The Magic Cottage (11 page)

I cuddled Midge and stroked her hair, the quietness of the forest itself producing its own calming effect.

‘You still trust me, Midge?’

Her reply came unreservedly. ‘Of course I do. I don’t want to be that scared for anyone ever again, that’s all.’

She looked so small and forlorn I couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’d cut off a leg rather than cause you worry,’ I said.

She sniffed, but the traces of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. ‘Where would I keep a spare leg?’

‘You’d find leg-room somewhere.’

She groaned so loud a bird fluttered from a nearby bush. ‘That’s awful.’ She picked up broken leaves and threw them at me. ‘That’s really
awful
!’

Ducking and brushing the debris from my hair, I ran from her. She followed with more woodland dust in both hands, but sprawled over a hidden branch, hitting the deck in a shower of crumbly leaves.

She swore and I waggled a finger at her. ‘Now, now, what would all the little kiddie fans think if they heard that kind of talk? Did Enid Blyton ever use language like that? Did Christopher Robin ever speak that way to Winnie-the-Pooh?’

I ducked again as the branch she’d tripped on came sailing by my head.

‘Tut-tut,’ I said. ‘Does your publisher know about this vicious streak?’

‘I’ll get you, Stringer. You just wait, I’ll get you.’ She then went on to describe what she intended to do to certain delicate parts of my anatomy once she laid hands on them.

I kept out of reach. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Did Gretel ever do such things to Hansel? Was Jill ever like this to Jack? Did the princess ever threaten the handsome newt with such sadism?’

‘Frog.’

‘What?’

‘It was a frog, not a newt.’

‘Whatever turns you on, babe.’

She was on her feet and coming at me, so I ran, chuckling at the outraged shrieks from behind. The odd missile bounced off my back as we raced through the trees, but I easily outdistanced her.

We’d come quite a ways through the forest already, following what seemed to be some kind of vague path with several even more vague tributaries branching off, and before I knew it, like stepping across the threshold between night and day, I was out in the open.

Sunlight dazzled me for a moment, but after a few rapid blinks and raising a hand to shield my eyes I found myself looking across a broad sloping meadow. At the bottom, and backdropped by continuing woodland, stood a large grey house – well, a mansion really.

The buildings had two principal storeys with dormer windows set in a hipped roof above, chimney stacks ranged across the top like up-ended boxes. There must have been eight or nine long windows extending along the ground floor and as many smaller windows above those. I could make out a wide flight of steps leading up to a fairly big entrance; there was no porch, but square columns and a cornice projected from the walls to frame the door. The meadow ran directly down to a rectangular turning area, with no lawns to separate them, and the driveway angled around the quoined corner of the house, presumably to a public road through the forest.

The place was certainly isolated and the greyness of the walls gave it a dark broodiness, despite the sunlight. Although the setting was beautiful, I couldn’t help but feel there was something very uninviting about the house.

Soft footsteps creeping up from behind and then pincer arms moving around my waist, clawed hands reaching for those delicate parts which I’d run so hard to protect. I grabbed Midge’s wrists before she could inflict any damage and she let out a yell of frustration. Turning and crushing her to me so that she was powerless, I bit into her small nose.

She jerked her head away, laughing and breathless at the same time, her wriggling to break free eventually subsiding when she realized the struggle was useless.

‘Bully,’ she said sulkily, but loving every minute of it.

‘Gonna behave?’

‘Hummph.’

‘What was that? I didn’t quite hear.’

‘Rat.’

‘Agreed. But you haven’t answered my question.’

I felt her head nodding against my chest. ‘Does that mean yes?’

A muffled grumble and more movement.

‘Okay.’ I let go, still wary.

She stepped away and kicked my shin.

‘You bloody cow!’ I yelped, hopping and rubbing my injured leg.

‘My dad taught me how to deal with creeps like you before I was out of pig-tails,’ she taunted, dancing out of reach.

