The Magic Cottage

by James Herbert

  We both laughed as the bird swooped and glided around the garden before disappearing into the nearby woods, and I think that little episode made Midge's day.

  "That's it," I said good-humoredly as I went into the cottage. "Now they know we're here they'll be expecting a house-warming party."

  "We'd make them welcome," replied Midge, her face flushed with joy.

  Still grinning, I crossed the room and squatted down by the wall, running my fingers across the surface there, feeling for any dampness.

  "Looks like O'Malley and his crew did a good job," I remarked. "Did you get a chance to take a look at that crack in the wall upstairs?"

  Midge was busy opening a cardboard box containing easy-fix food. "Yes," she answered, delving in. "You wouldn't know it'd been there. The whole room's been painted over so there are no marks at all. You hungry yet?"

  "Something light'll do."

  "Something light is all you'll get. I'll pop into the village tomorrow and stock up, but for now, pizza, burgers, or soup?"

  "Uh, soup. Let's give it an hour or so, though, to get straight."

  "Okay." She brought over the mug of tea she'd already made. "Water's running clear, by the way."

  "Yeah, I already checked." I stood and took the mug from her. "Seems like we're set, doesn't it?" I guess by now my grin had turned a little sloppy. My free hand curled around the back of her neck.

  Her eyes began to glisten with moisture and there was no need for her to reply, no need at all.

  Later we relaxed on the old, rooted bench at the back of the cottage, watching the sun sink lower into the darkening woodland and dunking the last of our bread into mugfuls of hot soup. The evening was still warm and we were bathed in a soft glow, the white walls of Gramarye hued a pale pink. O'Malley's men had worked expertly on those walls, scraping them clean and repairing, then giving them a couple of coats of cement-based masonry paint. We could hear the chatter of birds getting ready for bed, and occasionally the muted sound of a passing car drifted around the corner of the cottage from the road.

  Most of the essential stuff had been unpacked: my music gear, still in cases or under covers, was in one of the attic rooms I intended to use for writing and taping; Midge's art equipment and drawing board was in the round room, which would obviously be our living room, but in which she had decided she would also like to work. It was a sensible arrangement and one we were used to, her particular occupation being so unobtrusive anyway. I'd fixed up our bed next door to the freshly painted room, neither of us wanting to breathe in fumes while we slept; because the latter was slightly bigger, we'd move the bed in there when the smell of paint had faded. Framed paintings leaned in stacks against the walls, and ornaments stood in various groups around the place like friends sticking together in a strange environment; but chairs and tables and lamps and things were more or less positioned—refining could be done over the next few days. Big Val had rung earlier to make sure we'd settled in okay; fortunately she was never one to waste time on idle chitchat, and the line was awful anyway, so Midge wasn't on the phone for long. We'd decided to quit as soon as the sun was halfway down its lazy glide.

  "Tastes good," I said, smacking my lips appreciatively.

  "You're sure you don't need something more?"

  "This is fine. Too tired to be hungry."

  "Mm, me too. Doesn't the forest look tantalizing with the sun turning its roof reddy-brown, while underneath it's so dark and mysterious."

  "Looks kinda creepy to me." I finished the last of the soup and put the empty mug down beside me, picking up a can of beer as I straightened again.

  "And already there's a mist rising."

  "Must be pretty waterlogged out there in the open with all the rain." I pulled the tab and drank from the can. "D'you think it gets really cold here at night?"

  "Maybe a bit more than city boys are used to, but I don't think you'll need your thermals for a while yet."

  "Bet it gets dark too. No street lamps."

  Midge stretched out her slim legs, her shoulders snuggling down against the back of the bench. "You'll get used to it, Mike." She sighed long and deep, a comfortable sigh, and said, "It's good to be back."

  "Still a country girl at heart, eh?"

