The face and body pushed through the polythene. I relaxed slightly when I saw that it was a tall woman wearing a tweed jacket and skirt with matching hat. She wasn’t carrying any biscuits. She jumped slightly when she saw me. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realise anybody was here.”
“And you are?” I asked as I stood up, ensuring I kept the chair between us.
“Mrs Stainswick. You know, from the bakery. Or perhaps you don’t. Nice to see the door open again.” She ran her hand around the freshly exposed brickwork. “You’re new here?”
“Yes,” I said. “Couple of weeks. Excuse me, who...? What bakery?”
“Sorry, have to dash. Can I use the lounge door?” She headed towards the lounge without waiting for an answer.
“Hang on,” I said as I followed her through from the kitchen. “Why do you have to go through here?”
She stopped briefly with her hand on the patio door handle. “Why, that’s where it leads!” She gave a disarming smile, slipped through the doors and disappeared out of sight around the corner. I went back to the kitchen and peered through the open gap in the wall. It was the sheer normality of the view which I found most disturbing. I pulled the plastic closed again.
I cleared some of the mess in the kitchen and pushed a pile of rubble through the new door. That would keep for now. I made myself another coffee and sat down to finish my list for the DIY centre. When I was happy I’d thought of everything I picked up my keys and headed for the front door. Just as I was about to open it I heard a noise from the kitchen. I quietly retraced my steps and peered round the corner of the dining room from where I could see through to the kitchen. I came face to face with a small balding man in his sixties.
He froze. “Ah!” he said. “Whoops.” He turned and scuttled back through the polythene sheet leaving me stalled in the dining room.
“I really am going to have to close that door,” I said to myself, eventually breaking my catatonic moment.
I locked the front door behind me although I wasn’t quite sure why as there was a gaping hole in the kitchen. Or was there? Not from this side anyway, so locking the door made some sort of sense I supposed. Disappearing doors, Ley lines, multiplying cats. Either I was on a fast track back to The Ealing Special Unit or there was something very odd here. Cat in the box stuff, best not to look too closely. My hand reached into my pocket and settled around the crystal. I felt slightly calmer immediately.
B&Q had most of the things on my list with the exception of the bin bags so I headed off into the centre of Glastonbury to find a bin bag shop. I parked in The Abbey car park and set off up the hill. I found the bin bags in a small convenience store, along with a packet of chocolate biscuits, a bag of onion rings and a strange pie called a Higgidy. Never wise to go into a food shop when hungry.
My twelve o’clock trigger drew me into a nearby cafe that offered a selection of local vegetarian food and more importantly, ale brewed from the water of the Chalice Well here in Glastonbury. As a confirmed carnivore I found the menu slightly intimidating. Avoiding the obvious charms of lentil fritters in tomato and garlic or the homely quirkiness of roasted tofu in peanut sauce, I settled for a schnitzel burger and hand cut chips. And a large glass of Glastonbury beer. Too many meals in the Camelot had hardened my palate, and probably large sections of my liver as well, so I was taken by surprise at how delicious the burger tasted, and the chips really were hand cut with just the right level of crispiness. The Chalice Well Ale went down way too easily and a replacement appeared on my table that I didn’t remember ordering. I looked up as it arrived and straight into the eyes of the woman from New Dawn. She smiled at me and the fine lines around her eyes each laid a path to the sparkle that glinted from the striking blue of her irises.
“I noticed you were empty.” She nodded towards the glass and sat down opposite me, placing her own beer glass on the table.
“Thank you,” I said.
“The Chalice Well is a particularly nice beer but be careful, it’s got a bit of a kick.”
A waitress placed a bowl of soup in front of her, it looked like tomato.
“I could probably do with a kick,” I said.
“Still having trouble with your windows?” She broke pieces of bread roll into her soup.
“Yes, windows. And doors. It seems to be the doors which are causing me most trouble at the moment.” I finished my lunch and pushed the plate to one side. That had to be the tastiest meal I’d eaten in months. “I’m sorry, I never did catch your name, I’m Ian, but you knew that already.”