I sprawled, aiming for her ankles, just managing to grasp one and bringing her down on top of me. We rolled a short way down the sloping meadow, Midge giggling and cursing, beating at me with clenched fists, while I tried to hold on to her, enjoying the feel of our bodies tight against each other’s.

We came to a panting stop, me on my back, Midge resting half over me. Her eyes were wide when she saw the house.

‘What a strange place,’ she said, the words uneven because of her breathlessness.

She sat up and I rested on one elbow to stare with her across the meadow. ‘Looks grim, doesn’t it,’ I remarked.

A breeze swept up the gradual incline, ruffling the grass; it touched us briefly and sped by. I shivered, although I was warm.

‘I wonder who lives there,’ said Midge.

‘Someone with more money than we’ll ever see, and someone who obviously likes privacy. Even the entrance is facing away from the road.’

‘It looks . . . it looks empty.’

‘Maybe the owners are away, or maybe it’s one of those old family estates that nobody can afford to run any more. The past few decades have been tough on quite a few lords of the manor, I hear.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that kind of empty.’ She frowned, trying to put the feeling into words. ‘It looks bleak,’ she said finally. ‘Such a beautiful location, and yet the house seems . . . miserable.’ She looked down at me. ‘It feels unfriendly.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. Though, of course, there is the possibility that we’re trespassing on private land. Somebody around here might get hostile if they see us.’

She was immediately scrambling to her feet.

‘Take it easy,’ I said, remaining where I was. ‘I was only kidding. We haven’t seen any private-property signs.’

She turned her head as if looking for approaching gamekeepers with loaded shotguns. ‘I don’t like it here. I feel as though we’re being watched.’

I rose, brushing bits of grass off my jeans. ‘You’re incredible. Nothing could be more peaceful and you’ve turned to jelly.’

‘I just feel uncomfortable. Let’s go, can we, Mike?’

Now I regarded her with some concern; there was an anxiety in her tone that the situation hardly called for. ‘Okay, Midge,’ I said, taking her hand, ‘we’re on our way.’

We walked back to the trees and I took one last peek at the grey house before entering the shadowy preserve. From that distance, Bleak House looked innocent enough.

We found the injured thrush some time later when we were almost through the woods, returning along the same path as our outward journey (at least Midge assured me it was the same path). She led the way unerringly while I followed behind, fingers tucked into the pockets of my jeans, occasionally whistling the dwarfs’ Hi-ho song.

Midge gave me a start when she suddenly stopped dead and pushed out an arm against my chest. I froze, lips still shaped in a whistle.

‘What’s wrong?’ I whispered, but she only waved her hand at me, then crouched low on the path. I heard a frantic scuffling movement and I dropped down myself.

Midge cleared foliage beside the path and a tiny, sharp
cheep
warned her off. The bird peered up at us with black startled eyes and twisted its head around in frightened jerks.

‘Oh, poor little guy,’ Midge cried sympathetically. ‘Look, Mike, he’s got a broken wing.’

I shuffled closer on my haunches and the distressed bird flapped at the earth with its good wing, desperate to get away. Midge put out a gentle hand and its struggles immediately calmed, although it still eyed me with some alarm. She cooed softly and to my amazement the bird let her finger stroke its spotted chest.

‘He’s a mistle thrush,’ Midge quietly told me. ‘He must have flown into a tree or become tangled in bushes. It doesn’t look like he’s been attacked by any other animal – there’re no signs of blood or wounds anywhere.’

I studied the grey-brown bird for a moment, noticing how Midge’s stroking was having an almost hypnotic effect on it; the dark eyes were becoming lidded as though the thrush were nodding off to sleep. ‘What are we going to do with it?’ I whispered.

‘We can’t leave him here. He’d never last the night with all the predators in the forest.’

‘We can’t take it home.’

‘Why not? We could keep him safe and warm for tonight, then tomorrow I’ll take him into Cantrip or Bunbury, wherever there’s a vet.’

