I found a gap in the hedge just up the lane from Tinker's Cottage and slipped through into the bottom of the field that led into the meadow. The grass had been newly mown and lay in lines across the field. The late afternoon sunshine made the hay smell sweet and a few butterflies danced before me as I walked. I was going to enjoy living here. Finding my way into the meadow from the field proved a little more difficult. As I pushed into a thick hedgerow, I realised there was a small stream dividing the fields and I had to follow this for a while before finding a place to cross. I would need to buy wellington boots if I was intending to do much of this field walking business. The meadow stretched out before me, rising up a slight incline into the distance. I stood for a moment struggling with a slight sense of unease before I realised what the problem was. There was no oak tree. Stupid idiot! I cursed myself. How could I have got that wrong? I pushed my way back into the first field to reorientate myself. My sense of direction is not the best, especially when my usual points of reference are underground stations but even I could see this was wrong. I'd come in from the field at the edge of the lane, a narrow field that I knew from the landing window lay between the road and meadow. No, I'd been right. I pushed back through the hedgerow and across the small stream, quite expecting this time the oak tree to be there. It had to be.
It wasn't.
A vague sense of fear prickled through my veins. The same fear I'd felt when the goblins had first appeared four years ago. The goblins that brought with them paranoia and night fears. Locked rooms and multi coloured pills. I walked towards the centre of the field where the oak tree should be. I kept an eye on my cottage over the field. I could see the landing window where my desk sat so I knew I was in the right place. I wandered about the meadow for a while until my feet scuffed a rough area. I stopped and looked down. The grass was longer here and covering a slightly raised circle of about six feet in diameter. I paused. The raised area was wooden and clearly the remains of a hollow tree. I gazed across to my cottage. I was standing in just about the position the oak should be. I suddenly realised I was caressing the blue crystal in my pocket. It brought a sort of strange calmness to this very odd situation. I must have been mistaken. I don't see things that aren't there, or were there once but not anymore, or might not have ever been there in the first place. I don't see vanishing trees... or goblins. I definitely don't see goblins. Not anymore.
I turned and started back to the gap in the hedge. I needed a drink and I didn't care that my internal clock told me I still had another forty-three minutes to go before I was allowed my afternoon beer.
Wayne's van was still parked in the lane, which was very odd. I retrieved my car and drove it carefully up my newly reclaimed drive. With a bit of gentle manoeuvring I even managed to navigate the tight right-hand corner at the top. I parked it in front of another wall of nature which I think concealed a garage. I'd have a go at that sometime soon.
Anticat number one, or it might have been number two, greeted me as I opened the front door. I went into the kitchen and dropped food in the bowl, she had me well trained. I sat at the kitchen table with the cold beer in my hand watching the birds swooping in to investigate the empty bird table before chirping loudly and swooping off again. They'd have to wait. I broke the seal on the beer and sank half of it in one. A magpie settled gracefully onto the bird table and the last of the little brown ones disappeared. I was really going to have to get a bird book. Magpie seemed to stare straight at me, I'd had no idea how demanding nature would be. I picked up the packet of seed and thought about the previous games these creatures had tormented me with. 'Quick, let's eat it all before he gets back in!' I put the birdseed down and tore a chunk off a loaf of bread, broke it into bits and lobbed it through the window in the general direction of the bird table. Magpie looked at me with what appeared to be a scowl. Assuming magpies can scowl of course, of which I wasn't sure. Another reason to buy a bird book. He flew down from the platform and picked up a piece of bread then headed off across the hedges. Again, it struck me as slightly odd there was no back door from the kitchen. I looked around and my eyes settled on a patch of wall where the plaster looked slightly raised. It certainly looked door-shaped. I wondered why somebody would block it up.
I replaced the empty beer and retreated to the lounge to search for a movie on the television. Three hours later I woke up to realise that was the second time I'd missed the end of Lord of The Rings. I made myself a quick supper in my new microwave, poured a good-sized gin and tonic then watched a couple of old sitcoms on Channel Four before going to bed. Studiously avoiding looking out of the landing window as I went.
