I sat at the kitchen table with my cup of tea and Cornish pasty staring at the big green oveny thing in the corner. I was really going to have to get the hang of it sometime soon. And keys. I needed keys to the back door. I decided I would have to pop into Glastonbury to see the letting agents. They also might be able to shed light on mad Spanish women.
Chapter Three
I parked the car in the car park next to Glastonbury Abbey. I pulled yet another twig from the rear wiper, I thought I'd got them all when I'd disentangled the car from the drive. Hunter and Parks Estate Agents were located halfway up the hill between a Wiccan Bookshop and a Fairy's Crystal Grotto. I pushed on the green painted door. They were closed. A notice on the door informed me they didn't open until ten. I checked my watch, half past nine. I looked up and down the street. It appeared that most of the shops were still closed. Obviously, Glastonbury has its own time zone that doesn't entirely agree with Greenwich. I moved down a few doors and found an open bookshop that was displaying one of my graphic novels in the window. Issue 168, The Falconer faces Steel Wind. I was particularly proud of that one. Steel Wind had been one of my best villains, a creature that morphed into a wind capable of cutting through anything or anyone in its path. I went inside.
The shelves were stuffed with books on Druids, Fairies, Witches, Stonehenge, Camelot and every conceivable permutation thereof. 'The Fairies of Camelot march on Stonehenge'. One complete section was given over entirely to alien abductions. I leafed through one book that explained how Buddha had been abducted by aliens as a child which explained his profound wisdom. There were maps and birth charts, family lineages and even the results of a DNA test on some hair found in his hut that had just been discovered. All very scientific, meticulous research, and as far as I could tell, complete and utter bollocks.
As a writer of fantasy, I do try to keep an open mind on these things but some people are just taking the piss. 'Aliens Have Secret Base Under Stonehenge' another book informed me in bold print and underneath, 'Government Covers Up Invasion'. I checked my watch and continued browsing. A section at the far end attempted to deal with slightly more grounded subject matter. Stephen Hawking nestled alongside Brian Cox and Michio Kaku. I picked up a copy of 'A Brief History of Time' which I had always meant to read but had never seemed to find the time. Maybe now I'd find time to catch up on all the things I'd promised myself over the years. Learn to play the guitar or take up fishing. I took the book to the counter and paid for it.
Although it was now just after ten, the estate agent’s door remained closed. I continued up the street and wandered through the first open shop doorway. My nose was immediately assaulted by the heavy musky scent of burning incense. A woman in a long stripy caftan stopped arranging exotic birthday cards to greet me.
“Welcome to The New Dawn,” she said. I assumed that was the name of the shop and not an announcement of some apocalypse I'd missed by not listening to the 'Today Programme' this morning.
“Thank you,” I said and meant it. She seemed genuinely pleased that I was in her shop. The simple wooden shelves held an astounding selection of the most esoteric and downright bizarre items I had ever seen in a single shop. Twisted wooden wands and tarot cards jostled for shelf space alongside boxes of crystals and porcelain fairies. One shelf held simple Ordnance Survey maps of the area and guide books and another held leather bound spell books and ceremonial daggers. A large blue crystal on a silver chain caught my eye. It flashed brilliant shafts of colour in the morning sunshine. I picked it up and it felt oddly familiar in my hand.
“That belongs to you,” the woman said.
“How much is it?” I asked, feeling its smooth surface under my fingers.
“I can't sell it to you,” she said. “But if you would like to donate... say fifteen pounds as I've been looking after it for you for all these years then that would be in balance.”
It was certainly the strangest sales technique I'd ever encountered, and I frequented Camden Market regularly so I thought I was wise to every ploy going.
“Oh, okay. Thank you.” I kept hold of the crystal and continued to browse. I found some sandalwood joss sticks, a book of local folklore and guide to the wildlife of the Somerset Levels.
“Your aura is badly damaged,” the woman said as she bagged up my purchases. “You need to take care.”
“I'll try,” I said. I watched her as she rang my purchases and donation through the till. Her hair was long and sun streaked and accented her tanned skin. I guessed her to be in her early forties.
“Take some of this with your morning tea.” She dropped a tiny brown bottle into the bag.
