The Magic Cottage

by James Herbert

  "So where do we go from here?" I asked, wiping the back of my hand across my lips. "You know I'm worried about how much it's gonna cost to put the place right."

  "But you like the cottage, don't you?" She leaned across the table and her words were almost a conspiratorial whisper. And she was fixing me with that smile again. "Don't you think the location is ideal? Imagine the work we'll do there. My paintings, your music. Mike, you'll do so much, I just know it. And maybe you'll finally get around to writing those children's stories for me to illustrate. We'll make a wonderful team!"

  I mulled it over. Sometimes Midge escaped into a world of her own, on a plane far removed from choking cities and avaricious mortals, and she had the ability to draw others into it, too—that is, if she wanted them along. I had to remain the pragmatist most of the time, although it never ceased to amaze me how down-to-earth practical she could become when the occasion truly demanded.

  "Look, I'll tell you what we'll do," I said. "We'll go back to the agent and lay our cards on the table. We'll point out all the faults, major and minor, and put in a lower bid to cover our costs. If Bickleshift goes for it, all well and good; if not—well, we'll have to face up to the facts of life."

  She could hardly argue with that, but I couldn't help disliking myself for putting anxiety behind her eyes.

  So that was what we did. We finished our drinks and drove back to Cantrip, me with a grumbling stomach and Midge in a moody silence. When we passed Gramarye, her eyes locked onto the cottage and once more she craned her neck until it was out of sight.

  It was well after lunchtime when we reached the village and we found Bickleshift wondering how to occupy the rest of his day. I explained our position, telling him we loved the cottage, were extremely keen to buy, but that there were certain nasty faults that needed attention, and these would burn a sizable hole in our finances. How about knocking off at least four thousand from the bidding price?

  He sympathized. He understood perfectly. But he said no.

  The ad had mentioned that Gramarye would require some renovation, and quite possibly the costs would be high. But he did not have the authority to accept our lower offer, nor, he had to admit, the professional inclination to do so. It was a "desirable property" in an extremely "desirable" part of the world, after all.

  I could feel Midge's spirits slump, and mine also took a nose-dive. Although I had mixed feelings about the place, learning we couldn't afford it anyway left me more frustrated than I thought possible. I tried three thousand.

  Bickleshift sat firm, explaining that the executors of Flora Chaldean's Will had set a minimum price, apart from which we were only the first in a line of others wishing to view the property. He was very friendly when he told us this, but estate agents aren't renowned for having generous natures.

  Our problem was that not only would we have to live in Gramarye, but we'd have to work there too, so conditions had to be reasonable for both of us. Also, I'd wanted to build some kind of mini recording studio for myself; nothing fancy, you understand, but the bare essentials would require a certain amount of ready cash. It was no good, useless to try and kid ourselves. Nice idea, but impractical. Bye-bye our cozy love-nest in the country.

  We left with lead-weight hearts and Bickleshift's promise to be in touch if there were any further developments. Midge was silent all the way back to Big Met., and I could say nothing to console her.

  That night she wept in her sleep.

  THREE SCORES

  THERE'S AN OLD Chinese proverb I've just invented that goes: "When luck is on your side, numbers don't come into it."

  The doorbell woke us around 8:30 next morning. That kind of hour is rarely even mentionable to me, so it was Midge who had to crawl out of bed to answer it. With one open eye, I noticed her face was still puffy and her eyelids red-rimmed from salty tears as she pulled on her nightshirt and left the bedroom. I groaned and pushed my head further into the pillow when she opened the front door of our apartment and I heard a familiar growly "Good morning." Val Harradine, her agent, had heralded in the dawn.

  Their voices wandered off into the kitchen, Midge's barely audible and Big Val's grinding on like an asthmatic cement mixer. Actually, Val was okay, although a bit dykey of the bullish kind; what irritated me was the way she sometimes tried to force work onto Midge that Midge didn't want. When I learned of her mission that morning, I could have kissed her big head, moustache and all.

