The journey took a couple of hours or so, maybe closer to three by the time we'd taken a few wrong turns looking for the village of Cantrip. Still, the scenery, once we reached the New Forest with its wood- and heathland, was worth the long drive in itself. We even came upon herds of ponies and, although we didn't actually catch sight of any deer, there were plenty of signs telling us they were about (and for a city-bred boy, that's almost as good as the real thing). The weather was May-fine, the air crisp and bright. We'd kept the windows of the hatchback down once we were off the last highway, and despite her barely-hidden apprehension, Midge had joined me in choruses of Blue Suedes and Mean Womans and the like (I was going through my old rock period that morning, my musical mood varying from day to day). The fresh air was making me hoarse before we saw the village ahead.
I have to admit, Cantrip was a bit of a letdown. We'd expected thatched roofs, old inns, and a village green with its own rusty-handled pump—National Trust stuff: what we got was a fairly uninteresting high street whose houses and shops must have been built around the late twenties or early thirties. No, it wasn't quite that bad on closer inspection—there really were some ancient properties of crumbling character among the less-old structures—but the overall impression was pretty drab. I could feel Midge's heart sink.
We crossed the bump of a small bridge and drove into the high street, keeping our eyes peeled for the real estate agent's and our disappointment to ourselves. We found his office jammed between a post office-cum-grocer's and a butcher's shop, the frontage so small we'd gone past before Midge tapped me smartly on the shoulder and indicated.
"There!" she cried, as though she'd discovered the Missing Link.
A cyclist wobbled by, scowling because of the car's sudden halt. I shrugged a friendly apology and pointed at Midge so that she could take the blame, but didn't catch his grumbling response. Probably just as welclass="underline" he looked a mean local.
After reversing into a space, Midge and I left the car and strolled to the agent's office, Midge suddenly nervous as a kitten. Now this was something new to me. We'd been together a long time and I was used to her occasional skittishness, especially when she'd accepted a new commission (I should have mentioned that Midge is an illustrator, and a damned good one, specializing in children's books: you'll see her work on the shelves alongside Shirley Hughes and Maurice Sendak, although you'd know her as Margaret Gudgeon), but nervous of a brick-broker? I quickly realized it wasn't the agent but the prospect of viewing the cottage thai had unsettled her. Hell, the mood had been building from Sunday through to now, and I couldn't understand why.
I pulled her to a stop before pushing open the door and Midge looked at me distractedly, her attention more involved in what lay beyond the glass.
"Take it easy," I told her softly. "There'll be plenty more for sale and we may hate this one anyway."
She took a quick breath, squeezed my hand and went in ahead of me.
Inside, the office was less cramped than it should have been, because although narrow, the single room stretched back a fair way. Pictures and details of properties covered the length of one wall like badly pasted wallpaper. An ample-sized secretary thrashed a typewriter just inside the doorway, while further down a man in a neat gray suit and thick black-rimmed glasses, seated behind an untidy desk, looked up.
I peered over Midge's shoulder and said, "Mr. Bickleshift?" (Yeah, I promise you.)
He appeared not to mind his own name, because he smiled broadly. No, not really; I think he just liked the look of Midge.
"Yes indeed," he said, rising and waving us forward.
I nodded at the secretary, who had stopped clattering to give us the once-over as we passed, and I might just as well have greeted a sullen whale for all the expression she showed.
"You'll be Mr. and Mrs. Gudgeon," Bickleshift surmised, reaching across his desk to shake Midge's hand then mine. He designated two chairs angled toward him on our side.
"No. She's Gudgeon, I'm Stringer." We both sat and the agent glanced from face to face before following suit.
"Then it's only you, Miss Gudgeon, who is looking for a property." I'm not sure, but he may have said Ms. just to show he was part of the new order.
"We both are," Midge replied. "And it's the cottage advertised in the last Sunday Times that we want to see. I told you on the phone."
"Of course. Flora Chaldean's roundhouse."
We both raised our eyebrows and Bickleshift smiled.
"You'll understand when you see the place," he said.
"And Flora Chaldean—she's the woman who owned the cottage?" asked Midge.
"That's correct. Rather an, er, eccentric old lady. Well-known hereabouts, something of a local character, you might even say. Well-known, but not much known about her. Kept very much to herself."
"You told me she'd died . . ." said Midge.
"Yes, some months ago. Her only surviving relative was a niece living in Canada. They'd never met, apparently, but Mrs. Chaldean's solicitor eventually traced the niece and advised her of her inheritance as next-of-kin. I imagine there was a small amount of money left also, but I doubt it amounted to much: I understand Flora Chaldean led a very frugal existence. The niece instructed the solicitor to sell up and send on the proceeds."
"She didn't want to see the place herself?" I asked.
Bickleshift shook his head. "No interest at all. However, Flora Chaldean was sufficiently concerned about the fate of her cottage to have a certain proviso inserted into the Will regarding its sale."
Midge looked anxious all over again. "What kind of proviso?"
The agent's smile widened to a grin. "I don't think it's anything for you to worry about." His hands came up and flattened themselves on the desktop so that for a moment, with elbows bent sideways, he resembled a bespectacled grasshopper. "Now," he said breezily, "I suggest you take a look at the cottage, then we'll discuss the details if you find you're interested."
"We are already," Midge responded and my foot flicked at hers: no need to appear too keen before bargaining started.
Bickleshift reached into a drawer and brought out a set of keys, three in all, old and long, attached to a ring and labeled. "The cottage is empty, of course, so feel free to have a good look round. I won't accompany you unless you specifically want me to; I always feel clients prefer to inspect on their own and discuss things freely between themselves."
It was Midge who reached for the keys and she grasped them so reverently you might have thought they were the Keys to the Kingdom.
"Fine," I said to Bickleshift. "So how do we get there?"
He drew us a quick map which was simple enough provided (as he stressed) we didn't miss the small turn-offs. Then we were on our way.
"Okay," I said as I steered through a winding lane, a leafy canopy overhead subduing the light and cooling the air. "I still don't get it."
Midge looked at me curiously, but she knew—oh, she knew—what I meant.
"You act like you're already in love with the place." I tapped the wheel with the back of my hand. "C'mon, open up, Midge. What's got into you?"
Her fingertips sank into the hair at the back of my neck and she lightly stroked; yet her voice was a little distant. "Just a feeling, Mike. No, more of a conviction that it's going to be all right for . . . for us."