“How much is that?” I asked reaching for my money again whilst admiring her sales ability.
“Take it,” she said. “I can't take money for healing. It doesn't work.”
“Not even a donation?” I asked with what I hoped was light, humorous cynicism.
“Not even a donation.” Her smile told of mischief. She handed me the bag.
*****
By the time I had ambled back down the street again, Hunter and Parks had finally deigned to join the rest of the world of commerce and opened their doors. Two desks faced the front door, each with a chair in front. I sat at the desk behind which a slightly balding man in a blue striped shirt and red tie did his best to ignore me. I pushed some leaflets around the desk and eventually he looked up. “How may I help you?” he asked
“My name's Faulkener, you're managing a property for me?”
“Oh, what's the address?” He sat with fingers poised over his keyboard. I gave him the address and he tapped the keys. “Here we are, Tinker's Cottage. What can I do for you?” He slid his half moon glasses down his nose so he could look at me from across the top of them.
“I want to take it off your books,” I said.
“Oh dear. Why is that?” He seemed genuinely hurt.
“Well, firstly you haven't managed to secure me a single long term let in three years and secondly, I'm moving in there anyway.”
He clicked more keys and pushed the mouse around a bit. “Hmm, we do appear to have had some difficulties with that particular property. Strange place.”
“What do you mean?” I felt defensive all of a sudden. Which was silly really as I'd only had the place a couple of days.
“Well, one has to wonder what became of that American family. And then there's the previous owner, a Miss... Taverstock? Strange business.” He pushed the mouse to one side and studied me over the screen.
It was true, nobody had ever been quite sure what had happened to Aunt Flora. The milk had piled up outside the door over nearly a week until the police had been summoned to force an entry. The place had been deserted and all had seemed as it should be except the back door had been forced. At first it was assumed to be a bungled robbery and then perhaps a kidnapping. Although why anybody would want to kidnap a sixty-five-year-old recluse with no real family was beyond any sense of reason. But the end result was she never turned up. After the statutory seven years the coroner declared her dead and the will was actioned. Which is how I'd come to be the current owner of Tinker's Cottage.
“Contrary to what Agatha Christie may posit, rumours and mystery never really help the letting potential of a property, you know,” the estate agent continued.
“I'd have thought mystery was just what most folks came to Glastonbury in search of?” I said. He was beginning to annoy me and I felt an overwhelming desire to staple his tie to the keyboard.
“Not usually our client profile. The ones who come looking for mystery, in my experience mostly come in tents.” He moved to a large filing cabinet and flicked through the racks of folders. “Here we are.” He dropped a large brown envelope on the desk as he sat down again. “I think you'll find everything in order.”
I picked up the envelope. A small typed label at the top read; Tinker's Cottage HP0023421.
I opened it up and peered inside. Two sets of keys and various bits of paper.
The man stood and held out his hand. “We shall send our account in due course, Mister Faulkener.”
I stood but ignored his hand. Just as I reached the door I remembered the mad Spanish woman. “The cleaner,” I said. “Will you arrange to stop her?”
The man looked puzzled. “We haven't had the cleaners in there for over two months.”
“But I met her yesterday, Spanish woman?”
“You must be mistaken, Mister Faulkener. We use Eco Angels cleaning services and as far as I know they are all English. And anyway, as I said, we terminated their contract two months ago with regard to Tinker's Cottage.”
I left Glastonbury in a bit of a daze, wondering if the place always had that effect on people.
*****
I thought that with a bit more caution I might just manoeuvre the car up the drive this time. I thought wrong but I did succeed in getting it jammed a bit further along. That was going to be a pig to get out tomorrow. I pushed my way through the undergrowth and unlocked the front door. The phone was ringing as I entered. I dumped my bags on the kitchen table and grabbed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Ian? Are you all right?” asked Tania, my full time Literary Agent and one-time lover.
“Of course, why the worry?”
“I've been trying to ring you all morning. Tried your mobile as well.”
I pulled my mobile from my pocket and studied it. “Ah, sorry. Battery's dead.”