  Midge came flying back into the bedroom and leapt onto the bed, her milky thighs straddling my tummy and her hands shaking my shoulder. I yelped and tried to shift her weight.

  "You'll never guess!" she cried, pinning me there and laughing.

  "C'mon, Midge, it's too early," I protested.

  "Valerie tried to reach me all day yesterday—"

  "That's wonderful news. Will you get off me?"

  "She couldn't, because we were out, weren't we? She couldn't phone last night because she was out herself."

  "This is fascin—"

  "Listen! She had a meeting with the art buyer at Gross and Newby yesterday morning."

  "That's the agency you don't like."

  "I love 'em. They've got a huge presentation to make next week and the account's art director wants to use my style of illustration for posters. They want three, Mike, and they're willing to pay a heavy price."

  Now unlike book and magazine publishers, advertising agencies are astonishingly high payers where artwork is concerned—usually client's money, you see—so £-signs flashed through my head and cleared the last dregs of sleep.

  "Five hundred a piece," said a gruff voice. I looked over to see Big Val's broad visage peering around the door, not a pleasant sight on an empty—if Midge-burdened—stomach. However, it wasn't unwelcome on that particular morning, and I did my best to be nice.

  "Less your twenty percent," I said.

  "Naturally," she replied without a smile.

  I blew her a kiss anyway—it wouldn't have been decent in my naked state to make it physical. My hands rested on Midge's thighs and I asked suspiciously, "When are they going to need 'em?"

  "Monday," she told me.

  "Aah, Midge, you're gonna knock yourself out."

  "It'll be okay, I'll work through the weekend. If the campaign goes through, the agency will double-up on the price."

  "Three thousand?"

  "Less my twenty percent," out in Big Val.

  "Naturally," I said.

  The idea of Midge producing three such illustrations worried me: she never skimped or cheated on her work, and she had a particularly fine-detail style. Even with the restrictive time limit I knew she would put everything she had into those paintings.

  "Do you realize what it means, Mike?" Her eyes were wide and shining. "We'll be able to afford the cottage, we'll be able to meet their price."

  "Not quite." I reminded her of the figures involved. "We'll still be a thousand short, even if you do eventually get the full amount for the posters." If I imagined that would cast a cloud, I was wrong: my words didn't seem to have any effect on her at all.

  "I just know everything's going to be all right. I knew the minute I woke up this morning."

  "We really have to get moving, Margaret," interrupted Twenty Percent. "I promised I'd get you to the agency for a briefing as soon after nine as possible. I'm going down to find a cab and I'll give you five minutes to join me."

  Within seven minutes, Midge was gone, leaving me with the wet imprint of a kiss on my cheek and a semitroubled mind. I was both pleased and concerned at the same time. The money just might allow us to compromise on the amount of work to be carried out on Gramarye. Maybe. Anyway, I promised Midge before she left to give Bickleshift a call and propose a revised offer to him. Things turned out the other way around, though.

  I'd shaved and showered and was spooning my way through my cereal, nose into Rolling Stone, when the phone rang. Bickleshift was on the other end of the line.

  "Mr. Stringer?"

 
; "Yeah." I sipped the coffee I'd carried through into the hall with me and winced when I burned my lips.

  "Bickleshift here."

  I became instantly alert. "Oh, hi there."

  "I said I'd call if there were any new developments concerning Gramarye. You know, I did understand your plight yesterday and I took the liberty of getting in touch with the late Flora Chaldean's executors after you left."

  I didn't say anything about the queue of prospective buyers he'd mentioned. "Really? That was kind of you."

  "Yes. You see, I don't quite know how to put this, but the sale of Gramarye is unlike any other I've undertaken."

  "I don't understand."

  "Well, apart from the purchase price, there are certain other aspects regarding the sale. I've been asked by the solicitor in charge of the estate, a Mr. Ogborn, of Ogborn, Puckridge and Quenby, to keep him advised of the, er, type of purchaser interested in the cottage. It seems Flora Chaldean was rather fussy as to who should take over if her niece put the place on the market."

