The Magic Cottage Read Free Page A

weathered fence, with many of its uprights reclining at angles or fallen out completely, bordering the front garden. The small gate was closed and a sign, peeling and weary-looking, was battened across the struts. In beautiful but faded script, the sign said:
    Gramarye



The Cottage

    So there it was before us. And on initial observation the cottage was enchanting.
    I’d pulled the car over onto the grass in front of the crumbling fence and now we both sat staring at Gramarye, Flora Chaldean’s roundhouse, Midge, it seemed, as if in awe, and me – well, let’s say pleasantly surprised. I’m not sure what I had expected, but this wasn’t quite it.
    The building really was round, although the main section facing us was conventionally straight, only one end curving away (we were to understand the structure a little later), and it was on three levels if the attic was included, so maybe ‘cottage’ was the wrong description. Yet it did look like a cottage, because it was set into a grassy bank which somehow reduced its size. The bank swept around from the sides, moss-covered stone steps eating into the left-hand slope, levelling down to the front garden. There were trees on the rise, some with branches scraping against the white brickwork, and beyond was further woodland (wouldn’t you know?). The windows at the front were small and multi-paned, adding even more charm to the general setting, and the roof was of discoloured red tiles.
    Okay, that was our first glimpse, and the overall impression was more than pleasing.
    ‘Mike, it’s wonderful,’ Midge said in a kind of hushed breath, her gaze roaming over the wild colours rampaging through the garden area, flowers that had got used to having their own way.
    ‘Pretty,’ I had to admit. ‘Let’s take a closer look before—’ Midge was already out of the car.
    She ran round to my side and stood facing the cottage, the brightness in her eyes increased. No disappointment, no disillusionment, there. She bit nervously into her lower lip, but all the while her small smile remained. I joined her and slipped an arm around her slim waist, studying her expression at first, and smiling myself. Then I turned to take in Gramarye more fully.
    A tiny shock of recognition touched me, but the sensation was fleeting, too nebulous to be understood. Had I been there before? No, never in a thousand years. I couldn’t remember having even visited this part of the country at any time. Yet there was something familiar about . . . I shrugged off the feeling, putting it down to some form of déjà vu, perhaps a peculiar but mild backlash of anticipation.
    There was no need to ask Midge her impression so far: it was all there shining in her eyes. She left me and slowly walked towards the gate; I had to call out to remind her of my existence. She turned and my mind freeze-framed.
    The shot’s with me now, always will be, clear and sharp, and almost mystical: Midge, small and slender, dark hair falling without curls close around her neck, her lips slightly parted, and in those sweet blue-grey eyes that tilted a little at the corners, a gleam of wonder and joy, an expression that disturbed me yet made me happy for her at the same time; and she wore jeans, a loose short-sleeved blouse tucked into them, sandals on her small feet; and behind her loomed – no, not loomed, because the whole scene, with Midge in the foreground, blended so well, was so complete – stood Gramarye, its white walls now visibly crumbled and stained, windows lifeless yet somehow observing, the grounds sun-dazzled with colours, while beyond and around was the all-encompassing forest. You might say it was a storybook scene, and certainly one to be impressed on the mind.
    Then she’d turned back, breaking the spell, and was leaning over the gate’s catch. The entrance squealed open and Midge stepped inside as I moved to join her. I reached to take her arm but she was gone again, tripping down the overgrown path like an