SCHRODINGER’S
COTTAGE
First Published in Great Britain 2013 by Netherworld Books an imprint of Mirador Publishing
Copyright © 2013 by David Luddington
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
First edition: 2013
Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflects the reality of any locations or people involved.
A copy of this work is available through the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-909224-50-6
Mirador Publishing
Mirador
Wearne Lane
Langport
Somerset
TA10 9HB
Schrodinger’s Cottage
By
David Luddington
Chapter One☺
For many writers the hardest part of writing is the opening line. I wish. I have hundreds of opening lines. I have a file on my laptop dedicated to nothing but opening lines. I have enough opening lines to fill two complete volumes, if only I could find a way of joining them all together. Nor is my problem the famous 'Writer's Block'. Tania always said I suffered the exact opposite, she used to call it 'Writer's Diarrhoea'.
No, for me it's the voices. The incessant voices that clamour for my attention, jabbering, making demands. To which ones do I listen? Do I listen to the characters in my comics who all seem to have their own opinion as to how they see my plots unfolding? Or do I listen to the ones that tell me to take all my clothes off in the Bluewater Shopping Centre and sing Bohemian Rhapsody from the upper balcony? In retrospect it seems such a simple choice but at the time I was slightly confused. Or mildly bewildered as I prefer to call it and not the alcohol induced borderline schizophrenic the therapist insisted on labelling me. Such an unfriendly label I feel.
Anyway, a year of therapy and a nice box of rainbow pills and I'm all sorted. Or at least I would be if only the voices would shut up. In an effort to make them I opted to move house.
Tinker's Cottage hides in a forgotten corner of the Somerset village of Trembly, not two miles from Glastonbury. It had been left to me by my aunt Flora some four years previously but the excitement of the big city meant I had ignored its charms and only ever visited it once. I'd tried to rent it out but the local agents seemed oddly reluctant and the place had remained empty.
After an exhausting drive down the M5, I nudged my car up the overgrown drive until nature completely overpowered us both and I had to abandon it and walk the last twenty yards. I pushed my way through a variety of bushes until the front door of the cottage peeped out between the hollyhocks and roses that fought for control of the porch. I only know they're hollyhocks and roses as that was the description given by the letting agents on the particulars, my knowledge of botany extends to bluebells and primroses, neither of which appeared to be resident in this garden.
I brushed the cobwebs clear of the lock and wriggled the key in the rusting hole. It turned easily and I pushed at the door. It gave a short squeak and then meowed. That was odd. Another meow and something brushed my leg. A large black cat pushed and weaved between my legs, tail proudly held high. I'd never really been a cat person, in fact I'd never done very well with pets in general. I tried tropical fish once complete with underwater castle and canons. But they kept eating each other so I gave up that idea and filled the tank with a set of model soldiers re-enacting the battle of Agincourt.
The cat purred and nudged my leg again. It wasn't an easy cat to look at. Its fur was so black that one’s gaze seemed to disappear into it. More like a cat shaped hole in space rather than an actual cat. A sort of an anti-cat I suppose. The cat shaped hole sat down and looked up at me. Two brilliant green eyes stared from the blackness. Another short meow, cat speak for something vitally important no doubt. I pushed the door open and ducked into the hallway. At five ten I’m not exactly tall but I could see a few bumped heads were likely to be coming my way.
My eyes attempted to compensate for the gloom as I fumbled for a light switch. My fingers located it just where it should have been and I clicked it on. Nothing, even repeated switching on and off had no effect. Damn! I pushed the door further open to allow maximum light then fumbled my way to the kitchen. I only tripped over the cat once. The light from the front door failed to reach the kitchen but my eyes were adjusting and I could just make out the cupboard which held the mains switches. I pushed the trip switch. Still no lights but a radio hissed and crackled into life from the next room. Woman’s Hour by the sound of it, extolling the virtues of a home birth with an Indian Head Massage as an alternative to drugs.
A bit more fumbling, another cat collision and I finally found the light switch. The kitchen flooded with light. Well, maybe not flooded but at least trickled. The forty watt bulb pushed bravely at the shadows lurking in the corners of the kitchen. I’d half expected inch thick dust and cobwebs everywhere but the place was remarkably clean. The letting agents had insisted I pay for a regular cleaning service to keep the place attractive for potential tenants, I’d always thought I was being taken for a ride, but maybe not.
I found the cause of the gloom. The bright June morning was being defeated by green wooden shutters on the outside of the kitchen window. I reached across the sink unlatched the window and pushed at the shutters. They didn’t move. Either age had embedded the catches or they were fastened from the outside. The cat slinked in and out of my feet, giving short meows followed by loud purrs. I glanced down and the luminescent green eyes caught my soul, demanding I do something with the empty silver cat bowl near my feet. My eyes scanned the room looking for anything I could drop into the bowl to keep this creature quiet so I could continue my explorations. I noticed a carton with a picture of a happy cat on it and emptied some of the contents into the bowl. The eyes looked at the bowl then back at me. They blinked in and out of existence a couple of times.
“Don’t ask me,” I said. “That’s all there is.”
