I sat down at the table and in somewhat of a daze I poured myself another cup of tea. Aunt Flora had always been a great believer in the recuperative powers of tea. I added the last few drops of the liquid from the small brown bottle as I reasoned tea alone wasn’t going to cut it at the moment. I placed the empty little bottle on the table and stared at it while I stirred my tea. The bottle was a safer thing at which to stare than the view outside the kitchen window. I wondered what was in the bottle; the label simply said ‘Rescue Remedy’. Wasn’t there a law or something where they had to say what was in medicines these days? And usually twelve pages of instructions as to what to do in the event of accidently ingesting too much of the stuff. What would happen, I mused. Could one be ‘over rescued’? I sipped at my tea and steadfastly refused to look through the window. Madness lay outside the kitchen window. And quite possibly goblins. I finished the last of my tea and exhausted all there was to study on the bottle. Of course, there couldn’t be a different view from the kitchen to the lounge. That was insane. I must have cut into some hallucinogenic bush or something. Who knew what strange foliage lay out there? Probably the cure for swamp fever for all I knew so it certainly wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that I’d accidently drugged myself on the sap from some exotic plant or other.
I peeped through the window and immediately wished I hadn’t. The garden still overflowed with the joys of nature and no sign that I’d spent two hours out there with a Vorkskraft 2000 four speed monster of a chain saw. I rushed through to the lounge, perhaps half hoping I’d catch the garden by surprise in mid change. The garden was just as I’d left it, complete with chainsaw lying in the centre of the clear patch. I looked at the kitchen window again and noticed it was closed and yet I clearly remember it being open as Anticat had gone out through it. I peered in through the window and saw my kitchen almost as it should be. Almost because all the surfaces were empty of the bits and pieces I’d been scattering around for the last couple of days. There was no packet of tea on the side and no tea cup or empty small bottle on the kitchen table. No loaf of bread on the breadboard where I’d left it this morning. It was my kitchen but it wasn’t my kitchen.
I tried to prise open the window but it was latched from inside and wouldn’t budge. I sat down in the centre of the cleared patch pulling my knees up to my chin. If this was a hallucination or delusion of some kind then it was remarkably consistent. My memories of the last time I’d lost my way from reality were that nothing at all was consistent. In fact lack of consistency had featured fairly highly in the list of indicators that the psychiatrists had been so keen on. Along with touches of paranoia and a healthy quotient of sociopathic tendencies. So applying Sherlock Holmes’s logic that when all sensible options are eliminated then the one that’s left, no matter how crazy, must be the one left me with the inescapable conclusion that there were two different versions of the garden divided by the kitchen window. Of course, if that were the case then it also meant I had a second garden to clear.
Feeling only slightly reassured I tidied up the chainsaw, closed the patio doors and headed back to the kitchen. I looked around wondering idly how I’d go about clearing the second garden. It would probably involve me and the Vorkskraft 2000 doing some acrobatics through the kitchen window. I looked again at the badly plastered door shape on the side wall. That must have been the door to the ‘other’ garden. I also noticed that to the right of the window, just below a wall cupboard, another area of poor plastering was evident. It looked like there had once been a second window that had been blocked in and the cupboard hung on top of it. Perhaps whoever had done this had been too disturbed by the second garden and wanted to shut off the view as much as possible. I suddenly realised how well I was taking all this. I should by now be climbing the walls or sitting in a quivering heap in the corner clutching a gin bottle. My eyes lighted on the little brown bottle. Maybe that was why I was coping remarkably well, given the circumstances. I also realised that the bottle was now empty and that if indeed that was the glue holding the bits of my sanity together I should probably get a refill. I glanced at the clock; it was just after four which meant I just had time to pop into Glastonbury to pick up another one.
*****
The woman wore a faded red cheesecloth shirt and low-slung jeans that just displayed a small tattoo disappearing into her waistband. I tried to work out what it was without appearing to stare. A wolf?
“Hello again,” she greeted. “Nice work on the aura.”
“What? Oh right. Yes, hello. What do you mean about the aura?” I babbled.
“It’s looking a lot healthier. The Somerset air must be doing you some good.”
“I suppose it is, or it could be... How did you know I’m new here?”
“Last time you bought a couple of books on the area, folklore and wildlife, usually only incomers do that. How did you get on with them?”
“Haven’t had chance to read them yet. Having a bit of an issue with windows.”
“Ah windows, of course. What can I do for you?” She leant forward on the counter and tipped her head to one side.
“That healing stuff, the one I couldn’t buy, I need some more. I’ve run out. I’ll make a donation... or something.”
“How did you run out? There was enough there for three months!”
I picked up a book on fairies to hide my slight feeling of discomfort. “I’ve had a sort of challenging few days.”
“With windows?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Windows and doors. Oh, and an oak tree that isn’t there, or maybe was. But mainly windows.”
“You’re that writer that’s just moved in to Flora’s old place, aren’t you? Ian Faulkener isn’t it? You write The Falconer. Thought I recognised you the first time. I love your work.”
