Free The Magic Cottage by James Herbert Page B

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 bath in it.’
    My nose took a tweaking again and she scurried away to the adjoining room where the biscuits were presumably mouldering.
    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 salutation 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 re-corked 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 shrivelled 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 swivelled the aerial. The reception was still crackly. Thinking the batteries might be running down, I reached back inside the box and found the mains lead, 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.’
    She didn’t seem concerned. ‘All right, I’m just off,’ she said. ‘Anything you need from the village?’
    ‘Uh, I’ll probably remember when you get back. Watch yourself with the locals, ’specially those with bug-eyes and high foreheads.’
    She gave me a reproving glare, then blew a kiss and was gone. I sauntered to the door and watched her hurry down the path, stooping to sniff at flowers here and there as she went. She waved back at me from the gate, then climbed into the car and started the engine. Pulling hard left to swing the Passat off the grass verge, Midge gave me a final wave goodbye. The car disappeared around the bend and I was alone in the cottage.
    I loitered in the doorway for a short while, enjoying the bright freshness of the day, a