Chapter Five
I awoke the following morning with a remarkably clear head and resolve to finish Issue 172 and perhaps tackle the jungle in the back garden. After copious amounts of coffee and toast I settled in front of the computer. But not before I'd closed the curtains on the small window that looked out over the meadow. And the nonexistent vanishing oak tree. I didn't want to think about that. I pulled up the storyboard for The Falconer 172 stared at it for a moment before opening a browser window and logging onto Amazon in search of bird books. There were over 105,000. This might take a while. I'd got as far as page ten, Garden Birds of Europe, when I heard a knocking from downstairs. That must be Wayne finally coming to pick up his tools. I headed downstairs and unlocked the front door. As I pushed the door open one Anticat slipped through my feet to go out and another slipped in, closely followed by Possicat. Apart from the random collection of cats the doorstep was empty. I stepped outside and looked around, there was certainly nobody there and I went back in and closed the door. I was just beginning to feel the touches of prickly panic when I heard the knocking again, this time I realised it was coming from the patio doors in the lounge. I scolded myself for my paranoia and took two calming breaths before heading for the lounge.
I hesitated as I stepped into the lounge. There was indeed somebody standing outside of the patio doors. My relief at finding that I wasn't imagining things was confused by the fact that somebody should choose to fight their way through the undergrowth to knock at the patio doors rather than the normal, and more accessible front door. Furthermore, the shape outside the door was that of a big man. I thought for a moment that it could be Wayne but his build was wrong. He looked vaguely familiar. The man tapped lightly on the door when he saw me approach and gave a little wave and a smile.
I'd always been taught not to open doors to strangers and this was about as strange as it got but still I found myself opening the double doors.
“Hello!” the man greeted. “Do you know who I am?”
That's generally not the first words you expect when somebody just turns up at your patio doors. 'Excuse me, I appear to be lost,' or perhaps, 'I've just moved next door and would like to borrow a cup of sugar.' But not 'Do you know who I am?'
“Erm, yes,” I said, hesitating for a moment. This had to be a strange dream or a television hidden camera stunt. “You're...” I studied the face for a moment. It wasn't quite right. “You're...” Could I bring myself to say it? “You're Stephen Fry?”
“Excellent! Yes indeed,” The man seemed quite excited that I'd recognised him and gave a little clap. Although there was something not quite right. The nose, that was it. He had a straight nose and Stephen Fry's was most certainly not straight.
“At least, you look like Stephen Fry,” I continued. “Are you his brother?” I suddenly realised this was a quite insane conversation to be having at ten in the morning at my patio doors. And all before beer.
“Oh no! I am he. Most assuredly. Do you mind if I use your front door? I've never really been keen on patio doors.”
I stepped back to let him in then waved him towards the front door. He bustled through the lounge door then paused by the front door.
“Through here?” he asked.
“Yes.” I opened the door to let Stephen Fry through. I briefly thought I should be calling the police or something but I was feeling
slightly dazed.
“Thank you. Jolly good!” he said. “Very nice to meet you... err...”
“Ian Faulkener.” Although I was seriously beginning to have my doubts about that.
“Ah, of course you are! Flora's nephew. You write The Falconer. Well, jolly nice to meet you.” He gave another little wave as he headed off along the path and into the drive.
I closed the door very slowly and walked upstairs. I sank into the seat by my desk with a feeling of complete bewilderment. Either I was rapidly losing my grip on reality again or Stephen Fry had just casually strolled through my house. He even seemed to know who I was. I turned to the computer and googled my uninvited guest. No reports of him going missing or doing anything unusual. In fact he seemed to be appearing tonight in a one man show in Sheffield. Okay, so, I'd let a Stephen Fry look-alike wander through my house. In fact a look-alike who actually believes he's the real thing. I really needed to work on my paranoia. It's not actually very clever to get all worked up over an oak tree and then go and let a delusional six-foot three lunatic wander around my house.
I put it down to village life being a bit odd in general and decided he was probably related to George or something. That must be it. They're probably all related to each other round here anyway, possibly more than once. I opened up the storyboard on the computer and was just about to start work on the final scenes of The Death of The Falconer when I heard a knocking downstairs. My hands gripped the edge of the desk so hard I felt my nails digging into the wood. Who is it now? Terry fucking Wogan? I marched downstairs and into the lounge, ready to do battle with whatever idiot thought it a good idea to annoy the hell out of me before my lunchtime drink. The patio doors stared vacantly back at me and the knock repeated itself from behind me. The front door. I marched briskly to the door and yanked it open. One black cat out, one white one in.