She held out her hand for me, “Serafina, but my friends call me Saphie.”
I held her hand briefly, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Saphie,” I said and kissed the back of her hand in mock humility.
She smiled and returned her hand to the job of soup eating. “How’s your schnitzel burger? They’re famous for that.”
“Wonderful, I can see why,” I said. “Is this your lunch break? Only I was going to pop in after eating here, do you have any books on hidden doors?”
“Not that I can remember.” She pushed her empty bowl to one side and supped deep on her beer. “What is it you need to know?”
“I found this door. It sort of... That is, from the other side it’s not...” I lifted my beer and supped at it slowly to hide my confusion. “It had been blocked off and I opened it but then...” I caught her staring at me. “I’m not crazy,” I continued. “I’ve got a certificate that says so. Would you like to see it?”
“The certificate or the door?” That smile again. Why did she make me feel so flustered all the time? After all she sells crystals and magic potions and I see disappearing trees. Our respective levels of craziness should be roughly equal. Not including the cats of course.
“Well, I haven’t actually got either with me at the moment,” I said. “Although I do have a door in the back of the car you’re welcome to look at if you like. But it’s not the door that goes to other places. That one’s still in the cottage.”
“I see,” she said. I was sure she didn’t.
“You probably get all sorts of people in your shop with lots of strange ideas.”
“What? In Glastonbury? Never!” She finished her beer. “I’ve got to get back. If you want to come up, I’ll see if I’ve got anything that might help. That is, if you can perhaps open up a bit more about exactly what it is you are looking for.” She stood and picked up her multi coloured handbag. “I don’t bite. Unless invited.” She turned and left, that faint scent of rose hung briefly in the air again.
After a short period of procrastination and a little bit of time wasting, I plucked up the courage to follow her into her shop. She was serving an American woman who wanted a guidebook to the secret labyrinths of Stonehenge. Despite Saphie’s protestations that no such thing existed the American persisted. She explained loudly how she had attended this seminar in California by a woman who had been held in the labyrinths by aliens whilst undergoing what appeared to be a rather thorough gynaecological examination. I had to admire Saphie’s control as she guided the woman gently out of the door and pointed her in the direction of the Avalon Information Centre.
“This place can be a bit of a nutter magnet,” she said. “I had the reincarnation of Tutankhamen in here the other day wanting to buy a sword with which to sacrifice a virgin.”
“Did you sell her one?”
“No, I don’t do weapons. But there are dozens of shops that do in Glastonbury. Although I expect it won’t be as easy trying to find a virgin.”
I picked up a wooden staff that had a crystal set in the head. “You said you might be able to help. A book or something, you know about doors?”
“Yes, but you also said you were going to give me more of a clue as to your problem?”
“You’ll think it’s weird.” I glanced around the shop taking in the array of weirdness piled high on each shelf. “Or maybe not.”
“Doors,” she said. “You were going to tell me about your doors.�
�
I put the staff down bumping a china fairy off the shelf. I caught it midair as it tumbled towards the floor. I placed it carefully back on the shelf. “I used to be a ninja,” I muttered.
“Your doors?”
“Hmm, yes, okay. You see, I have a door that only goes one way. From inside it goes out but from outside... it’s not there. And then the oak tree is there if I look out of the window but not there when I go to find it. That’s not to mention the magpie. And the cats, did I tell you about the cats? I’ve lost count of the cats.” I stopped talking and waited for her to call the police.
“I knew there was something odd about Flora’s cottage from the occasional comments she’d make. Nothing obvious but I remember she once let slip something about a person being from ‘The Other Place’.
“You don’t think I’m mad then?” The sense of relief rushed through my body like an especially good single malt.
“Not at all. Mind you, this is Glastonbury so everything’s relative I suppose. Look, it’s Sunday tomorrow and I’m not open, why don’t I come over and have a look at your doors?” She repositioned the china fairy an inch to the left on the shelf. “I might even help you count your cats.”