‘Midge, the bird’s wing is too badly broken – you can see how badly twisted it is. Even if the shock doesn’t kill it, that wing’s never gonna mend.’

‘You’d be surprised how tough these little guys are; he can be taken care of, you’ll see.’ She cupped her hands around the thrush’s sides and slowly lifted, the bird protesting only mildly. Midge cradled it against her chest and I think the thrush appreciated the comfort, because the shutters closed down completely and it seemed to fall asleep. She gazed down at the small feathery body snuggled against her with such tenderness that I felt something inside me melting. Soft as I was on her, there was always that capacity for extra lump-in-the-throat softness. Call me a sentimental fool.

We both stood and I put one hand over her shoulder as she led the way back along the path, her movement even more graceful so that the injured thrush would be disturbed as little as possible.

Soon I glimpsed a tiny flash of white ahead, and knew we were approaching the forest edge and Gramarye.

But I also glimpsed something else. At least, I thought I did, because when I tried to focus it was gone.

I thought I’d caught sight of a figure standing some distance away among the trees. Midge’s attention was still on the bird cushioned in her hands, so I knew she wouldn’t have noticed anything. I squinted my eyes again to sharpen my vision, wondering if I’d merely noticed a shadowy bush shifted by a breeze, and scanned that section of woods. Nope, nobody there.

Yet I found it difficult to shake off the impression of someone standing among the trees. A figure dressed in black, perfectly still and watching. Watching us.

A Visitor

We relaxed in the round room that evening, Midge lying on the carpet, her head propped up by cushions, me on the sofa with a guitar – a concert Spanish – tucked into my lap, wine bottle and glass on an occasional table by my side. The hurt thrush was downstairs in the kitchen, resting in a cardboard box lined with soft material, and looking pretty snug if a little mournful. Midge had coaxed a small amount of milk-dipped bread into its beak, and had laid out the broken wing as carefully and as comfortably as she could. Now it was up to the bird itself to pull through.

The sun was almost lost behind the trees and the room was bathed in that rich warm light as before, but this time more mellow, somehow deeply soothing. I touched the soft strings of the guitar, and the notes resonated against the curved walls, filling the room with lovely sounds. Midge didn’t just look impressed as I moved into a piece I’d had difficulty with for some time, Paganini’s Grand Sonata in A (oh yeah, I’m not
only
a rock-’n’-roller) – she looked positively entranced. As I was too, with my own music. No part was hesitated over, nowhere did my fingers stumble. I was overjoyed with my own dexterity, my hands confident and strong, the intricacy and the length of the composition never daunting (it always had been in the past). I made mistakes, of course, but they were lost in the flow of bright music, and when I’d finished, I think even old Segovia himself might have given me the nod. As it was, the wonder on Midge’s face was enough.

She crawled over and rested an arm across my knees. ‘That was . . .’ she gave a quick shake of her head ‘. . .
brilliant
.’

I held up my hands, palms facing me, and looked at them as though they belonged to someone else. ‘Yeah,’ I agreed breathlessly. ‘I was good, wasn’t I? Jesus, I was incredible.’

‘More,’ she urged. ‘Play some more.’

But I laid the guitar down. ‘I don’t think so, Midge. It’s odd, but I don’t think I’ve got any more left in me tonight. Or maybe I don’t want to spoil anything – quit while I’m ahead, right?’ That was partly the truth – I didn’t want to fail with something else – yet there was another reason: I was exhausted. Whatever it had taken to play like that had also drained me of energy, physically and mentally. I slumped back into the sofa, eyes closed and smiling. Oh, that had felt
good
! Midge snuck up beside me and rested her head against my chest.

‘There’s magic in Gramarye, Mike, and it’s working on us both.’

She’d said the words very quietly and I wasn’t sure I’d heard them correctly. I reached for the glass of wine and sipped, content to just sit there, with Midge close and the world – if there really was a world out there – peaceful and still.