  "I suppose I must be. Nine years in the city can't completely eradicate an upbringing, nor would I want it to." The change in mood was swift—often the case with Midge. She lowered her eyes. "I wish they could have seen Gramarye, Mike; I know they would have loved it here."

  Putting down the can, I took her hand in both of mine and held on to it.

  She said quietly, "I think they had hopes of me eventually marrying a nice country vet, or a parson." She smiled, but it was an expression of sadness. "Dad would have loved that. Imagine the long evenings they'd have spent talking shop."

  "He wouldn't have found much in common with me."

  "Oh, Mike, I didn't mean it like that. Dad would have loved you. You're both very alike in many ways."

  "I'd have liked him, Midge. From all you've told me, I think I'd have loved him too."

  "Mother would have thought you a rascal. That's how she'd have put it—a rascal. And she'd have enjoyed that."

  The first tear emerged to dampen her cheek. "It was so cruel, Mike, so horribly cruel."

  My arm went around her shoulders and I moved my head close to hers. "You've got to try and forget that part of it. They'd have wanted you to remember the good things."

  "It's impossible to forget what happened to them."

  "Then accept. Accept the cruelty of that along with all the good times. And think of how proud they would have been of you now."

  "That's what hurts. They can't know, they can never know about my work, about you . . . about—about this place. It would have meant so much to them. And to me, it would have meant so much to have them proud of me."

  There wasn't a lot I could say, so I just held her close and let her weep, hoping as I had many times before that the tears were part of her letting go, each measure of outward grief part of the healing process. How much hurt was still locked deep inside, I had no way of knowing, but I could be patient; she was worth that.

  "I'm sorry, Mike," she said after a while. "I didn't mean to spoil everything."

  I kissed away tears. "You haven't. Here and now, with me, is a good time for you to cry. I only wish there was more I could do to ease it for you."

  "You've always helped, you've always understood. I know it's foolish of me to be still grieving after all these years . . ."

  "There's no special time limit for such things, Midge, there's no clock you can suddenly switch off. It has to run down on its own." I lifted her chin with my finger. "Just remember what the doctor told you: don't let that sorrow taint everything else. You've a right to be happy, and that's what your parents would have wanted."

  "Am I that bad?"

  "No, not at all. Though it's when you're at your most contented that memories seem to edge their way in."

  "That's when I miss them so."

  I felt inadequate, as I suppose we all do at such times, and all I could offer was the comfort of my arms and the depth of my own feelings for her. Her weeping had stopped, the darkness in her spirit relenting enough to allow other emotions to seep through.

  Her kiss was tender and my senses sank into hers. I was used to the sensuous intensity of our intimacy, especially after tears had been shed, but now I was almost overwhelmed. When we finally broke away from each other, I literally felt dizzy and had to draw in breath like a swimmer emerging from a long dive. Midge, too, was a little shaky.

  "This country air has a weird effect," I quipped and was unable to control a mild tremor in my voice.

  "I think . . . I think we should go in," she said, her face bathed in a warm glow from the setting sun. Although there wasn't a hint of lasciviousness in her tone, we both recognized our mutual need.

  I stood, bringing her up with me. "Been a busy day," I murmured.

  "Been a long day,"
she responded.

  "Need our rest."

  Midge only nodded. Taking my hand, she led me toward the door, but we stopped in surprise when we saw into one of the windows of the cottage. I heard Midge gasp and her hand tightened in mine.

  The round room looked as if it were ablaze, so vividly did the sun's dying rays reflect from the curved walls.

  Yet there was nothing frightening about the phenomenon, for the radiance was peaceful, strangely calming in its effulgence, with no fierceness to it at all. We watched, and even our shadows were suffused into a soft hue against the redness.

  I turned to Midge and for one crazy moment I thought I saw tiny fires playing in her eyes, but when she blinked they were gone, and only reflected warmth shone from her. She looked serene standing there, her lips curved in a small, knowing smile, her hair colored a rich auburn by the sun behind, and for some reason I felt a tiny stab of. . . I don't know—unease, nervousness? I couldn't define the sensation.

