The Magic Cottage Read Online Free PDF Page B

of us lost in our own thoughts for a while. The ragged state of the garden and the generally poor condition of the cottage itself seemed to be impressing themselves on me in a strong way, and when I looked at Midge I was sure I detected the merest flicker of doubt in her eyes, too.
    I was disturbed by the waxing and waning of my own enthusiasm and had sought reassurance from her. Her own uncertainty was the last thing I’d expected.
    Glancing at my wristwatch, I said, ‘Let’s discuss things over a beer and a sandwich.’
    Her eyes never left Gramarye as she climbed into the car, and she craned her neck to watch through the rear window while I drove away. I didn’t turn the car around but headed in the same direction as when we’d been searching for the cottage, remembering that we hadn’t passed a pub during the journey from Cantrip. A good ten minutes later I found what I was looking for and the sight cheered me considerably. Stout oak timbers and gleaming white paintwork; even a shaggy thatched roof. Rough wooden tables and bench seats in the front garden with no bright brandname umbrellas to spoil the rural charm. The Forest Inn was my kind of watering hole.
    The interior wasn’t a disappointment either: low beams, horsebrasses and thick leather belts mounted on the walls, huge inglenook fireplace big enough to roast a pig in, and the cigarette machine discreetly tucked away in a darkened corner. No jukebox, no Space Invaders. Not even a microwave oven on the bar, although a chalked menu advertising hot snacks was set in the wall to one side. The inn was nicely crowded without being full and I ordered a pint of bitter for myself and an orange juice for Midge from a thickset barman with mauve-veined cheeks and long thin strands of hair flattened sideways over an otherwise bald scalp. He had the bearing and authority of a landlord.
    ‘Passing through?’ he enquired without any curiosity at all as he filled the glass jug.
    I’d been studying the food list and replied abstractedly, ‘Sort of.’ Then, realizing he might venture some information about the locale, if not the cottage itself, I added: ‘We’ve been looking at a place for sale not far from here.’
    He raised his eyebrows. ‘Old Flora Chaldean’s place, is it?’ There was the faintest burr in his accent.
    I nodded. ‘Yeah, Gramarye.’
    He chuckled before turning to reach for a small bottle of orange, and Midge and I exchanged surprised glances.
    ‘Nice little place,’ I prompted as he poured the orange juice, ‘the cottage.’
    He looked up, first at me, then at Midge, still pouring and still grinning, but all he told us was the price of the drinks.
    Now Midge is usually quite reserved, not to say shy at times, not to say timid , so I was somewhat shocked when she said clearly and coldly: ‘Is there something funny in that?’
    The barman reappraised her and I could see that, like many others before him, he was not totally unmoved by her appealing good looks. For myself, a slab of concrete had gone to rest somewhere in the lower regions of my gut: like I said, he was thickset, and perhaps I should have mentioned that his bare forearms, now resting on the bar top, appeared solid enough to grind wheat by themselves. I swallowed beer as he leaned forward.
    ‘Sorry about that, Miss,’ he apologized. ‘Didn’t mean to be rude.’ And then he strolled to the other end of the bar to serve another customer.
    Just watch it next time, I said to his back and silently to myself, of course. ‘The idea, Midge,’ I said patiently, ‘is to get on with the natives. We didn’t even order any food.’
    ‘I’m not so hungry any more. Can we sit outside?’
    Only a few tables were occupied in the garden area and we sat at one that was some distance away from those. I placed our drinks on the rough-hewn surface, then slid onto a bench on the opposite side to Midge (we always enjoyed eye contact). I could tell she was still miffed at the barman, so I