Taking Bob from her, I slipped his arm around my neck, gripping his wrist tightly and sliding my other arm about his waist. We began an awkward descent and I was glad I'd cleared most of the moss from the steps. Even so, the stone felt slippery beneath me.
When my fingers brushed against the brickwork of the cottage itself, it too felt silky damp.
Twice my feet slid on the smooth steps, but both times I managed to keep upright, pushing Bob against the wall to steady ourselves. I breathed a sigh of relief when we made it into the garden.
The front door opened as we passed, throwing out some useful light, and Val appeared on the other side of Bob; she helped me guide him along the path, Kiwi running ahead to open the car. At the gate, I turned briefly and looked back at the cottage.
The black silhouette of Midge was in the doorway, so perfectly still that she could have been part of Gramarye's structure. It was a strange, fleeting moment.
We bundled our burden into the car, Kiwi quickly climbing into the driver's seat, and now Bob had his eyes closed. I tucked in his legs and before I straightened, my head close to his, he opened his eyes again and stared directly into mine. I still shudder when I remember that look (even (hough worse and more memorable events were to follow), because I saw not just his fear, but an intense and wretched despair within him. Looking into those eyes was like peering into a deep, shadowed well, at the bottom of which something indefinable in the darkness moved, writhed, reached upward in a gesture of pleading. The drugs he had taken that night had closed certain doors in his mind—which is their true effectiveness—but that had left exposed a direct passage toward other, more inward senses. Whatever he had faced, whatever he had imagined he'd seen downstairs in Gramarye's kitchen, had been drawn from his own darker thoughts.
I pushed myself away and quickly closed the passenger door, the interior light automatically switching off to hide his gaze.
I heard Val advising Kiwi to "drive very carefully," and then the car pulled off the grass shoulder and quickly gathered speed.
I wasn't sorry to see those red taillights disappear around the bend in the road.
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 f
reaked 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.
SPOILED ART
I COULD GET NO sense from her. I held Midge's arms and tried to calm her, but she could only shake her head, a few incoherent words emerging between sobs.
So I pulled her aside, as gently as possible, and took the stairs two at a time, stopping only when I was in the middle of the round room, looking left and right, turning my whole body around, then around again, searching for whatever had upset her so much. The room was now tidy, bed reconverted to sofa, and little evidence of last night's soirde remaining; the sun's rays blazed through the windows, glorifying walls and furniture. I could see the forest outside, presented as framed mosaics through the glass, green and lush, with no hint of threat.
I searched and found nothing out of place, nothing that could have caused Midge's distress.
I ran into our bedroom.
Empty.
The bathroom.
Empty.
The spare room.
Empty.
And back into the round room.
Where Midge, supported by her agent, now stood.
She was gesturing toward a window. No, toward the drawing board standing before the window. She seemed reluctant to go near it.
Val left her and strode across the room, and I quickly followed, catching up so that we reached the drawing board together.
And together we looked down at the picture of Gramarye, its overlay paper already turned back. I heard Val gasp, and perhaps I gasped too.
The painting was nothing more than a chaos of smeared colors, all shapes distorted and blurred, the picture's original vibrancy reduced to an ugly mess, made dull by the random mixture of pigments, a deranged artist's creation.
Even sunlight, reflected from its surface, failed to infuse any warmth.
ENTICEMENT
JUST TO ADD to our problems, Kinsella came knocking on the door a few days later.
I don't recall the time exactly, but I know dusk was vignetting into night and Midge and I had finished yet another melancholic meal only minutes earlier—I say another because there had been a marked lack of joy at Gramarye since the weekend, and you can guess why.
God only knows the impression Val Harradine had of us when she left for home later that Sunday, with Bob's strait-jacket antics, my Twilight Zone account of life in the country, and Midge's eventual melodramatic collapse into a weeping heap on the floor of the round room. Real Loony Times stuff. She must have thought—and who could blame her?—that there
was something in the breeze down there that induced brainstorms and paranoia.
I'll skip over the recriminations and further tearful scenes that Midge and I went through over the next few days, because they'd bore you (and thoroughly depress me); it's enough to say we barely came through it all with our relationship still intact. I tried desperately to make her face up to the fact that there were inexplicable mysteries about Gramarye and I think she inwardly agreed; but strangely, she would never admit to it openly, as if to do so would mean accepting that the cottage wasn't quite the dream she had so fervently sought and imagined she'd found.
She accused Bob, of course, of destroying her painting, and when I rang him he naturally denied such (denied it pretty strongly, actually). I believed him. Midge didn't.
I went over everything that had happened since arriving at the cottage—especially the rapid healing of my scalded hand (which she persisted in attributing to the wonderful powers of Mycroft)—time and time again, but she . . . well, like I said, you'd get bored. The outcome was that we'd arrived at an uneasy truce for the moment, neither one of us inclined to argue (or reason) any further.
So there we were, facing each other across the kitchen table, in the lull before nightfall, when came the knock on the door (by then we'd taken to keeping the door closed as soon as it began to get dark outside).
We looked at one another in surprise and I rose to answer it.
Kinsella stood on the step, hands tucked into the back pockets of his faded jeans, an easy grin on his too-bloody-handsome face.
"Hi, good to see you two again." He peered past me at Midge. "Hope I'm not disturbing supper."
Midge seemed glad to see him. "Not at all—we finished a few minutes ago." She joined us at the door.
"How's your arm, Mike?"
I begrudgingly held it up for inspection.
"Hey, looks good! Not a goddamn mark.'" His grin was well on the way to touching his earlobes. "No pain?"
Magic Cottage, Das Haus auf dem Land Page 22
