moving" painting already pushed to the back of her mind, and things between us were still a tiny bit strained. Press me harder and I'll tell you I had a few doubts about myself by now. I was no longer certain that I wasn't suffering from some form of mental aberration (call it new-environment neurosis if you like); it all seemed so unreal and fanciful in the cold light of day. To tell the truth, I'd decided to bide my time, see what developed. There was really little option to do otherwise, anyway.
Rumbo came c
loser, one eye on the stranger in our midst. Bob clucked his tongue as if encouraging a dog or a baby, and the squirrel's head jerked up; he regarded Bob with some curiosity for a short time, then boldly leapt onto the garden table where two empty beer cans had been left.
He peered into the triangular hole of one, almost toppling the can over. Steadying it witty his paws, he licked beer residue from the rim, much to Bob's delight.
"Love it, love it!" Bob shrieked. "An alcoholic squirrel. I can see you've done your best for pest control, Mike— turn 'em into alkies and let 'em drink themselves to death."
"Rumbo's no pest; he's one of the family."
Bob gave me an old-fashioned look, then grinned. He made no further comment.
I'd been looking forward to their visit, had, in fact, been slightly on edge with anticipation all day—a good feeling, I might add. Bob and Kiwi, and Big Val, who should be arriving at any moment, were our first invited guests to Gramarye, and Midge and I (despite her earlier reservations about Bob) were taking great pleasure from that. Now I was beginning to relax, the second beer and my friend's amiable company helping me settle. Rabbits had turned out for their before-bed frolics, although this evening they kept well clear of the cottage itself as if sensing there were strangers about, and a few birds flitted around like late-night shoppers. The breeze was minimal, and even that carried warmth with it.
I sipped beer and soaked up the atmosphere.
We had more drinks in the round room before dinner, all of us together this time, Midge sticking to lemonade and soda while the rest of us indulged in the stronger stuff. Her agent had arrived twenty minutes earlier, desperately in need of a stiff gin and tonic to help her get over the journey down. Big Val and Bob had met on one or two previous occasions and the banter between them had always been on a basis of jovial hostility. Bob liked women to be most definitely feminine and nonaggressive—Kiwi appeared to be a paragon in this respect—so Val was something of a problem for him. He started off by complimenting her on her heavy country brogues—"just right for yomping through pigshit," as he put it. She returned the compliment by admiring his pink leather tie—"ideal for throttling," she suggested.
Opening pleasantries exchanged, Midge and I toasted the health of our first "official" guests, and they in turn toasted our future happiness at Gramarye. We chatted generally for a while, but it was obvious that Val was impatient to inspect her client's latest work—her eyes had lit up when she'd walked in and spotted the drawing easel on the other side of the room—and she lost little time in sauntering over to it. The picture of the cottage was still taped there to the board, covered against dust by thin layout paper. I hadn't looked at it again since Thursday, but I watched the agent as she lifted the sheet, interested in her reaction. I don't know what I expected, but a frown wasn't it.
I caught the expression because I was watching closely; the frown quickly passed and Val smiled.
"Splendid," she opined. "Absolutely splendid."
For her, as a hard-bitten twenty-percenter, well used to works of excellence, that judgment was pretty nigh over-the-top, and Midge beamed gratitude.
"It's not for sale or anything," she said quickly. "Just something for Mike and me, a sort of reminder of our first weeks here. Gramarye's initial impact on us before we got too used to everything. You know how easy it is to eventually become blunted to even the loveliest things around you."
Val continued to study the painting as Bob and Kiwi crowded behind her.
"Oh yeah, that's something else!" Bob declared in his genuinely impassioned manner. "Take a look at it, darlin'. Now that's what you call bloody art. Not crumpet with one boob and three legs and a nose where an earhole should be."
"You obviously know what you like, Bob," said Val dryly.
Unsure of her, he nodded. "I like to know what I'm looking at.' And he looked too meaningfully at Val.
"How're the posters Midge did for the agency coming along?" I asked, to change the subject.
Val disengaged herself from the other two around the drawing board. "I've got first proofs in the car, actually— minis, of course, just for color correction. I thought we could look at them tomorrow, Midge, and you can mark any comments on them." She, too, was staying over, and working out sleeping arrangements hadn't been easy.
"Fine," agreed Midge. "Can't wait to see them."
"Bear in mind they're only first proofs. We've plenty of time to put them right."
"That sounds ominous."
"I know how particular you are. The art director's pleased, by the way. As a matter of feet, he's got more work lined up for you, but we'll discuss that tomorrow, too. Oh and Hamlyn want to discuss a new book."
