The Magic Cottage

by James Herbert

  "Was she ever married?" inquired Midge.

  "For a short time only. Her husband was killed in the last war after, I think, barely two or three years of marriage. The niece who inherited the estate was his, you see, and proved the devil of a job to trace, I might add. She herself is in her sixties, and has no interest in Gramarye whatsoever, and hardly any in her late aunt-in-law. Quite understandable under the circumstances."

  "How did Mrs. Chaldean manage to support herself?"

  If Ogborn found Midge's question impertinent, he didn't show it. "Oh, her adoptive parents left her a small inheritance and I believe she also collected the usual meager war widow's pension. Generally, I'm led to believe she used the barter system with locals, which is much favored in the more remote parts of the country."

  "The barter system?" I didn't know what all this had to do with buying a house, but I was willing to play along.

  "Flora Chaldean had the reputation hereabouts of being something of a healer. Nothing spectacular, you understand, but she made up medicinal potions for ailing locals, those with heavy colds, sore throats, that sort of thing, and in exchange they supplied her with the odd chicken or rabbit or vegetables or whatever. Small things, nothing grand, nothing for the Inland Revenue to be concerned about. She concocted her potions from old, perhaps ancient, remedies, the kind passed down the years through word of mouth. It seems she also had a wonderful way with sick or injured animals." Ogborn looked down at his hands folded on the desk and added, as if to himself, "Quite remarkable."

  I almost smiled, thinking of witches' brews and spells, and boiling babies' legs. If I could have without being noticed, I'd have nudged Midge. Instead I stole a quick glance at her and found she was still absorbed in what Ogborn had been saying.

  Clearing my throat, I said to the solicitor, "About the price . . . ?"

  His manner instantly became more crisp. "Yes, of course. I know you're rather concerned over the cost. I'm prepared to accept that conditions in the property have become far worse during the winter months since the previous owner's demise, so perhaps the original valuation was too high, although I'm bound to say that house prices these days do not generally devalue."

  "Mr. Ogborn, the price isn't—" Midge began to say, before I cut in.

  "I thought maybe we could meet halfway."

  "You mentioned a reduction of three thousand to Mr. Bickleshift____"

  "Uh, four thousand, actually." I ignored the sharp glance from Midge. Ogborn consulted a note pad on the desk.

  "Oh, I see. I understood the figure to be three," he said.

  "Well, yes, it was mentioned, but the more we can save on the price, the more we can spend on the cottage's renovation."

  "Another couple came to see me yesterday, and they, too, were very interested . . ."

  "But I guess we could scrape up that extra thousand from somewhere."

  "I do have an obligation to my late client's surviving relative to obtain the best price possible. However, I also have an obligation toward the wishes expressed by Flora Chaldean in her Will. That is, to find a suitable person, or persons, to continue the occupation of Gramarye."

  I didn't quite like the sound of that, and liked even less the feeling that I was not necessarily included in that particular grouping. Again he was looking directly at Midge.

  "What would you say," Ogborn went on, "if I allowed you a £1500 reduction?"

  "We'd say yes, Mr. Ogborn," Midge said promptly.

  "We'd say yes," I agreed more slowly.

  "Then your offer is accepted," Ogborn said.

  I breathed out a secret sigh and Midge, less introvertly, bounced in her seat. "That's wonderful!" she enthused and, unabashed, leaned over and kissed my cheek.

  "A deposit will be required, naturally," Ogborn told us, "and perhaps your own solicitor could contact me as soon as possible. I trust you are purchasing in your joint names?"

  We nodded jointly at his raised eyebrows. I had a silly grin on my face and it was because of Midge's exuberance. Not only that: I also felt good about the deal myself. Suddenly I was a man with conviction. Yes, I was going to enjoy living in the country. Nobody said it had to be completely back-to-nature. And Gramarye was going to be our first proper home together.

  But still that niggly tormentor enjoyed itself at the back of my mind.

  "Um, I'm just a bit puzzled," I said to Ogborn. "Mr. Bickleshift implied that a number of people were interested in the cottage."

