Chapter 43—Fairy Thimble Cottage
The beauty of Fairy Thimble Cottage almost made up for the awkward tension between Rosalee and Colin. The place was as idyllic as Rosalee’s phone picture promised—a whitewashed, thatched-roof cottage, surrounded by a garden wild with foxglove, angelica and pennyroyal. It glowed in the golden light of the sun now setting into the rolling Lincolnshire Wolds—enough to bring flutters to the heart of Thomas Kincaid.
“Isn’t it perfect?” Rosalee pulled me from the car and danced us down the flagged pathway to the house. “Green, green, green. When you come from Buttonwillow California, this is, like, paradise.” She picked a small pink foxglove blossom and put it on her finger, grinning with a childish delight. “See—fairy thimbles! Can you imagine how wonderful it would be to grow up here? I’d love to raise children in this place…” She gave a sidelong glance at Colin, who was busy with his cell phone and didn’t seem to notice. “But it’s way far from stores and stuff. I have to get a car and learn to drive all over again. Isn’t it creepy how they drive on the wrong side of the road? Makes me crazy. But Colin’s going to give me lessons. And rent me a car—isn’t that right, honey?”
“I have to make a phone call,” Colin said, pacing the dusty lane to get a signal.
“Come and look at what I’ve done in the garden,” Rosalee said. “It was all overgrown, but I’ve been weeding and planting. It keeps me grounded, you know? Except in the rain. I can’t believe how much it rains here. I mean, I knew it rained a lot, but it’s almost summer. I’ve never heard of rain in the summertime…”
I wondered if Rosalee’s fictional Sherwood Forest had a California, no-rain-in-summer climate. It certainly would make for more comfortable outlawing.
I followed my hostess to the back garden, where a small patio was shaded by a huge bush—a tree really—covered with pretty white flowers.
“That’s an eldertree.” Rosalee said. “I’m thinking of making some elderberry cordial. Did you know it’s good for cramps? So is comfrey—those purple flowers over there—there’s a whole herb garden around this place. My witch friend at the RenFaire taught me all about herbs. I’m going to make myself some elderberry tea right now. I’ve got cramps you wouldn’t believe.”
She led me into the house through a Dutch door that led to the kitchen, a pretty little room lined with old-fashioned wooden cupboards and furnished with a rough hewn table and chairs. At first the place looked a bit primitive, but as Rosalee bustled around, I saw that the quaint wooden doors hid modern appliances, including a refrigerator and a small freezer full of frozen dinners.
“I’m so pissed,” Rosalee said as she put on the kettle. “All week, I’ve been dying for Colin to stay with me, but he kept having to work. And now, when he can be home for the weekend, I’ve got my period. Life is so unfair.” She bounced toward a tiny door that led to the interior of the cottage. “Come on. I can’t wait to show you around. I’ve got a great bedroom down here and there’s the cutest little attic room upstairs.”
I had to stoop to get through the doorframe, which had apparently been made for Hobbits. Rosalee led me past a room with a big double bed, through a pretty parlor where Rosalee’s laptop was set up on a Victorian writing desk, and then to a steep, ladder-like staircase. At the top of the stairs was a tiny room under the eaves, decorated in frilly Victorian style with dried flowers in baskets and lace curtains at the windows. I could see why Rosalee was in love with the place.
But what I didn’t see was any evidence that this was the residence of a gruff old cowboy-wannabe. Odd that Colin would have a place like this. There was a shelf of old books along one wall of the bedroom, but they were Agatha Christies and historical romances: not a Louis L’Amour or Zane Grey among them.
Colin called from below. “Are you ladies ready for a nightcap? I’ve bought a nice bottle of sherry. We want to be in bed early if we’re going to get to the Robin Hood festival when it opens.” He gave Rosalee a heated look. Obviously sleeping wasn’t the only activity he wanted an early start on.
I was happy to leave the lovers alone while I enjoyed a non-wimpy hot shower.
Clean, cozy, and blissfully safe from vermin, I went to bed with Murder at the Vicarage and drifted in to peaceful sleep.