The anti-cat seemed to understand and started crunching at the food. I turned my attention back to the window. I needed to let some light and fresh air into this place. I made my way back to the front door, switching on lights as I went. The path to the rear of the property was completely overgrown and I had to do battle with brambles and stinging nettles before I finally located the kitchen window. The shutters were latched on the outside by a small wooden lever. I swung the shutters open then headed back round to the front, opening two other sets of shutters on the way.
There was no sign of the cat when I returned to the kitchen but the bowl was empty. And the kitchen was still in gloom. I stared at the window not quite understanding. The shutters were still closed.
“Idiot!” I cursed. I must have opened the wrong shutters. Another battle with the garden and I found my way back to the window I had mistaken for the kitchen. I wondered to which room this window belonged and peered inside. It was the kitchen. That didn’t make any sense. I looked again, maybe there were two kitchens? No, it was the same kitchen, complete with one black cat staring at me from the worktop. Perhaps the shutters had swung shut in the wind or something. I pushed the shutters back against the wall and located them in the securing clips.
I returned to the kitchen only to find the gloom remained and the shutters still in place. If I didn’t have a certificate in my suitcase from the Ealing Psychotherapy centre testifying to my sanity I would have been having severe doubts about now. As it was, the niggly voices whispered at the door of my pre-conscious. They spoke of go
blins.
Grasping my sanity in a sudden act of decisiveness, I pushed hard at the window, forcing the catch on the shutters to give. The windows and shutters swung open and daylight poured into the room. I peered cautiously through the window, half expecting to see some teenage hoodie with a peculiar sense of humour, or at the very least a leprechaun or something. The garden was peaceful and apparently leprechaun free. The wind, of course that was it, just the wind. I’d heard Somerset was windy.
I went through the rest of the cottage forcing open the windows and shutters in each room. Sunlight followed me as I went from room to room, chasing my feelings of unease back into the dark corners. The cat was waiting for me when I made my way into the lounge and offered its help with the shutters. Well, maybe not help as such, more like stroll along the window ledge pushing the various ornaments to the floor. As soon as I had the window open Anti-cat slid through it into the garden and disappeared into the undergrowth outside. There was a lot of undergrowth out there, in fact the garden seemed to be mostly undergrowth interspersed with a few small less dense patches of what had probably once been lawn. I’d enjoy trying to bring that lot under control. The garden in my Ealing flat had consisted of a huge Torbay Palm in a Chinese pot set in the middle of a four foot square patio. I also had a barbecue and deck chair for sunny days, although the high buildings all around meant the sun only reached my patio in late June. I always felt a sort of kinship with the builders of Stonehenge as I awaited the coming solstice each year.
I glanced around the lounge. Most of Aunt Flora’s personal belongings had been taken into storage and replaced with an IKEA ‘Instant Home’ kit in readiness for the expected tenants. The blue and yellow striped curtains were slightly too long and ruffled on the floor. A glass coffee table and matching sideboard combined TV unit took over most of one end of the lounge. Against the rear wall, a blue futon served as both seating and extra sleeping facilities if bookings demanded it. They never did. The only booking I’d ever had was from a couple of American tourists who wanted to investigate the mysteries of Glastonbury. They disappeared after three days leaving behind a large pink suitcase, a wooden walking stick with a wizard’s head and something ominous in the refrigerator.
I sat back on the futon. Not bad. Comfortable enough for short breaks. I wondered again at the lack of bookings. The price was low enough; I’d reduced it twice, and the location perfect for exploring the Somerset levels and ancient stuff. There was a lot of ancient stuff round here I’d been reliably informed. Apparently, King Arthur is buried near here along with the Holy Grail, and I believe several caches of Roman gold. Although I do think the gold was just a myth put about by the locals to boost tourism. The cat purred on my lap as I stroked it. I hadn’t even noticed it arrive, how do they do that?
I wondered if Anti Cat had belonged to Aunt Flora or if it was a stray. A black cat would have suited her perfectly though, she always had been a bit odd. My eyes drifted to the huge stone fireplace half expecting to see a broomstick in the hearth but there was only a plastic imitation wicker log basket. I wondered if IKEA did logs. She hadn’t been a proper aunt of course, just one of those adopted ones that some families seem to pick up along the way. We had always visited her at Christmas and I was often left with her for the summer break when I was kid. I remembered looking forward to her presents with excitement and usually a slight degree of trepidation. Certainly not the usual socks or pencil set from Aunt Flora. Fossilised spiders, a strange green stone that glowed in the dark and one year a plant that ate flies. And left-over bits of turkey as I’d later discovered. Even until quite recently she’d continued to send me random gifts, not two months before she’d died, I received a CD with John and Julian Lennon playing a selection of old Beatles songs together, apparently recorded in 1987. It sounded remarkably authentic although these pirates really ought to get their dates right.
I glanced at my watch, but I needn’t have bothered as my internal timer is more precise than any atomic clock. One-minute past twelve. That meant I was allowed a lunchtime drink. Since deciding that I would never be able to maintain a life of abstinence I’d set myself rules. No alcohol until midday was Rule One. I left the windows open but locked the front door then fought my way back down the jungle path.