  "There have been six positive inquiries since the advertisement was placed and, as I've already informed you, I, myself, met with another young couple only yesterday."

  I felt awkward, but I couldn't let it go. "So why us? Don't get me wrong—we want to buy, the deal is as good as sealed so far as we're concerned—but I can't help wondering if the other offers were lower than ours."

  He seemed genuinely amused. "On the contrary, Mr. Stringer. Those who were interested were willing to pay the full price."

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  He went on: "But as I've already explained, Flora Chaldean was insistent that Gramarye be passed on to someone suitable. Several of those other prospective buyers were merely property speculators, the kind who would renovate and modernize, to sell again immediately at some exorbitant price, while others would only use the cottage as a weekend retreat. That was far from what my late client had in mind for Gramarye." He paused. "And then there were those who had altogether different purposes for the place."

  The last sentence had been said very quietly, almost to himself.

  "Sorry?" I said.

  He rested back in his chair. "Not important, Mr. Stringer, not important. Now, I know you have a long journey ahead of you, so I shan't detain you any further. I'll make Bickleshift aware of our agreement and perhaps you could let me have that deposit within the next day or two—naturally my own offices will handle the conveyancing of the property."

  "Mike . . ." prompted Midge.

  "I can let you have a check right away." I was already reaching into my inside pocket.

  "Splendid. I'll make out a receipt for you and then the matter will be safely in hand. The agent tells me you haven't the problem of selling a house yourself, so that's a complication out of the way."

  "That's right, we're renting at the moment. How did Bickleshift know that?"

  "I told him when I rang on Monday," came the answer from Midge. "I thought having no chain of contracts would be in our favor."

  She really had been so sure of the place.

  We concluded our business with the solicitor, shook hands with him and left. Midge was surprisingly subdued once we were outside, although I could tell she was deliriously happy, and I guessed it was due to the tension of the past couple of days draining from her. That being so, we still wanted to celebrate right there and then, but unfortunately her work commitment wouldn't allow: she had to get back and start on those illustrations. Also, I had to get together with Albert Lee and work on arrangements for next week's lightning tour. It was going to be a heavy schedule, and I looked forward to it; long time since I'd been on the road, and I'd already half forgotten the hardships involved.

  We drove from Bunbury and jabbered all the way to the city, amazed at our good fortune and busily making plans. Midge and I had a lot of sweat ahead of us, but we knew it was going to be worth it. Oh yeah, we knew.

  MOVING

  THE FIVE OR six weeks that followed were just a dreamy kind of blur, events moved so fast. The Everlys tour was a sellout and I enjoyed every minute—tearing around the countryside for six concerts in various towns didn't faze me one bit. I was on a high which had nothing to do with illegal substances. Before I went on the road I had the chance of seeing the results of Midge's painstaking nights-and-days' toil, and I have to say it, despite my natural bias, they were brilliant. The campaign was aimed specifically at toddlers and the art director had envisioned fairy-tale settings—white castles, dark forests, prancing elves, the usual ingredients—with our littl
e modern-day tykes superimposed photographically among them. Clever photography would ensure (hopefully) that they blended in well. I forget how the copy-line went, but it was pretty crass, I know that. And yet I could imagine the posters working: they presented the sort of nostalgic images mothers would love, and the clothes themselves were cutesy-stylish enough for those same mothers not to feel they were regressing their infants. I couldn't make up my mind whether the message was blatant or subtle, but if they were successful I was sure a lot of credit would be due to Midge's artwork.

  Because of her moderate fame and my ability to keep in regular employment musically speaking, obtaining a mortgage was no great problem, even though we wanted it in joint names and we were only cohabiting. Probably the fact that either one of us could have coped easily with the repayments on our own had a lot to do with the Building Society manager's favorable attitude. Not that we were seeking that much; we'd been tucking away savings into that very Society for such an event ever since we'd been together, and the amount had risen to a tidy heap.

  We managed to get down to the cottage only a couple of times over the next few weeks, and on both days the weather was overcast so the effect was not quite the same as before. Sunshine can produce all kinds of warmth, not just physical. I was even more pleased, though, for on both occasions the place looked better to me.