But I soon woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs—heavy footsteps. And labored breathing. I froze as the lamp on the dresser flared, illuminating a figure looming over me: Colin, wearing a thick plaid bathrobe—breathing as if he’d run a marathon.
I looked at my watch—two AM. He wanted an early start, but this was silly.
“Are we leaving for Nottinghamshire so soon? I’m afraid it will be awfully hard to pry me out of this cozy bed.”
Colin grabbed the duvet. “Then I’ll have to join you in there.”
I managed to keep a firm grip on the bedclothes. My first thought was to scream, but I didn’t want to cause a scene if it could be helped. After all, this was Colin’s house. I sat up carefully, gripping the duvet with both hands. I spoke in a loud, sharp voice.
“Colin! Wake up. You’re sleepwalking! Wake up. You’re in the wrong room. Rosalee is downstairs.”
“Forget Rosalee.” Colin gave another silly grunt and continued to play tug o’ war with the duvet. “I already took me blue pill, and now she says she’s having her monthlies.”
“Colin, please. Wake up!” I tried again, louder this time—loud enough to wake Rosalee, I hoped. “This is not your room. Not now. Was this your bedroom when you were a little boy?” I hoped he had the sense to take the lifeline I was throwing.
But Colin only laughed. “Me? When I was small, I lived in a council flat in Manchester. This is just a place I’ve let for the summer—a little love nest for Rosalee and me. You have no idea the trouble I went through to get away from the wife for the weekend—and to buy some of these erection pills from a chemist who doesn’t know the family.” He gave me a conspiratorial grin. “But I can see you’re a sophisticated bird, working with those smut peddlers and all. I’ll bet you and the lads have a bit of fun down in that dungeon, don’t you?” He launched himself onto the bed.
Even though he was out of shape, Colin’s bulk gave him advantage. I wasn’t taking any more chances. I took a deep breath and shouted.
“Rosalee! Come quick! It’s Colin!”
Colin tried to put his hand over my mouth. “No! For god’s sake, woman, don’t…”
I shook him off, slithered off the end of the bed and dashed down the stairs
“Come quick!” I knocked hard on Rosalee’s door.
As Rosalee emerged, I grabbed her in a hug. “Poor Colin,” I said. “He’s sleep-walking. You’ve got to help. I’m worried he might fall, with those steep stairs. Was that his room, when he was a little boy?”
The subterfuge might have failed with Colin, but it worked on Rosalee, who, with a sympathetic coo, ran to help her red-faced lover down the steep staircase.
After a dark glance in my direction, Colin accepted Rosalee’s ministerings, as she led him to the kitchen for “some calming herbal tea.”
I declined to join them and scrambled back up the stairs to my cozy bed—but not before I wedged a chair under the handle of the door.
Chapter 44—The Swords of Sherwood
On the way to Nottinghamshire the next morning, in a gentle, warmish drizzle, Colin and Rosalee made no reference to the drama of the night before, and seemed to be cuddly lovebirds once again. A major relief.
I felt a bit guilty for not informing Rosalee about Colin’s deception about the house, his wife, and nocturnal activities, but I needed time to present the information to Rosalee in a kind way. I knew the revelation would result in more dramatics.
But, since I suspected Rosalee of a certain amount of deception herself, vis a vis her own affections, I felt less urgency about full disclosure.
We had a delicious breakfast at a roadside pub and the drive was breathtaking. As we neared Sherwood Forest, the rain let up and rays of sunl
ight burst through the clouds, illuminating bluebell-carpeted spinneys and daffodil-strewn meadows.
As we approached the visitor’s area of Sherwood Forest Park, following a slow-moving line of cars, we were greeted by costumed re-enacters who strolled the sides of the road, some singing and playing lutes. The effect was charming. When Colin rounded the corner that led to the visitor’s center, Rosalee gasped.
“Major photo op! All those little Robin Hoods! Too adorable.”
She pointed at a grassy hillock where a group of little boys—all wearing green feathered hats— “battled” each other with plastic swords. There were at least thirty of them, ranging in age from about three to ten. The amassed cuteness was too much for Rosalee, who demanded that Colin stop then and there, as she reached for her camera.