“I was worried. Your email yesterday sounded odd.” Tania had a sixth sense that often unnerved me. We had spent two glorious years together until I had finally trashed our relationship, along with most of her kitchen, in a fit of alcoholic temper that would have made The Incredible Hulk look cuddly. Shortly after that I started seeing goblins and from there it was a short run to the Ealing Hospital Special Unit for the bemused and bewildered.
“I'm fine,” I said. “Just been into Glastonbury to sort out the paperwork for the cottage. Some confusion over cleaners... and cats. But mostly alright.” I pulled the crystal from the paper bag as I talked. It felt friendly in my hand.
“Why the delay with number 172? Why are you stalling?”
“I might be... I was thinking about...” How could I tell her I wanted to kill off The Falconer? I know she's moved on now and living with somebody called Aaron but The Falconer kept us talking. And in some perverse corner of my pre-breakdown brain I still held on to a twig of hope. “I thought I might take a break for a couple of months... er... weeks.” I finished lamely.
“Well just as long as you're alright. I still worry you know.”
We finished with the usual banal pleasantries that only ex-lovers can do and I switched the phone off. I found I'd been holding the strange blue crystal. It seemed to glow ever so slightly in my hand. Hippy nonsense. I placed the crystal on the table.
Loud chattering outside the window snagged my attention. The magpie sat on the empty bird table and was in full telling-off mode. I emptied the envelope from the estate agent and picked up the keys. After trying every key of both sets in the back door at least twice I gave up and threw them on the table. “Sod it!” Still no back-door key. I looked for the bag of birdseed and realised I'd left it in the lounge when I'd been confronted by mad Spanish woman. I went through into the lounge to retrieve it but it was nowhere to be seen. I was sure I'd put the packet on the coffee table when she'd started screaming at me. I looked around again. No, definitely a birdseed free zone. That meant that not only had the crazy woman broken into my house to clean it for my dead aunt, but she had also stolen my fucking birdseed!
Back in the kitchen I crumbled some bread onto a plate and headed out the front door and round the back. The magpie had disappeared by the time I'd got there, probably lurking in the bushes waiting for me to leave the food and go again. I piled the bird table high and went back inside. I returned to the kitchen and looked through the window. The magpie was still nagging and pattering around on the now empty bird table.
“Look, I don't know what you keep doing with it.” A loud meow drew my attention to the corner of the kitchen. Anticat sat by her empty bowl. “Or you!” I said as I emptied more cat nuggets into her bowl. “You've either got an eating disorder or there's more than one of you.”
I left Anticat to her munching and Magpie to his chattering and turned my attention to the oven. Pizza. I stared at the big green beast. Fill it with wood, set it on fire, put pizza in. How hard can that be?
After an hour I discovered just how hard that could be. The big green monster had eaten all my wood and had barely defrosted the pizza. I removed the warm soggy mess just as the flames from the oven died away. I stared at the pizza for a moment before consigning it to the rubbish bin and heading off for The Camelot.
*****
The chalkboard behind the bar informed the world the special of the day was Locally Sourced Meat Pie and Seasonal Vegetables. I ordered the special and carried my pint of Old Grumbler over to the table by the window. The early afternoon sunshine forced me to squint as I watched the comings and goings of Trembly folk. A pair of large German Shepherds were taking a petite woman in a pink trouser suit for a walk up the main road. The trio nearly collided with a small red-faced woman in blue dungarees coming the other way. They stopped as they met and there followed such animated chatter as to make Magpie look positively laconic. My mind played with the image of the woman in the pink trouser suit. A fiery valkyrie from hell on a chariot drawn by two demon wolves bursts free from the underworld. She'd make a great villain.
My Locally Sourced Meat Pie and Seasonal Vegetables arrived. The pie appeared to be one of the Cornish pasties from the farm shop and I'm sure the sweetcorn and peas were seasonal when they were frozen so I'll have to give The Camelot credit at least for creative advertising copy. But then again, my knowledge of what's seasonal or local is somewhat confused by the fact that at home I can pop down to the corner shop on Christmas Eve and find fresh mangoes and kangaroo meat. I took a long draft from my Old Grumbler, I was developing a taste for that, and placed the glass on the small table. A large brown handbag appeared next to it and wobbled the table slightly. I gazed up in the direction from which the handbag had appeared.
“You'll be that comic man from London what's got Flora's place,” the owner said.
