The Magic Cottage

Bob poured himself another beer, surveying the darkening forest opposite. He shook his head. 'It's so fucking rural.'

I grinned at his discomfort. 'I'll take you for a walk in the woods tomorrow morning.'

'Not without a long string, you won't.' He drank and settled back, squinting up at the sun, then quickly averting his eyes. 'Don'tcha find it aggravating, all this peace and quiet? I mean, it's great an' all that, but doesn't it piss you off after a while?'

'You get used to it,' I told him.

'Yeah, but don'tcha miss . . .' he searched for the appropriate word '. . . life?'

'There's plenty of that around here if you care to look.'

'No, not that kinda life, not nature. I mean—life. Something to do.'

'Funny enough, that hasn't been a problem. Sure, I get restless now and again—that's why I enjoyed our session so much this week—but we're close enough to Big Smoke to jump in the car and drive up for the evening.'

'And how often have you done that since you've been here?'

'We've only just settled in, Bob. We haven't had time to start yearning for bright lights again.'

He wiped a beer dribble from his chin. 'Yeah, well, you could be right. This could be the ideal way to spend out your days, listening to the grass grow, watching the birdies build their nests. You could start weaving baskets for a bit of extra cash.'

I chuckled at the wind-up. 'If you think I'm gonna stand a whole weekend of this . . .'

He slapped my thigh, enjoying himself. 'Only kidding, Mike, honest. I think you've made a good move, to tell you the truth. Might even do the same myself one day; I'll wait for a few gray hairs to come through first, though. Hey look, there's that bloody squirrel again. He don't care, do 'e?'

Rumbo had hopped into view from the embankment side of the cottage, obviously still curious about our company for the weekend. He'd been on the doorstep when Bob and his girlfriend had arrived an hour or so earlier, and had scuttled away, keeping his distance but not disappearing altogether. I was pleased that he seemed to have overcome his shock earlier in the week. However, I hadn't quite got over mine yet.

I'd toyed with the idea of confiding in Bob about what had happened on Thursday last, but somehow I couldn't imagine my old drinking buddy taking me too seriously. In fact, I knew bloody well he'd hoot his head off. Why hadn't I told Midge of my night excursion to confront that sinisterly beckoning figure? Because she was too full of a new expectancy (connected with Mycroft, of course), the episode with the 'moving' painting already pushed to the back of her mind, and things between us were still a tiny bit strained. Press me harder and I'll tell you I had a few doubts about myself by now. I was no longer certain that I wasn't suffering from some form of mental aberration (call it new-environment neurosis if you like); it all seemed so unreal and fanciful in the cold light of day. To tell the truth, I'd decided to bide my time, see what developed. There was really little option to do otherwise, anyway.

Rumbo came closer, one eye on the stranger in our midst. Bob clucked his tongue as if encouraging a dog or a baby, and the squirrel's head jerked up; he regarded Bob with some curiosity for a short time, then boldly leapt onto the garden table where two empty beer cans had been left.

He peered into the triangular hole of one, almost toppling the can over. Steadying it witty his paws, he licked beer residue from the rim, much to Bob's delight.

'Love it, love it!' Bob shrieked. 'An alcoholic squirrel. I can see you've done your best for pest control, Mike— turn 'em into alkies and let 'em drink themselves to death.'

'Rumbo's no pest; he's one of the family.'

Bob gave me an old-fashioned look, then grinned. He made no further comment.

I'd been looking forward to their visit, had, in fact, been slightly on edge with anticipation all day—a good feeling, I might add. Bob and Kiwi, and Big Val, who should be arriving at any moment, were our first invited guests to Gramarye, and Midge and I (despite her earlier reservations about Bob) were taking great pleasure from that. Now I was beginning to relax, the second beer and my friend's amiable company helping me settle. Rabbits had turned out for their before-bed frolics, although this evening they kept well clear of the cottage itself as if sensing there were strangers about, and a few birds flitted around like late-night shoppers. The breeze was minimal, and even that carried warmth with it.

I sipped beer and soaked up the atmosphere.

We had more drinks in the round room before dinner, all of us together this time, Midge sticking to lemonade and soda while the rest of us indulged in the stronger stuff. Her agent had arrived twenty minutes earlier, desperately in need of a stiff gin and tonic to help her get over the journey down. Big Val and Bob had met on one or two previous occasions and the banter between them had always been on a basis of jovial hostility. Bob liked women to be most definitely feminine and nonaggressive—Kiwi appeared to be a paragon in this respect—so Val was something of a problem for him. He started off by complimenting her on her heavy country brogues—'just right for yomping through pigshit,' as he put it. She returned the compliment by admiring his pink leather tie—'ideal for throttling,' she suggested.

Opening pleasantries exchanged, Midge and I toasted the health of our first 'official' guests, and they in turn toasted our future happiness at Gramarye. We chatted generally for a while, but it was obvious that Val was impatient to inspect her client's latest work—her eyes had lit up when she'd walked in and spotted the drawing easel on the other side of the room—and she lost little time in sauntering over to it. The picture of the cottage was still taped there to the board, covered against dust by thin layout paper. I hadn't looked at it again since Thursday, but I watched the agent as she lifted the sheet, interested in her reaction. I don't know what I expected, but a frown wasn't it.

I caught the expression because I was watching closely; the frown quickly passed and Val smiled.

'Splendid,' she opined. 'Absolutely splendid.'

For her, as a hard-bitten twenty-percenter, well used to works of excellence, that judgment was pretty nigh over-the-top, and Midge beamed gratitude.

'It's not for sale or anything,' she said quickly. 'Just something for Mike and me, a sort of reminder of our first weeks here. Gramarye's initial impact on us before we got too used to everything. You know how easy it is to eventually become blunted to even the loveliest things around you.'

Val continued to study the painting as Bob and Kiwi crowded behind her.

'Oh yeah, that's something else!' Bob declared in his genuinely impassioned manner. 'Take a look at it, darlin'. Now that's what you call bloody art. Not crumpet with one boob and three legs and a nose where an earhole should be.'

'You obviously know what you like, Bob,' said Val dryly.

Unsure of her, he nodded. 'I like to know what I'm looking at.' And he looked too meaningfully at Val.

'How're the posters Midge did for the agency coming along?' I asked, to change the subject.

Val disengaged herself from the other two around the drawing board. 'I've got first proofs in the car, actually— minis, of course, just for color correction. I thought we could look at them tomorrow, Midge, and you can mark any comments on them.' She, too, was staying over, and working out sleeping arrangements hadn't been easy.

'Fine,' agreed Midge. 'Can't wait to see them.'

'Bear in mind they're only first proofs. We've plenty of time to put them right.'

'That sounds ominous.'

'I know how particular you are. The art director's pleased, by the way. As a matter of feet, he's got more work lined up for you, but we'll discuss that tomorrow, too. Oh and Hamlyn want to discuss a new book.'

'Seems like the heavy season's coming on,' I remarked.

'That time of year, I'm afraid. Clients want to put work in progress before they go off on holiday.'

'I'm still not ready to take on too much,' warned Midge.

'We don't want you enjoying the leisures of country life for too long,' said Val, flopping down on the sofa. 'A lot of people would be very disappointed, especially your junior fans.'

'Not to mention your friendly bank manager, God bless him,' chimed in Bob, sitting deliberately close to Val so that she had to shuffle her broad bottom further along. 'I suppose we are going to eat tonight, aren't we, or has Band Aid got to do another record? And I see the booze is running like glue.' He waggled his almost empty glass at