  I arranged for a firm of local builders to invade as soon as final contracts were exchanged, providing them with a list of faults that required urgent attention, and another list of lesser defects that would also need treatment afterward. Painting and decorating we could manage ourselves, but anything that smacked of technical skill had to be tackled by them. We agreed on a date for the workmen to start, and on that very morning came the odd phone call.

  Midge was out in the rain on a shopping expedition and I was restringing my Martin, feeling slightly ashamed that I'd allowed the instrument to die on me, when O'Malley, the foreman, came on the line. He wanted to know if I'd made a mistake with my faults list. There was water in the kitchen to be sure, and the inside wall that backed onto the embankment would need complete damp-coursing, but he couldn't for the life of him locate any dampness in the walls upstairs at all (no, he didn't add another "at all" —he wasn't quite that kind of Irishman). And what did I mean by the crack in the lintel over the range? The stone looked perfectly okay to him. The floor-to-ceiling split in the bedroom wasn't as bad as I'd indicated, either; it could easily be repaired. There were one or two rotted windowframes that would need replacing, but for the life of him he couldn't locate the dangerous stairboard. The roof certainly needed fixing, unless I liked sleeping under the stars, but the water tank wasn't too badly rusted; however, he advised replacing that to save problems later.

  I don't know if I was more taken aback at finding such an honest builder, or at apparently having exaggerated Gramarye's failings. Whichever, it was good news, if puzzling. I instructed O'Malley to carry on with whatever he felt was necessary, and returned to stringing the guitar, mystified yet pleased at the same time.

  I told Midge the news when she returned from her shopping trip, drenched from the rain, hair matted flat around her face. She stood there, dripping on the carpet, her expression one of bewilderment. We had written the list together from notes we'd made on one of our trips to the cottage, so there was no question of overactive imagination on my part. I remember remarking at the time that the defects were not as bad as I'd first thought, but they were still there, and very apparent. We discussed the mystery throughout the day and into the evening, but still hadn't reached any satisfactory conclusion by bedtime. We fell asleep still wondering.

  Too busy to consider it much over the next few days: I was tied up with recording sessions, mainly for advertising jingles—very lucrative—and Midge had embarked on a series of illustrations for a new book—something of a departure for her this time because it was for farmhouse recipes. We also had to organize our future lives: sending out change-of-address cards, arranging for electricity and the phone to be switched back on at the cottage, the cesspool to be cleared, signing checks for this, that, and God knows what else, buying odd bits of furniture we'd need, having a brand new electric stove installed . . . the list went on.

  Bob managed to find me, at a low cost, an unemployed Ford Cargo Box 3-tonner, usually used for transporting musical equipment to and from gigs, plus a couple of humpers to go with it (humpers are the trolls who manhandle massive amplifiers, etc. from show to show), so a professional moving company wasn't necessary.

  Moving Day was set and Midge and I declined any further engagements or commissions for a whole month. We figured it would take all of that time at least to get straight, and although we weren't exactly flush with cash after all the outgoings we certainly had enough to carry is through— the gods had been very kind. Midge's posters had been accepted by the kiddies'-wear people, by the way, and under Big Val's financial terms of 2 1/4 percent interest for nonpayment two weeks after delivery date (you had to be good to get away with this) the fee was already in the bank. My session work was paid on a three-hourly basis and gratefully received at the end of each day's or half-day's work.

  It was a fine morning for a change on Moving Day and we stood in our now empty apartment, the van loaded and waiting downstairs. We were suddenly wistful: we'd had good times in this place, even though we'd yearned for something more, something that would be our own. And love had deepened here.

  We hugged each other and took one long, last, look around. Then we left.

  With the humpers following close behind in the van, we drove down to Hampshire, the New Forest, and Gramarye.

  IN

  BY SIX O'CLOCK that evening the humpers, with tenners in their pockets and tired grins on their faces, were gone, leaving Midge and me alone in Gramarye.