I smiled my best 'nice' smile and tried to keep the calm in my voice. A year of therapy taught me to keep the calm in my voice. “Yes, she left it to me in her will. And it's graphic novels, not comics. And you'll be...?”
“Miss Timkins, Tabitha. Everybody calls me Beth.”
I placed my knife and fork on the side of the plate and studied the woman before me. She looked to be about sixty with flushed cheeks that hid in the shade of a large brown hat that appeared to match the handbag. “Nice to meet you, Beth,” I said. “I'm Ian, but I expect you knew that already.”
“Funny business, Flora. One moment she was there and the next... whoosh. Gone like as you please.” She pointed at my beer. “You not going to offer a lady one of those?”
“Pardon my manners,” I said. “I can't think what came over me.” I waved my arm and caught the attention of Arthur at the bar. “Can I have a half...” I glanced at Beth and read the look. “Sorry... a pint...” I looked at my own drink, still nearly full. To hell with it. “Make that two pints of Old Grumbler.”
“You know she was kidnapped by the gypsies up on the hill, don't you?”
“No, I'd not heard that one.” I'd heard many other equally ludicrous stories attempting to explain Aunt Flora's disappearance but I could honestly say I'd not heard the one about the gypsies on the hill. I speared a potato on my fork and was just raising it to my mouth when her hand grabbed my wrist, stopping the potato two inches from my mouth.
“They keep people in their caravans and then claim the social for them. What's a graphic novel when it's at home then?”
Her hand let go of mine and the potato finished its journey. Quite tasty. But I was so hungry I don't
think I'd have cared if it was raw. “A graphic novel is an art form. A comic is a kid's temporary amusement.”
“Never went much on art. I expect you'll be doing the place up to sell?”
I'd had conversations with dope heads high on amphetamines who had better skills in staying on the point. “No I plan on staying there. It seems like a nice area.”
“You'll need to get that garden under control then.”
“So I've been informed. But that comes some way down the list behind cooking facilities and doors.”
“My boy knows all about doors.” Arthur planted the two pints of Old Grumbler on the table and sat down with us. Great, this was turning into a village meeting. “Been on a retraining course he has,” Arthur continued.
“A course on doors?” I stared from Arthur to my meal and wondered if I'd ever get to finish it. I reached for my beer and pulled deep.
“One of these government courses. Retraining for The New Millennium or something I think.”
“Doors?” I asked. “A government training course in doors?”
“They do these courses in all sorts now,” Beth said. “My sister did one in oyster farming once.”
“Is that your sister Alice?” Arthur asked.
“No, Daisy. You know, she lives in Birmingham now.”
I finished my second beer in one, picked up what remained of my Cornish pasty and headed for the door. “Got to dash,” I said. “I left something on the... er... green thing... cooking machine.” I realised I was probably being rude but if I stayed any longer there was a high likelihood of blood and a return visit for me to the nice people in the Ealing Special unit. I paused momentarily at the door and looked back at the table to see how much offence I'd caused. My seat had already been taken by George and all three seemed deep in conversation, apparently my departure unnoticed. I slipped through the door and into the late May sunshine.
I made my way back to Tinker's Cottage and clambered across the roof of my stranded car. As I opened the front door to the cottage, I realised Postie had been. Reader's Digest have allocated me a prize, British Telecom seemed genuinely upset because I'd left them and the estate agents had already sent a bill for their services. 'Services' seems such an optimistic word in relation to what they actually achieved. I thought I'd tell them that and decided to write them a note to go with the cheque. Paper, there must be some paper in this place. I went through the kitchen drawers and opened all of the cupboards. As soon as I opened the cupboard containing the cat food I heard a 'Meow' and felt something rubbing around my ankles. The cat food cupboard door obviously has a silent alarm that registers only in the cat frequency. Another meow and I found myself holding the box of cat food and realised I had no conscious memory of taking it out of the cupboard. Remote psychic programming or something. These things had powers we humans can't even begin to comprehend. I bent down to feed Anticat some of the dried nuggets. Only it wasn't Anticat. This was a pure white cat. Pink nose, pink tongue and the most remarkable blue eyes.
Schrodinger's Cottage Page 3