"Seems like the heavy season's coming on," I remarked.
"That time of year, I'm afraid. Clients want to put work in progress before they go off on holiday."
"I'm still not ready to take on too much," warned Midge.
"We don't want you enjoying the leisures of country life for too long," said Val, flopping down on the sofa. "A lot of people would be very disappointed, especially your junior fans."
"Not to mention your friendly bank manager, God bless him," chimed in Bob, sitting deliberately close to Val so that she had to shuffle her broad bottom further along. "I suppose we are going to eat tonight, aren't we, or has Band Aid got to do another record? And I see the booze is running like glue." He waggled his almost empty glass at me.
With friends as obnoxious as Bob, any enemy could only be sweet. But I was used to him; he was an old habit with me, and they die hard, don't they? Besides, I knew part of his act was for the benefit of Val: he liked to rile anyone he couldn't get the hang of.
Kiwi tutted disgustedly at him, flicking her blonde hair back behind one ear. "Sometimes your manners are just an embarrassment," she scolded, nevertheless kneeling, then squatting on the floor beside him.
"It's my coarseness that makes me so lovable, am I right, Mike?"
I took the glass from him, replying, "Yeah, adorable. Same in here again?"
"A little heavier on the vodka this time. I'm not driving tonight."
"It makes a difference?"
He draped an arm around his girlfriend and smiled that close-lipped smug smile of his, the cat who'd not only had the cream, but knew there was more to come.
I sent out the mental message to him: Behave yourself tonight, pal, and don't let me down.
He didn't really. What happened later was only partly his fault.
Dinner was a great success.
The more wine we consumed, the more the conversation flowed. Bob and Val soon began to get the measure of one another, each jibe and riposte becoming more humorous and less antagonistic as the evening wore on. Salads were never my favorite fodder, but as Midge's agent was strictly vegetarian the menu had to suit all parties; besides, there was plenty of cold meat for us carnivores. The warm weather—we were seated around the kitchen table (spruced up somewhat by a lace tablecloth and red candles and things) with the outside door open wide to catch any breeze drifting our way—made such a meal even more appropriate. Kiwi proved to be a lot brighter than she looked (she refused to disclose how she had acquired that nickname, incidentally, but Bob hinted heavily and somewhat lasciviously that it had something to do with boot polish), and had no inhibitions whatsoever about telling us of her earlier years as a rock-band groupie (there's a great sociological study to be made some day by some learned professor on this particular species, because their motives are not entirely what you might expect).
More than once during the dinner I found myself watching Midge, her small-boned face transformed by candlelight from pixie to princess, almond eyes sparkling yet still soft with a beauty that came from somewhere inside. The steady flow of wine may have influenced my judgment to a degree, but the feeling was nothing new; I'd melted over the same indefinable quality many times before and in my most sober moments. So maybe I did put her on some kind of pedestal (and I was not alone in that), but I'd known her
long enough for any cracks to appear in that column by now. None had, not ever. Don't take me for a besotted idiot, though: I was aware of her faults and weaknesses, and they only made her more vulnerable, more human. Let's say they brought realism to the dream, made her more accessible to me. And one of the things that tied me so closely to her was that she saw some goodness in me; and that somehow made me freer, allowed me to expose my feelings more easily than ever before. Call me a romantic fool.
I was a fool on another count that evening also, for Bob, he of the cast-iron bladder, had popped upstairs to the bathroom a couple of times during the course of dinner and it was only on the second occasion that I noticed he was chewing on something when he returned. It didn't occur to me until later, when he was giggling over the silliest remarks, that he was disappearing so that he could cut off tiny segments of cannabis resin, wary of lighting a joint in the presence of his hostess whose antipathy toward drugs was well known within our circles. He obviously felt the need for a stimulant other than booze, and no wonder he was in such hearty mood.
I let it go, although I was anxious that Midge shouldn't discover what he was up to: I'd taken enough stick over the matter of drugs that week, and wrongfully so. Fortunately, she appeared oblivious, presumably putting Bob's affable manner down to good wine, food and company.
It was pretty late when we finally closed the kitchen door against the cooler night air and took ourselves upstairs, Midge remaining behind to make coffee. I'd bought a good brandy from the village liquor store that day and poured for Val, Bob and myself; I was unable to produce a Malibu for Kiwi, so she settled for vodka with "lots and lots of lemonade."
Magic Cottage, Das Haus auf dem Land Page 20