  "I see." No, I didn't see, but what else could I say?

  "Mr. Ogborn wondered if it would be possible for you and your—sorry, Ms. Gudgeon—to pop along to his offices in Bunbury some time tomorrow, or even today."

  "Uh, that might be difficult. I don't think Midge can make it—she's pretty tied up for the next few days." I didn't like the idea of being vetted, either.

  "Ah." There was a short silence at the other end. "Well, it is rather important apparently that your good lady goes along too. Mr. Ogborn is most anxious to see both of you."

  I get my own kind of intuitions now and again and something told me that Midge was the important part of the partnership. "She isn't here at the moment, so I can't give you a definite answer. I suppose we might both be able to make it down there." Poor Midge was really going to be under pressure workwise.

  "That would be excellent. Now let me give you the telephone number of Ogborn, Puckridge and Quenby, then you can make your own arrangements regarding an appointment. With regard to your earlier offer for the property, I think you'll find Mr. Ogborn very amenable, although he might not come down to quite the figure you suggested. I wish you luck, anyway."

  I took the number and we exchanged good-byes. I suppose I was a bit numbed when I returned to the kitchen, because I sat there for some time staring into the bowl of muesli, wondering what the hell was going on. And the morning was still not finished with surprises.

  The next call came about an hour later. Midge hadn't come back yet and I was pondering on whether or not to call the agency to get a message to her. Between ponderings, and now in jeans and gray sweater, I had been sitting at the kitchen table working out figures on a sheet of paper, while propped up against a milk bottle before me was a list of Gramarye faults that had to be fixed (like that floor-to-ceiling crack in the bedroom). I walked out to the phone again, tucking the pencil behind an ear, still mumbling numbers to myself.

  "Mike? It's Bob."

  Bob's a tour manager (for rock groups and the like) friend of mine and we go way back. We used to be quite a team where play was concerned, but I was the one who got the girl. Fortunately there isn't a jealous bone in Bob's body.

  "Hey, Bob, what're you up to?"

  "Never mind. You busy next week?"

  "I could fit something in."

  "I mean all next week. The Everlys are back in town."

  "Another Reunion?"

  "Never fails. Albert's getting another backing group together and he wants to know if you're free."

  "Are you kidding?"

  "Do I ever?"

  "Yeah, you do. I can break off all my other engagements."

  "You familiar with their routine?"

  "They're a bit pre my generation, but I know most of the stuff, and Albert'll put me right on anything I don't."

  "Terrific. It's a grand in the bread-bin, by the way."

  Score Three.

  After arranging details and promising to meet Bob for a "definitely the last one" (muso-speak for a drink-up) in the nearest future, I hung up and wandered back into the kitchen, shaking my head at this funny day. Now I was left with no excuse at all for not buying the cottage, and I wasn't quite sure of my feelings about that. Nevertheless I grinned in anticipation of the look on Midge's face when I told her the news.

  OGBORN

  WE MADE AN early start for Bunbury the following day.

  Midge's reaction had surprised me when she'd returned from the agency and I told her of the two phone calls; surprised me because she'd only smiled as though the turn of events had not been altogether unexpected. She'd put her arms around my neck, kissed my nose, and said enigmatically: "It was meant to be."

  Working from the art director's rough scamps (the client was an up-market chain of children's fashion stores, catering for tots and teens and everything that went on in between), she'd sketched out all three of her poster illustrations by late that night; I'd phoned the solicitor, Ogborn, earlier on in the afternoon, and arranged to be in his office by 10:30 the following morning. He said he looked forward to meeting us both.

  The journey meant that most of the day would be lost as far as Midge's project was concerned, but she was quite prepared to work night and day for the rest of the week and weekend to have the illustrations ready for the following Monday. The agency needed them by that time so that they could be copied photographically, with copy lines added, for presentation to their client later on in the week. Like a lot of artistic things, the pictures could either go beautifully right first off, or disastrously wrong: for Midge's sake, I prayed this time it would be the former.