I gave her directions to Tinker's Cottage and headed home, wondering which of us was the crazier.
*****
As I walked up the path, I immediately noticed the front door was ajar. I was sure I remembered locking it. Thoughts of goblins were quickly replaced by mad Spanish woman paranoia and then the more rational perhaps it’s Wayne resurfaced. Either way, just to be safe, I picked up an ornamental gnome and hefted it in my hand. It felt reassuringly heavy albeit somewhat ridiculous. ‘Stand still or I’ll let the gnome loose!’ didn’t really have the sort of threat value I was hoping for but it in the absence of a shotgun it would have to do.
I pushed open the front door with my foot and raised the gnome above my head. I’d seen them do this on Ultimate Force, although not with a gnome. “Anybody there?” I called. Silence. I crept in with my best ninja creeping and went from room to room. No Wayne, mad Spanish women or thankfully goblins. Maybe I had forgotten to lock it. I didn’t really believe that, but I was prepared to put my head in the sands of self delusion for the time being.
I returned the gnome to his position by the fishpond and unloaded the car. Fixing a door frame is perhaps not quite as easy as the label ‘Easy Fix Door Kit’ would have one believe. For a start, the assumption of the Easy Fix people is that your hole is straight, which mine wasn’t. And then there’s this whole business of trying not to look out through the doorway as one is fixing it into place. In the end, with the help of a dust sheet nailed to the outside and copious amounts of Pollyfilla, I had a passable resemblance to a functioning door. I opened and closed it a few times and felt quite pleased with the result. I’d left the dustsheet nailed to the outside so as to obscure the slightly disturbing view each time I opened it. Anticat seemed pleased with my new door and demanded to be let in and out several times so as to test its agreeability to cats. I needed to fix a cat door in it or I could be doing this for the rest of my life. At one point I was sure she came in twice to only to go out once.
I swept up the debris and dumped it in a sack outside the door. It felt good to have a back door even though I had no idea where it went. As I sat at the table with a coffee I glanced at the Luis Royo picture that hung over the window hole. Was I brave enough to risk another look through there? I decided not. A tapping on my new door startled me. I froze and stared at the door until the tapping repeated. I stood and pressed my ear to the door. “Who’s there?” I called. This could be the start of a bad knock-knock joke.
“George. George Bergoglio.” The voice sounded slightly frail and croaky as though it belonged to somebody elderly who’d spent a lifetime on forty a day. There was a strong London accent with a slight overlay of something else.
I opened the door a fraction and peered out. All I could see of course was the dust sheet. “I don’t know any Georges,” I said as I risked pulling the dust sheet to one side. Despite his age, I put him about seventy, he stood tall and straight just a few inches shorter than me, I guessed about five seven. A thick shock of white hair protruded from under a blue baseball cap. He wore a red check shirt over which a pair of braces held his jeans in place.
He held his hand out. “George,” he said. “Although everyone calls me Boggy.”
I took his hand without thinking. “Erm, pleased to meet you, George... Boggy.”
“Glad to see the door’s back. We missed it. Where’s Flora?” He walked into the kitchen as he spoke. His gait was slow and deliberate, probably the result of arthritis.
“She died,” I said. “Or rather presumed so. Went missing ten years ago.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “You in charge now then?”
“Well, I live here now. I’ve just—”
“Got to dash,” he interrupted. “Can I go through the lounge door?” He didn’t wait for an answer and headed off through the dining room and to the lounge. I followed him wondering if I should stop him but couldn’t really think of a valid reason why I should. I let him out, closed the patio doors behind him and went back to the kitchen.
I zapped my Higgidy pie in the microwave, opened a beer and settled down in the lounge in front of an old Carry On movie. The pie was remarkably tasty although I still had absolutely no idea what went into a Higgidy. The beer did its job and within half an hour I was losing the battle of the eyelids.