The Camelot was a small village pub in the great Somerset tradition. Eighteenth century whitewashed walls struggled to support a sagging thatched roof. A small garden in the front contained two wooden tables and the now obligatory smoking gazebo. The sign, the newest part of the building, depicted an image of a twelfth century castle. Until recently this place had gone under the identity of ‘The King’s Head’ but had changed its name in an attempt to pick up passing trade from any off-track Glastonbury pilgrims.
“You’re that fella what’s movin’ in to Flora’s cottage, aren’t you?” the barman greeted me. Ah, the rumour mill of a Somerset village, fastest known force in the universe. Einstein had got it all wrong. Sod the speed of light. A Somerset rumour would have time to stop and ask for directions and still be there at the other end with a cup of tea waiting for light to catch up.
“Thinking about it,” I said. “A pint of that please.” I pointed at a beer pump bearing the picture of a goblin hiding in some long grass. I hadn’t the faintest idea what it was but the picture was cool.
“One pint of Old Grumbler’s coming up.” He pulled the beer slowly and with the care of a master craftsman. “You a relative or something? Didn’t know she had any relatives.”
“Sort of.” I took the beer from the counter and sipped cautiously. It was thick, almost syrupy but with a sharp bite. Not bad. “She was my aunt.”
I carried my beer to a wooden table in the bay window. The table wobbled as I set the glass down, spilling drips of Old Grumbler’s across the dark oak surface. I mopped at it with a beer mat. Bright sunlight streamed through the window glinting off the damp surface. Apart from my table, there were six others and four stools arranged along the bar. All were empty, although it was still early I guessed.
“Funny old stick, Flora.” The barman seemed determined to engage me in conversation.
“One of England's great eccentrics,” I conceded.
“Regular as clockwork for her morning sherry, she was. Although sometimes it wasn't until the afternoon. Then other days we wouldn't see her until late evening.” He paused and thought for a while. Then, “Of course there were often times when we wouldn't see her for weeks.”
“More of an irregular regular then?”
The barman slammed both hands flat on the bar. I jumped and the table wobbled, spilling more Old Grumbler. “You must be, Ian!” he announced as if this had just been revealed to him in a vision.
“That's me,” I said mopping at the puddle with the soggy beer mat.
“She told me all 'bout you one time. You're that fella that writes comics.”
“Graphic novels actually.” I bristled. I hated the term 'Comics'. Made it sound like I spent my life creating inane stories for Tommy The Cat or some such pointless scribbling.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Name's Albert by the way. But everybody calls me Arthur.”
“Okay,” I said. “I'm Ian. Although of course you already knew that.” I pulled deep on the beer. The golden liquid ran round my veins. It was surprisingly strong and the day suddenly became more relaxed. I think I'll move to Spain, twelve o'clock comes an hour earlier there.
“On account of the name of the place you see,” he continued. “Pub's called Camelot, so everybody took to calling me Arthur.” He beamed proudly, obviously pleased with his nickname.
The door at the far end swung open and a man in green overalls entered catching Arthur's attention. I thanked the stars for the interruption.
I stared out of the window and watched the village go about its daily business. A couple of hippies with tatty rucksacks ambled past. The female, an attractive dark-haired woman in her early thirties, carried what appeared to be a sandwich toaster. I enjoyed people watchi
ng. They often gave me ideas for characters. I could create a whole back story in an instant when I spotted an interesting looking character. Observing people was fascinating. It was actual people contact that I hated and tried to avoid wherever possible.
“Been here seventy-two years, I have”, a raspy voice informed me. I turned to find the source was a small man in a blue suit three sizes too large. He sat at a small table near the fireplace. I hadn't seen him arrive. “And my father before me. Sixty-two years.” He turned to look in my direction. The turning of his head resembled that of an owl as the suit didn't follow his movement. His walnut face glowered at me and he continued. “I've still got his ladder.”
“I'm so pleased,” I said. “A good ladder is always worth hanging on to.” I hoped that gave an air of finality to this strange discourse. No such luck.
“He was given it when he left The Railway.”
“Unusual retirement present?” I lifted the beer glass only to find it was empty. My soul sank a little.
“You're that Londoner taking on Flora's cottage.” It was more statement than question.
“For a while, at least.” I studied the empty glass. Nope, it was definitely empty.
“Need to cut those trees back. Some of them are hanging over the lane.” His head rotated on the top of the suit again until it faced his beer. He took a long sip. “Had another Londoner here once. Didn't stay long though. Added all sorts of conservatories and pergolas and stuff to his house and then fifteen years later he was up and gone.”
Only one pint at midday, that was my rule. “Village life doesn't suit everybody I guess.”
“I hope you're not going to build a pergola, are you?”
The beer glass glistened with condensation and felt pleasingly cold to the touch. I briefly closed my eyes as I drank half of it down in one. Ah... Now, where had that come from? It's never a good sign when that happens.
Schrodinger's Cottage Page 1