“Thank you. Yes, but how...”
“Glastonbury’s small and Flora was a well-known character. Here,” she placed a small bottle on the counter. “Just a couple of drops twice a day. That’s all you need.”
“Can I buy it?” I asked, remembering the previous transaction here.
“No.” Again that smile which started with the eyes and finished somewhere in my soul. It made me feel at once uncomfortable but also somehow connected for the briefest moment.
“What if I bought something else?” I glanced around the shop. There was such an eclectic assortment of items here I was bound to find something I needed.
“Then I could give you the healing as a gift.”
I picked up a couple of vials of incense and a burner then my eyes settled on the bookshelf. Fairy magic, stone circles, Arthurian legends, even a recipe book for woodland foragers. I had a thought. “Do you have any books on...” I hesitated. “Things that don’t look the same if you...” This wasn’t going well. “Windows. Windows which are different from the other side. Sort of thing.” I added.
“Ah, your windows again.” She came over to the bookshelf and stood close enough for me to smell a faint scent of roses in her hair. She leafed through the books. “You know that Flora’s... sorry, your cottage is on the intersection of three ley lines, don’t you?
“No, I wasn’t aware of that.” I had only a very vague idea what a ley line was. I seemed to remember it usually involved strange men in hats, wellington boots and carrying a bent coat hanger.
“Try that.” She handed me a small book entitled, ‘Ley Lines and Earth Forces’.
“Thank you.”
“Have you ever read Schrodinger’s Cat?” She pulled a slim volume from the shelf and gave it to me.”
“No, only Simon’s Cat.” I smiled.
She gave me the look I seem to remember my primary school teacher giving when I’d drawn a picture of a penis on the chalk board.
“Try it,” she said. “You never know, it might help you with your windows.”
I paid for the books and the incense and she popped the brown bottle into the bag. “Now remember, just one or two drops. It’s not whisky!”
>
I stopped off at the DIY centre on the way back and bought a drill with special attachment that the salesman assured me would cut through a wall like butter. I also bought a pickaxe just in case the butter turned out to be particularly tough. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life trailing through the lounge every time I wanted to take the rubbish out. And if I could also add a cat door into this project it would save me a lot of butlering.
I left the drill and pickaxe on the kitchen floor near the ‘soon to be door’ and settled down with a beer to watch the sunset through the kitchen window. I felt a momentary pang of panic when I remembered that the view I was seeing here was not the same as that from the lounge and sank the rest of the beer in one. That helped. I pulled the books from the bag and started reading ‘Ley Lines and Earth Forces’. I was intrigued with the notion of how the lines were conceived by joining ancient landmarks together and how the intersections disturbed the foundations of reality. Tales and anecdotes about strange happenings at these sites were interspersed with a supposed scientific explanation about magnetic forces due to the earth’s core.
The phone ringing startled me out of my concentration. It was Tania.
“Hi, Tania. Look I’m sorry, it’s not ready yet. I got side tracked.”
“We need this one out, Ian. The publisher is pushing.”
“I know. I’ll get right on it. Promise.”
“Are you alright? You sound a bit odd.” Tania's sixth sense was clearly working overtime.
“I’m fine. Just having a bit of trouble with...” She wouldn’t understand windows that go different ways. “Spot of bother with the garden.”
“What sort of bother, Ian?”
“Oh nothing really. I got a chainsaw and cleared half of it.” I’d been idly leafing through the book as I spoke and a section about somewhere called The Fairy Toot caught my attention. “Chainsaw... garden grew back while I wasn’t looking.” Fairy Toot was on a nearby leyline and the home of goblins. “Goblins!” And with horror I realised that had come out loud.
“Ian? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, it’s the television. They’re doing a thing on goblins.”
“I’m coming down.”
“No! You don’t need to do that. I’m fine. Just a touch tired. I’m okay, honest.”
“It’s no bother. I was planning on going to Cornwall to see my sister Emma at the weekend anyway. First National do two coaches a day that go via Glastonbury so I can catch the early one, drop in to see you and then pick up the later one.”
“Are you sure? I mean... that’s a lot of trouble to go to.” I panicked.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Can you pick me up from the coach stop?
“Huh? Oh, yes... but—”
“Then you can show me the manuscript for 172.” The phone went dead
“Fuck it.” I realised my hand had managed to find another beer without me being aware. Sneaky. I took beer and books into the lounge and pulled the curtains without looking outside. I settled into the sofa and began reading Schrodinger’s Cat. It was heavy going and before long I felt I was losing the battle with my eyelids and headed for bed. I’d get up early and hammer out the bulk of the story so I at least had something to show Tania.