Something jerked me awake. A noise? I pushed the tendrils of sleep to one side and did my best attempt at alert. A knocking noise came from the kitchen. I waited for a while and it repeated, slightly more insistently. I stumbled to my feet and glanced at the clock on my way to the kitchen. Nine thirty, somebody was going to regret this. The knocking came again just as I entered the kitchen. I picked up the shovel and weighed it in my hand. It certainly felt more effective than a garden gnome.
I turned the key and yanked open the door. “What is it now?” I shouted as I poked the shovel at the dust sheet, flicking it to one side. A small boy smiled at me. He looked to be about ten, his toothy grin confused by a brace that looked slightly too large for him. He wore jeans and a white shirt with a red tie.
“Hello,” he said. “Please may I come through, mister?”
Nine thirty seemed a bit late for a child this age to be out and about, although never having had children I didn’t really know what the norm was. As I stood back to let him in and immediately another figure came into view through the dustsheet. Then two more. The mother, a large woman in a floral dress said, “Say thank you to the nice man, Tommy”
“Thank you,” Tommy obliged.
“We didn’t believe it when they said the door was back,” the father said. He was shorter and significantly smaller than his wife. He held the hand of his daughter, a pretty girl in a denim dress. “Are we there yet?” the girl asked, looking up at her father.
“No, darling. Bit of a way yet.” The man turned to me, “The garden?”
“Garden?” I repeated.
“Yes, we need to go through the garden.”
“But you’ve just come...” I tailed off, pointing through the door. “Didn’t you see the garden out there?”
“Not that garden.” He sounded offended. “The back garden of course. We’ve just come from there.” He nodded towards the door.
“The garden? You mean the back garden? It’s through there.” I pointed towards the lounge.
“Thank you,” the mother said. “Say thank you to the nice man.” She poked each child in turn.
“Thank you, mister.” The children said in perfect unison.
“Come along now.” The father picked up a large blue suitcase I’d somehow completely failed to notice and ushered his family through to the lounge. I followed and in a sort of daze, unlocked the patio doors and let them through.
“Say goodbye to the nice man,” said the mo
ther as she stopped in the doorway.
“Goodbye, mister,” the children said and then they were gone, heading off into the dark.
I closed and locked the door behind them, pulled the curtains and collapsed in a confused pile onto the sofa. Somehow, in the moment between closing the door and sitting down, another beer had found its way into my hand. I drank gratefully then still in a state of bewilderment I made for bed.
Chapter Nine
I gave the kitchen a quick tidy in preparation for Saphie’s visit, for some reason I felt slightly elated by the thought. Probably I was just grateful that somebody seemed to believe me, especially as I wasn’t sure I believed myself most of the time. My breakfast of cornflakes and coffee was interrupted twice by visitors at the kitchen door. Once by an elderly lady with a wheelie shopping basket and then again by a business type in a suit and carrying a small suitcase. They were both very polite and requested exit by the front door. I was beginning to formulate theory about this door business but it all seemed little more crazy each time I thought about it, so I persisted with my plan of not thinking about it and just answering the door.
Saphie arrived just after ten. She wore low cut jeans that tucked into a pair of calf high brown leather boots. A tight white T shirt accented her lightly tanned skin and stopped three inches short of her waistband. This was the first time I’d seen her with her hair loose, in the shop it was always tied up. It fell across her shoulders in a light brown tumble threaded with sun streaks. She handed me a brown paper bag as I let her in.
“Housewarming present,” she said.
“Oh, thank you.” I peeped into the bag as I led the way into the kitchen. It looked like a pile of dried herbs. “Is this... only I don’t—”
“Well, you’ll be the only one within thirty miles that doesn’t,” she said. “Anyway, don’t panic, I’m not trying to corrupt you, it’s only sage.”
“Sage. What an unusual gift.” I picked up the kettle. “Tea?” I asked.
“Just burn a bit of it in each room. Sends the nasties away. And yes to the tea, thank you.”
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