  Bunbury turned out to be one of those thriving market towns, with a lot more charm than the village of Cantrip: narrow streets, timbered houses and inns, overhanging gables and bow-windowed shops; just off the busy market square was a modern shopping mall, but even this managed to blend unobtrusively with the older buildings around it. There was a healthy bustle to the place that revived us after our early-morning rise and long journey. We found the offices of Ogborn, Puckridge and Quenby situated in a secluded, cobble-stoned cul-de-sac, the terraced buildings of ageing red brick with shoulder-height railings guarding the basement areas and a flight of steps leading up to each front door. The interior of O, P and Q was somewhat austere in comparison; functional without frills, dignified yet characterless. There were not many frills about Mr. Ogborn either, although he certainly had olde-worlde dignity and a character that was not so far removed from Dickens. Putting an age on him wasn't easy, but anywhere between sixty and eighty would have been close.

  He was quiet-mannered, yet crisp, his back a little crooked, his frame thin. Gold-rimmed spectacles rested on an unashamedly prominent nose, and his eyes, with their long, almost hooded lids, were of the palest gray I'd ever seen. But they were not unkind eyes.

  He offered me a long, bony hand and when I shook it I was surprised by the firmness of its grip. He held Midge's a shade longer than necessary, I thought, and scrutinized her with an interest he hadn't shown me. Maybe you're never too old. We had been shown into his office by a secretary whose age could not have been too far off his own, and who treated him with a quiet reverence that might be due to a cardinal or television newscaster. As she left, softly closing the door behind her, Ogborn offered two chairs opposite his leathertopped desk. Midge and I sat.

  "It was extremely good of you both to come all this way," he began in a voice that was as dry and brittle as were probably his old bones. "Mr. Bickleshift informed me of your interest in Gramarye and I thought it might be appropriate for us to meet. I take it you are genuinely interested in the property?"

  Midge's response was very swift. "We'd love to buy the cottage."

  I shifted in my seat and nodded when the solicitor eyed me.

  "But the financial requirements appear to be some problem to you."

  This time I was swifter than Midge. "The place is going to need quite a bit of renovation. There's a great, gaping crack
—"

  "Yes, I understand that the cottage has deteriorated considerably over recent months," he interrupted. "As executor of Flora Chaldean's estate I have the authority to consider any reasonable bid, and it's my opinion that the sooner Gramarye is occupied, the better for its general condition."

  "Well, it'll take a tidy sum to prevent further deterioration, Mr Ogborn," I pointed out to him.

  "Quite so. Money and goodwill."

  Goodwill?

  He smiled at my mute surprise. "It's my belief that homes live and breathe through the people who reside in them, Mr. Stringer."

  I wasn't going to argue the point, not when negotiations were still at a "delicate" stage. Midge, however, appeared eager to agree.

  "That's what Gramarye needs so much right now, Mr. Ogborn—life inside its walls."

  I didn't detect any embarrassment whatsoever in the solicitor's steady gaze, but I quickly added, "All unoccupied houses become like mausoleums eventually, don't they? Stale and decrepit. Just a good airing does them a lot of good. Y'know, sometimes—"

  "May I ask you a personal question, Miss Gudgeon?" Ogborn said.

  "Please do," Midge replied.

  "I wondered if you had a career, a profession of some kind."

  "I'm an illustrator."

  "Ah." That appeared to please him.

  "I illustrate children's books mostly."

  "I see." He studied her for several seconds and I began to get a little vexed at his attention.

  "I'm a musician," I told him.

  "I see." His smile seemed thinner somehow.

  "Could you tell us something about Flora Chaldean?" Midge asked. "She must have lived at Gramarye for a good many years."

  "Indeed she did," replied Ogborn, straightening in his chair as much as the curvature in his spine would allow. "I understand she was an orphan taken in by the owners of the cottage, who were childless themselves, some time before the First World War, and raised as their own daughter. There was no official record of adoption, and nobody appears to have known her exact age when she died. I don't believe that years had very much significance to Flora herself."