  Standing at the door, we watched the empty 3-tonner disappear around the curve in the road, and even then we lingered awhile, drawing in the slowly cooling air. I let my gaze wander over the grassy stretches and woodland opposite the cottage, wondering if the road ever became really busy, and if the quietness of it all might eventually send me slightly crazy. From Baron's Court to the wilderness in one bold leap. Daunting.

  But I felt good, oh so good. Exhausted too, but pleasantly so; I didn't resent my aching muscles at all. I pulled Midge close and she slipped an arm around my waist, resting her head against my shoulder.

  "I'm so happy, Mike," she said softly. "I can't tell you how much. Gramarye means so much to me."

  I smiled and kissed her forehead. "Me too, Pixie. Me too. I think we made the right decision. Look, even the flowers out there have revived themselves to make us welcome."

  "It must be all the rain we've been having lately. The colors are so beautiful."

  "No need to look far for your inspiration around here."

  "I've got all I need right beside me."

  "Yuk."

  "I know, but it feels good to tell you." Her pale eyes shone up at me. "Things are going to work, aren't they, Mike?"

  "No question. Things are gonna be terrific. God, I feel a song coming on!"

  "Spare me that!"

  "I can't help myself!"

  I opened my mouth wide, but she dug me in the ribs. "You'll frighten the animals."

  "Oh yeah. Forgot. Jeez, I could sleep for a week."

  "Can I get you a beer?"

  "You mean Igor and Mongo didn't finish 'em off?"

  "I kept them too busy shifting furniture. One half-hour for beer and sandwiches was all any of you were allowed."

  "I remember. You know what I'd really like?"

  "You said you were tired."

  "Not that. Well, not right at this moment. No, I'd like some tea."

  "Can this be the same hellraiser I shared a flat with in London? Must be the pure country air. Not even coffee?"

  "No. I'm in the mood for tea."

  "Simply because you're near me."

  "Funny but when you're—" I began to sing. Then
, "Just put the kettle on."

  She skipped inside, chuckling to herself.

  I strolled to the front gate and heard a car approaching. It soon appeared around the bend and I watched it pass by, thinking entertainment sure was spare in this neck of the woods. The Citroën's occupants gawked back at me and I gave them a friendly wave. One of the two passengers, a girl in the back seat, smiled and then the car was gone, leaving only a faint smell of engine fumes in the air.

  The show over, I sauntered back down the path, taking in the chocolate-box view of the cottage with its brooding woodland behind, the wild array of flowers enlivening the foreground. I experienced a deep flush of contentment. This new life might take some getting used to and there was still a lot of hard work ahead to make the place comfortable, but the good vibes were already weaving their spell, calming and delighting me at the same time, alerting my senses to everything that was around. I was acutely aware of Midge's presence within those irregular-shaped walls, as if she had instantly become a part of Gramarye's personality, a little of its essence. She belonged in such a setting.

  I stopped dead. Hold on here, I admonished myself. Let's not get carried away. I wouldn't like to upset you, Mrs. Chaldean, but we're talking about bricks and mortar with a pleasant view, not a goddamn shrine. Shaking my head at my own cogitations, I walked on.

  I came to a halt once more when I noticed the chaffinch on the doorstep. The bird's back was to me as it peered into the gloom inside with jerky stretching movements, occasionally cocking its head to one side as if listening for something. I waited, not wishing to scare it off; this was my first close encounter of the feathered kind.

  Midge appeared inside the doorway and she was moving smoothly forward, cooing a gentle welcome. She knelt as she drew close and I was surprised that the chaffinch didn't hop back or fly away. It watched with bold interest.

  Midge had breadcrumbs in her outstretched hand and she offered them to the bird, who eyed them with suspicion. I remained frozen, enjoying the scene. Midge placed the crumbs on the floor just inside the doorway, only inches away from the bird. The chaffinch cocked its head again and watched her, ignoring the food. Then it hopped to the very edge of the step and I felt sure it would venture inside. Not so, though; it skipped back again, gave one loud chirp that could have been a "good-bye" and off it flew.