Chapter Seven
The following morning, I poured myself a strong coffee and settled down at my office area. I pulled up the storyboard and started work. The Falconer had been lured into a cave by his arch nemesis Starfire. I laid out the rough drafts of the images then glanced out of the window. The oak tree stood proud and challenging in its field. The bit I’d read in Schrodinger’s Cat talked about things that could be in two states at once. Alive and dead. Was it possible for an oak tree to be both there and not there? Perhaps I should report this to somebody? I imagined for a moment the potential conversation with PCSO Proudfoot. No, that wouldn't work. They'd have me back in the Ealing Special Unit before I'd got to the end of my explanation. Perhaps Stephen Hawking would be interested? How would one go about approaching him? Especially with something that wild. They must get people trying to get to him all day with way out ideas and probably many of them more sane than mine.
I realised the view from the window was going to make it impossible for me to concentrate and took the laptop down to the kitchen table. Another coffee and I settled down, purposefully sitting with my back to the window. The Falconer was faced with the impossible choice of staying behind in the cave to hold off Starfire in order to give the villagers time to escape but that would mean the cliffs would crumble and he’d be trapped. I glanced up in mid thought. On turning my back to the window I had of course pointed myself directly towards the blanked off door. If somebody had simply bricked it up, it should be easy enough to open again. The lintel should still be there so there was little chance of me bringing the wall down. It should be fairly straightforward. I glanced at the drill and pickaxe that were on the floor where I had left them last night. A simple pilot hole through the centre of the blanked off door wouldn't be too difficult or risky.
It only took a few minutes to unpack the drill and work out how to fix the huge bit the salesman had told me I needed. A couple of attempts with different settings and the drill did indeed go through the wall in the manner advertised. However, it was only one hole and I seemed to have deposited a fine layer of dust over everything in the vicinity, including my laptop. I blew at the keyboard to get rid of the worst of it then closed the lid. I set about drilling more holes in a circle about the size of a dinner plate. After about twenty minutes the wall looked like a piece of scenery in a Bruce Willis movie, sunlight streaming through an array of holes shafting through the dust cloud in the dimly lit kitchen. I stepped back to admire my handiwork for a moment then set to work with the pickaxe with the objective of joining all the little holes into one larger opening. The relatively fresh brickwork gave way easily and tumbled onto the kitchen floor. I now had a hole large enough to put a football through. Or my head.
I pulled away some of the looser brickwork and peered through, squinting into the bright sunlight. Only it shouldn't really be bright sunlight from that side of the cottage as there was a fairly narrow passageway between the wall and the log shed with a high hedge behind. My eyes adjusted to the light. There was no log shed, only an unkempt lawn running to a low stone wall along the edge of the road. That didn't make sense. I pulled my head back from the hole and glanced towards the kitchen window. Thick bushes and tangles of prickly stuff filled the garden out there. I returned to the hole to check my understanding of the view that way. Still unmown lawn and stone wall.
I sat down on the chair for a moment to collect my thoughts. I'd almost grown used to the idea of a different view from the lounge patio doors and the kitchen window, now I was being confronted with a third one. I needed to remind myself what it was supposed to look like from that side of the house. I went out the front door and round to the side where the blanked off kitchen door should be. It was all there, high hedge, log shed, tool shed. Everything exactly as it should be. Except... except no hole in the wall. Two hours work from inside had made no impact on the wall here. I could see the blocked off door's outline here as a disturbance in the rendering. But no hole. I peeped around the back corner of the house half expecting to see an alien landscape from Mars or something. But no, the garden was overgrown and tangly, pretty much how it looked out of the kitchen window. Only... no, it was close enough and I wasn't going to scramble my head any more. It looked almost the same and that would do.
I returned through the front door and back to the kitchen. My eyes caught the area of raised plaster around the cupboard. That was on the back wall, the same wall as the other window. So the view out through that should be the same as the one I'd been seeing every day. Shouldn't it? I emptied the contents of the cupboard onto the floor and in the absence of appropriate tools I prised it off the wall with my pickaxe. It tumbled to the floor and dismantled itself into three sections. There was a definite area of new brickwork here. The
area behind the cupboard hadn't even been plastered.
I balanced on a chair and took my drill to the brickwork. My sense of growing panic and disorientation resulted in an almost random series of holes as opposed to the orderly ones I'd created in the door area. It would do. I balanced on the chair again, this time with pickaxe in hand and swung it at the drilled patch. The chair wobbled just as I'd started my swing and the pickaxe embedded itself in a virgin area of wall some eighteen inches away from the bit at which I was aiming. It took a fair degree of pulling and twisting to dislodge it and when it came free it came with a large chunk of plaster. My next attempt fared better as I used two chairs and within ten minutes I had a sizable hole. I peered through and immediately wished I hadn't. Gone was the garden, neither overgrown nor cleared. In its place was a forest. At least that's how it looked through the small hole. Tall trees, some thick enough that I wouldn't be able to wrap my arms around them, had I been so inclined. Which I wasn't. I was actually more inclined towards running upstairs and hiding. Probably with a bottle of something very alcoholic. The trees had obviously been there for many years. Even with my limited knowledge of forestry, which had so far extended to a potted palm tree, I knew a mature wood when I saw one.
Schrodinger's Cottage Page 6