  This time, it was I who led her away. We went inside and I locked and bolted the doors. We were more drowsy than either of us had realized, the tiredness falling rapidly like a warm smothering blanket, making our movements slow, almost sluggish. We undressed, leaving our clothes where they fell, and climbed wearily into bed.

  We slept, but I've no idea for how long. When we woke, it was together, as one, as if we'd sensed each other's rousing, and there was total darkness around us; again, there was no fear in this black void. Midge reached out for me and I moved to her.

  Then we drifted back into a deep encompassing sleep.

  NOISES

  THE SOUNDS OF tapping woke me, sharp noises in various rhythms, breaking into my dreamless sleep. My eyes opened with none of their usual reluctance and I twisted my head toward Midge to find her wide awake and smiling happily. She was peering over me at the window beyond, the source of the tapping.

  Turning my head the other way to follow her gaze, I spotted the culprits. Three or four birds were perched on the window ledge and they were pecking at the glass as though indignant that .we were still in bed.

  "Oh Christ," I moaned. "Did you put in an alarm call?"

  "No, they took it on themselves to get us up."

  "What time is it?"

  "Just after six-thirty."

  "I don't believe it. You think they're a permanent feature?"

  "Likely as not. It's lovely, isn't it?"

  I pulled the pillow over my head, although in truth I was wide awake. "Quiet would be lovelier."

  "All part of country living, Michael. It certainly beats the sound of rush-hour traffic and pneumatic drills."

  "Only just."

  She whipped back the covers and crawled across me to reach the window. I rolled over into the warm space she had left behind.

  "Say hello from me," I told her, pulling the sheets up around my chin.

  She stooped close to the window and I relished the sight of her naked little rear. Although there wasn't an ounce of unnecessary flesh on Midge's body, there were delicately sensuous curves there that never failed to delight and absorb me. I wanted her back in bed.

  She cooed at the birds and began a conversation with them. Even when she tapped the glass on this side, they didn't fly away. Instead they cocked their heads and chirped all the more loudly, while others fluttered above them, their wings brushing against the panes.

  "I think they're demanding breakfast," Midge called back to me. "I bet Mrs. Chaldean fed them all the time."

  "Well, tell 'em Gramarye is under new management. No freebies any more."

  I'd closed my eyes for a few moments in case sleep wanted to snuggle back in, and the next thing I knew, Midge's weight was sprawled across me.

  "You pretend you're so mean," she said, tweaking my exposed nose painfully, "but underneath that rough, grizzled exterior lies a heart of pure . . ." another tweak " . . . granite."

  I twisted onto my back and she straddled me, her eyes gleaming with mischievous pleasure. It was hard to protest with the pink tips of two small but beautiful breasts hovering only inches away from my lips.

  "You're embarrassing the wildlife," I told her.

  She ducked her head to kiss me, her tongue a soft-stabbing probe, her mouth moist and sweet. My hands broke cover and reached out to grasp her hips.

  The vixen was only toying with me, though. "We've got a lot to do," she whispered in my ear, not forgetting to dampen that orifice with her wayward tongue, just to ensure all my senses were fully alert. "I'll go down and start the breakfast while you shave and generally make yourself civilized."

  "Hey, it's early," I whispered back, not wishing to make the birds blush. "And anyway, we've got a whole month to get ourselves organized. This is our very first morning and it should be celebrated." By now my tongue was doing its own persuading.

  False coyness wasn't part of Midge's nature: what she enjoyed, she embraced. She embraced me.

  Lifting the sheets, I pulled her in and her body, cold from the early-morning air, was delicious against mine. Now Midge and I had always been compatible in the fullest meaning of the word—our bodies, not just our personae, seemed to have been made for each other (and I mean that literally)—and our lovemaking had always been beyond this side of heaven; but the mutual ecstasy we experienced that first morning in our new home was far greater than anything that had gone before. Don't ask me why, just call it magic. Yeah, just call it Magic.