“Oh, I want a little boy of my very own!” she said as she opened the door. “What about you, Colin, do you want boys or girls?”
“I’ve already plenty of both. One of each and five grandchildren,” Colin said.
Rosalee stopped, her face distorted with one of her sudden tempers.
“What do you mean?” She turned on him, with the car door half open. “You’ve been married? You have children? Grandchildren?”
“Indeed,” said Colin. “A selfish lot—both the boys and the girls. Now why don’t you get out and look around while I find a place to park, all right?” We’ve got a parade of vehicles behind us, and they’ll be after my blood if I don’t move ahead.”
“No!” Rosalee stood her ground. “I want to know why you never told me about your kids before.”
This was not the best moment for Rosalee to discover Colin’s deceptions. I stepped out of the car, gave an apologetic shrug at the people in the Rover behind us and opened Rosalee’s door.
“Let’s get that photograph before the little boys get tired.”
Rosalee got out, but her attention was still on Colin. “Are your kids going to cause trouble when we get married? Do they expect to inherit the cottage?”
Somebody behind us honked. Colin pulled his door shut and drove the car toward the parking lot, a fake smile pasted on his face.
Rosalee tried to follow, still ranting, but I pointed to the battling young Robin Hoods.
“Look: two of them have left. You’d better take that picture.”
I listened to the click, click, clack of the boys’ swords as Rosalee fiddled with her camera phone.
“Isn’t it fun,” I said, in my cheeriest tone. “They’re not really fighting—just clicking their swords together. It’s not a battle, it’s a percussion concert.”
But Rosalee had lost interest.
“He has to marry me!” She waved the phone in my face. “I have to become a British citizen. Why does he think I came over here? Ooooh, he makes me so mad.”
I nodded, wondering if my attempt at a sympathetic expression was remotely convincing. Colin and Rosalee seemed as equally matched in cluelessness as they were in deception. As Colin moseyed back from the parking lot, adjusting his cowboy hat, all I could think was that the two deserved each other.
A roar came from the crowd around them as a costumed couple on horseback came trotting down a forest path.
“Look! Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Major photo op,” I said, with more exaggerated cheer. “I wish I’d brought a camera, Rosalee. You’ll have to take pictures for us both.”
Luckily, she took the cue instead of renewing her battle with Colin.
Although the rest of the day was a little tense, nothing more was said concerning marriage, children or inheritances. Colin was pleasant enough, and paid for my tickets as well as buying us all a fine lunch of fire-roasted pork and applesauce.
The festival was well organized, and I enjoyed watching costumed craftspeople demonstrate weaving, metalwork and pottery-making as practiced in the twelfth century. I found it sort of amazing we were all here honoring a man who might or might not have existed eight hundred years ago: re-enacting a history that never was.
I followed my companions, trying to ignore their tense silence, but when we passed a rat catcher displaying his skills with trained rodents, which fascinated Rosalee, I begged off. We agreed to rendezvous later for the big performance—a choreographed mock battle with Robin’s merry men pitted against the Sheriff’s minions.
I wandered through the crowds of revelers until I found the Major Oak. I studied its ancient, propped-up limbs. Because it was supported by so many metal crutches, it wasn’t quite as romantic-looking as in Tom’s painting, but it was indeed hollow inside, just as Peter said. Watching children scurry in and out, posing for photos as they peeked from the darkness within, I remembered my worry, the night I arrived, that Peter might be hollow, too. Nothing had proved my anxiety groundless.
In fact, I realized as I stared at the iconic old tree, the Peter I’d been pining for was very likely empty too—no more a hero than a little boy with a plastic sword.
Chapter 45—The Way We Live Now
I had mixed feelings about returning to Puddlethorpe with Rosalee. Another night in the cottage bedroom with an Agatha Christie would be heaven, but not if I had to endure repeat of last night’s encounter with Colin—or the dramas that were sure to ensue as he and Rosalee began to uncover each other’s deceptions.
So I was relieved when, as we approached the turnoff for Swynsby, Rosalee suggested they drop me off at the factory, and “put off the stupid editing business until Monday.”