“What now?” I snapped before I noticed the uniform.
“Are you Mr Faulkener? Mr Ian Faulkener?” asked the policeman.
“Er... yes.” I answered hesitantly, my mind quickly trying to recall if I'd jumped any speed cameras lately.
The policeman glanced at his notes. “Mr Ian Faulkener of Tink Cot?”
“Tink Cot? Oh, no... It's Tinker's Cottage. I got carried away with the chainsaw.” I wasn't exactly sure that was the best thing to which to confess to an officer of the law.
“I see. My name is PCSO Proudfoot.” He held a card for me to take. It did indeed say he was PCSO Proudfoot of Glastonbury police station, closed on Wednesdays.
“How can I help, officer?”
“We're trying to locate the whereabouts of one...” He consulted his notebook. “Mr Took.”
“I'm sorry, I don't know of anybody by that name,” I said.
“I believe you contracted him to carry out certain repairs to your property?”
“Oh, you mean Wayne?”
He checked his notebook again. “I understand he attended your premises on Wednesday twenty fifth of May at approximately nine hundred hours in the morning for the purposes of effecting repairs to said property.”
“He came to fix my door, if that's what you mean?”
“And when did you last see Mr Took?” He licked the tip of his pencil.
I explained how he'd gone to his yard and returned to complete the job while I was out, leaving his tools and van behind.
“All a bit odd wouldn't you say, sir?”
“You can come in and see if you like.” I stepped back to let him through. “Left his tools in the lounge here.” I showed him through.
PCSO Proudfoot gave the door a cursory examination and satisfied himself the lock appeared to have been recently replaced. Possicat rubbed himself along the constable’s leg, leaving a trail of white fur on the black uniform.
“I see you're a cat person, sir. Prefer dogs myself. Never know where you are with a cat.”
I knew exactly where I was with these cats. I was the butler. “They sort of came with the house,” I said. Anticat tried to sharpen her claws on the constable’s leg and I shooed her off.
“Don't know how you tell them apart,” he said.
“Err... one's black and the other's white?”
“No,” he said, pointing towards the corner of the room. “I meant between those two.”
I followed his gaze and with a slight start saw what he meant. Two white cats were playing tag around the curtains.
“Ah,” I said. “That's a new one,”
PCSO Proudfoot insisted on having a wander about the house, I supposed just checking to see if I'd got Wayne locked in a wardrobe or something. He seemed happy and made his way to the front door.
“Well, let me know if anything untoward occurs, sir,” he said.
I was tempted to ask what he meant by untoward. Did that include disappearing oak trees, Stephen Fry or multiplying cats? Instead I just said, “You'll be the first to know, officer,” and closed the door behind him. I stared at the computer for a good ten minutes before shutting it down and heading into the village for some light refreshment.
Chapter Six
Arthur greeted me with a degree reticence. “Morning, Ian,” he said. “Still no sign of my boy I suppose?”
“Sorry, no. His van's still there, as are some of his tools. Has he done this before?”
“Not since he was ten,” Arthur slid the pint towards me without me having to ask. “That time he turned up at his cousin's. And he didn’t leave a van behind him then.”
“Could he be there now?” I asked and took a restrained sip of Old Grumbler.
“I shouldn't think so. His cousin’s in Afghanistan at the moment. You eating today? We’ve got something very special on this lunchtime” Arthur slid a photocopied sheet towards me. Bold letters in over elaborate word art announced ‘Menu Du Jour - Filet de bœuf en croûte avec petit pois and pomme frites.’
“It’s in French,” he explained. “We're having a continental day to celebrate the French farmer's market in town tomorrow. Only I couldn’t find out what the word for ‘Menu’ is in French, so I left that bit in English.”
I ordered the special and took my pint to the window table and tried to ignore everybody. It didn’t work.
“See you’ve been at your hedge,” George said loudly from behind me.
“Yes,” I said without turning. “It was either that or buy a smaller car.”
“I’ve got a chainsaw,” George said, then added thoughtfully; “And a small car.”