  Later, dressed in old sweater, faded jeans and sneakers (my usual uniform), I followed Midge down and found her in her dressing gown crouched on the kitchen doorstep, feeding the multitude. The birds—wrens, blue and great tits, wagtails, chaffinch, a real multiracial gathering it seemed—showed hardly any caution, a few of them actually pecking food from her hand, while others advanced within touching distance. I noted that size had nothing to do with boldness.

  Midge was gently encouraging them with words I couldn't hear, and I chuckled when a wren perched on her wrist and dipped into the palm of her hand with its tiny pointed beak. I waited until the last slice of bread had been broken up and the pieces devoured before I stepped from the stairs into the room. An invigorating freshness breezed into the kitchen from the open front door and, although it was still early morning, there was no intrusive chill.

  "Heeey, what's this?" I pointed to the table where the breakfast setting included a bottle of champagne and a glass jug of orange juice.

  Midge looked over her shoulder and smiled up at me. "Another part of our celebration. I smuggled the bottle inside a packing case yesterday." She stood, brushing crumbs from her hands. The birds outside continued their chatter, perhaps demanding a second course. I went to Midge and squeezed her so hard she gasped.

  "You're something else," I said, and my voice was husky-soft.

  "The birds have eaten your breakfast," she responded.

  My grip on her loosened. "Tell me that ain't so."

  She nodded gravely, but didn't stop smiling. "I was going to give you Buck's Fizz and toast, but what was left of the bread from yesterday went to our feathered friends. There were so many of them I got carried away. Sorry."

  "You're sorry."

  "I'll get to the shops as soon as they're open, I promise."

  "The cupboard's really bare?"

  "There's a few stale biscuits left . . ."

  "Wonderful." My voice was flat, but I was only posing and she knew it.

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss me. "You open the bubbly and I'll get the biscuits."

  "You sure your pals don't want the champagne too? Maybe they could bathe in it."

  My nose took a tweaking again and she scurried away to the adjoining room where the biscuits were presumably moldering.

  As it turned out, breakfast was terrific. Even Midge, who normally would never touch the grape, had some champagne with her orange juice, and we toasted each other's health and happiness and sexual prowess, and we munched on the biscuits (which were not too bad, incidentally) in between. Our third or fourth sa
lutation was to Gramarye and our mugs clunked together—as yet we hadn't unpacked the glasses—in a most satisfactory way. Those of the birds who were still interested watched from the open doorway, no doubt wondering what we were cackling over.

  After "breakfast" it was all business. Midge bathed and dressed while I washed the mugs and recorked what was left of the champagne (bad form, I know, but I wasn't going to waste it). I took another look at the lintel over the old cooking range while I was in that part of the kitchen, still puzzled by the fact that the hairline crack had apparently sealed itself. Funny how memory can accommodate the mind when things are illogical; I suppose it's a reflexive instinct because we need some kind of mental order to prevent ourselves from going crazy. I began to reason that what we'd actually seen was a shriveled cobweb matted against the side of the dark stone, and it had only looked like a crack to us in what was, after all, an area of dim light.

  Partially satisfied with my theory, I started unpacking what was left inside the cardboard boxes and was pleased when I came across the transistor radio. I switched it on and jumped when the static roared out at me. Quickly turning down the volume, I tried tuning in to a clear station and when I hit music I extended, then swiveled the aerial. The reception was still crackly. Thinking the batteries might be running down, I reached back inside the box and found the electric cord which I attached to the radio and plugged into a wall socket. The heavy static persisted.

  Muttering to myself, I switched off the set, turning as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  "Problems?" asked Midge as she entered the room.

  "We must be in a bad reception area," I told her, "although I'm surprised it's this bad. We may need an outside aerial, maybe on the roof."