The parking lot was empty and the Maidenette Building peacefully quiet—except for the snores of little Much, asleep under Meggy’s work station. I didn’t hear the usual blast of TV from the canteen, or the thump of music from Liam and Davey’s rooms. And thankfully, not a clank or cry emanated from the darkness of the dungeon. Maybe everyone was at the pub, or sleeping off last night’s debauch in their respective dens.
As much as I longed for a drama-free evening and early bedtime, I didn’t much like being alone in the building. Every creak of a floorboard sounded ominous. I headed to the office to check for mail, but found the outer door locked. Annoying. I’d have to wait until Davey showed up with the key.
I decided to go to bed early with a book. I’d left Murder at the Vicarage back in Puddlethorpe, but I still had Ivanhoe. A suitable read after my day in Sherwood Forest,
But when I opened the door to the warehouse, I couldn’t get the door open more than a few inches. The path to my Wendy house seemed to be blocked. I peered in and saw huge wooden crates piled between the book pallets, barring the way. I tried to move a crate, but could only budge it a few inches.
I had no way to get to my things, or my bed. I seemed to be descending into ever-deepening circles of homeless hell.
I knocked on the doors to Liam and Davey’s rooms, but got no reply. As I passed through the factory, Much woke and trotted behind me. I was glad of his company as I pushed open the doors to the canteen, which was also deserted. It smelled of rotting garbage. Much found himself a meat pie tin, still coated with gravy, and licked it clean. When he finished, he looked up at me, hoping for a more substantial main course.
I searched the cupboards for dog food, but found them empty. I tried the tiny refrigerator, but it held nothing but a half-eaten can of beans, some stale bread and a cooked sausage with one end bitten off. I cut up the sausage and put it in the pie tin for Much and made myself some beans on toast. At least I knew I could pay whoever owned them when I got the money from Rosalee.
I did hope Rosalee meant what she said about paying me to edit. It would be so nice to be able to afford a few groceries. It would also be nice if somebody around here were telling the truth about something.
I decided to clean up the kitchen, in spite of Plant’s warning about the perils of Wendy-ing. Garbage brought rats. I’d rather compromise feminist principle than face another rodent infestation. As I washed up the stacks of crusty dishes, I watched a BBC production of Trollope’s The Way We Live Now on the television. Not a bad way to spend an evening, I
told myself. Better than being hit on by horny faux cowboys.
But when the program was over, I couldn’t find a thing I wanted to watch. The snowy old set only got a few channels. I wished I had my copy of Ivanhoe, and began to seethe at the rudeness of whoever had loaded those crates. Probably Henry and Alan, with yet another scheme to drive me out. Liam and Davey wouldn’t have allowed it, I was sure. They must have been gone when the unloading went on.
Much stirred and went to the door to bark at something in the factory. I hoped it was Liam and Davey, but nobody appeared. The dog kept barking, so I opened the door and let him run out. Probably in pursuit of a bit of rat for dessert.
I hoped when the men got back from the pub or wherever, they’d be sober enough to move the crates so I could get to my bed. I did not relish the prospect of sleeping on one of the grimy canteen couches.
I turned on the TV again, flipping channels between a 1980s chop-socky movie, a snowy, colorless broadcast of a home decorating competition, and a documentary on the mating habits of voles.
How annoying—as well as ironic—to be in a publishing factory without a readable book. But I had a thought. What about Gordon Trask’s novel? I wasn’t a big fan of war stories, but it certainly would provide a more pleasant diversion than the works of Rodd Whippington and Dirk Scabbard. I remembered that Meggy had stopped shredding the copies of Home is the Hunter—at least for a while—when the paper order came through for Henry’s book. Maybe she’d never got back to it.
I clicked on the bank of lights for the far end of the factory, where the books had been piled on the tables the night I’d arrived. But as I approached Meggy’s work station, I heard something.
Something moving. And a thump.
“Much?” I called. “Here boy!”
But the dog didn’t appear. Maybe he was busy with rat-catching duties. His hunting might have been the sound I heard. Maybe. If he’d caught a very big rat.
Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Page 15