I had a thought. “You’ve lived here a while, George. Was there ever a big oak tree in the field behind my cottage?” I turned to face him.
George thought for a moment then, “Little buggers burned it down in sixty-five. Or was it sixty-four? No it was sixty five. Sixty-four was when they burned down the Post Office.”
That was reassuring then. I wasn’t going mad and seeing things that didn’t exist, I was just seeing things that haven’t existed for fifty years.
My food arrived with disconcerting rapidity. I studied my steak, chips and peas, failing to see any connection to France, farmers or markets. I really was going to have to get the hang of that beast in the kitchen, I wasn't sure how long I'd be able to survive Arthur's gastronomic adventures. I cut into the steak, it was surprisingly tender and bled just the right amount. Okay, not quite haute cuisine but not bad.
Arthur reappeared by my side balancing something ominous on a spatula. “Forgot the croûte,” he said and dropped a piece of fried bread on top of the steak.
*****
Anticat was waiting on the doorstep when I arrived home. I opened the front door and the cat slipped between my legs and into the hall. As soon as I entered, she slipped back out again. Or it might have been the other one as there was still one of them in the hall.
In the kitchen I put the kettle on as I tried to ignore the magpie who had now taken to sitting on the window ledge. I took my tea upstairs and sat at the desk. The oak tree stood tall and proud in the middle of the field. I stared at
my computer for all of three minutes before deciding to attack the back garden with the chainsaw. I opened my newly accessible patio doors and trailed the extension through them into the garden.
The undergrowth quickly succumbed to the machine and within a couple of hours I’d cleared an area in the centre of the garden twice the size of my patio in Ealing. I stood back to admire my handiwork. I still hadn’t cleared back to the rear fence and I had a mountain of debris to do something with but I felt a warm glow of accomplishment. I needed tea.
I sat at the kitchen table and stared out of the window. From where I was, I couldn't see the bit of the garden I'd cleared, only the jungle yet to be challenged. I felt slightly overwhelmed but also somewhat exhilarated at how much one could accomplish in a relatively short time. I looked around the kitchen mentally thinking about improvements I could make. Taking on the challenge of Tinker's Cottage might be just the lift I needed. I'd have to do something about the cooker, either tame it or change it for a gas one. I understood gas cookers. And the gloom, the kitchen always felt gloomy with just the one small window. In fact the whole house appeared to suffer from a shortfall of windows. I'd read somewhere that some king or other in the past had brought in a window tax and people had bricked up their windows. So maybe that explained it. I'd have to find out when that happened. However, it didn't explain doors. I was sure there'd never been a door tax. I stared again at the area of raised plaster where it appeared there had once been a door to the side of the kitchen. A back door would be handy. I went over to it and ran my hand across the area. It shouldn't be too hard to open that up again. I might give that a try when I've finished clearing the back garden. Or maybe I should get somebody in to have a look at it. I remembered Wayne, I wasn't having much luck with local tradesmen. No, I'd have a go myself. How hard can it be? There must be a machine or something for that.
I turned back towards the window and froze. From this angle I could see the area I'd just spent the best part of the afternoon clearing. Or I should be able to. But I couldn't. The garden was all jungle from here. I moved closer to the window from where I should be able to see most of the garden. There was still no sign of the cleared patch. Either this was the fastest growing undergrowth on the planet or somehow I was seeing a different part of the garden. But that didn't make any sense at all. I went round to the lounge and out through the patio doors. My chain saw still trailed its lead out into the garden. My cleared patch hadn't overgrown whilst I'd been enjoying my tea break. I stood in the centre of the newly reclaimed garden and looked around. The kitchen window was clearly visible from here so it stood to reason I should be able to see this spot from the kitchen. Back in the kitchen I pushed open the window and poked my head through. From here I could see pretty much all of the garden and there was certainly no cleared area. Just the same surplus of nature that had always been there. With Magpie sat on his empty bird table. He chattered at me. Anticat seized the opportunity of the open window and slid out past my face and headed in the direction of the bird table. She sat poised underneath it staring up at Magpie, who in turn just stared back at her. He was obviously unimpressed with her display of fierceness and eventually flew slowly off across the bushes.
Schrodinger's Cottage Page 5
