"I don't like the idea of them spoiling Gramarye for you. It's more important to me that you're happy here, so if it's a choice between that and the bats staying, then they're the losers."
We touched foreheads briefly. "You're probably right," I said, "they'll be no trouble at all." I turned back to the window. "But any midnight bat orgies and they're out—the sound of all those frenzied wings would drive me crazy."
I banged a palm against the sash, then tried again, biting my lip at the smarting of my hand. On the third try, the window juddered open an inch, and it was easy to push it wide after that. The half next to it was equally difficult, but again on the third thump it budged open. As I widened the gap, slipping the casement stay onto its catch, I glanced over at the woodland opposite, drawing in a deep breath of sun-warmed air as I did so. I stiffened before exhaling.
Was that a figure standing in the shade just beyond the first line of trees? Somebody watching us again?
"Midge," I said, the sound strained because I still held a lungful of air. I let the breath go as she moved closer. "Midge, somebody's over there watching the house."
I didn't look at her, but I knew she was peering into the forest.
"Where, Mike? I don't see anyone."
I took my eyes off the still figure for a moment and put an arm around Midge's shoulders, pulling her even closer.
"Over there," I whispered unnecessarily and pointing. "Just inside the trees. A dark figure looking directly across at the cottage."
But when I returned my own gaze, the figure had disappeared.
"Still don't see it, Mike," said Midge, and I turned to her speechlessly, then quickly looked back at the trees. Definitely nobody there.
I began to wonder if the country air was so fresh it caused hallucinations.
PROGRESS
THE NEXT COUPLE of weeks flew by, keeping both of us busy and me free of any more "hallucinations." We spent the days (and often the nights) stripping old wallpaper and replacing it with new, and painting the walls and woodwork that we hadn't paid the builders to do. One or two evenings had turned chilly and we soon discovered all sorts of sneaky drafts creeping in to make us shiver; I did my best to locate their source and seal them. We washed, scrubbed, polished and cleaned. I fixed the front door bell so that it clanged rather than clunked.
We had the chimneys swept in anticipation of cozy winters around the fireside, and we had the cesspool cleared (the smell when they syphoned into their huge tanker was awful and we were warned to keep every door and window shut while the operation was in progress). A plumber came in to do various jobs, including plumbing in the washing machine and getting the hot water to run hot rather than lukewarm (that required a new and bigger immersion heater in a cupboard upstairs, which cut heavily into our budget). The water ran clear thanks to the tank O'Malley had installed in the loft, and even the poor TV and radio reception somehow managed to shape up and clear itself after the first week. The television picture still wasn't brilliant, but then we were in a remote area.
I set up my music studio, still dreaming of the expensive equipment I'd be able to have some time in the future (not too distant, I hoped), while Midge prepared her own self-contained art studio beneath one of the large windows in the round room. I could tell she was itching to get back to painting—pictures, I mean, not walls—just as I yearned to get back to some serious music. Occupied though I was with manual labor, my head was swimming with ideas for songs, stories and the glimmerings of a full-scale rock musical. All ideas were tentative, but they're usually the most exciting kind; I wondered if they would look so good on paper or sound so terrific on tape. Despite that creative urge on both our parts, we resisted the temptation and persevered with the task in hand—that of preparing Gramarye for a comfortable and productive future.
We did our best with the garden—or should I say Midge did, particularly where the flowerbeds were concerned— but strangely enough it seemed to be thriving on its own. Even the rabbits—and it was like Watership Down territory hereabouts—thoughtfully left our flowers alone. We cleared the flowerbeds, but were relieved to find that many of the weeds had disappeared of their own volition, obviously daunted by the flowers' rude health and giving up the struggle to overthrow (I was naive enough garden-wise to believe this possible and Midge, who knew better, made no comment). I bought one of those hover mowers from the hardware store in the village for the grass shoulder beyond the fence and the area around the back of the cottage, and quite enjoyed working in the sun, stripped to the waist, tanning my back. I fixed the fence, replacing missing or damaged struts, nailing others upright, cheerfully painting over rotting wood with plentiful layers of white.
We made several trips into Bunbury, buying a few pieces of second-hand furniture and the odd knick-knack or two.
Rumbo became a regular visitor and I often asked him why he didn't move in permanently. He was a great one for conversation and although we sometimes felt he understood us, his toothful chatter didn't mean a lot to Midge and me. We assumed, however, that somewhere in the woods was a Mrs. Rumbo, and maybe little Rumbos too, a family he was happy to go home to after each day's adventure. He enjoyed games, did Rumbo, chasing after rolling tennis balls, pouncing onto our shoulders when we least expected it, furiously nibbling books or magazines to pieces while we pursued him around the cottage in an hysterical form of household paper chase. There was something of the dog in that squirrel, a kind of dopey intelligence mixed with hints of craftiness that we found both amusing and often exasperating. He was good company.
Plenty of phone calls came in from friends and business associates, many of the latter ringing up with tempting offers of work—all of which we resisted. We'd decided upon a full month free of any professional engagement or commission and we meant to stick to it. At first the line was annoyingly crackly, as if the wires had gone rusty from lack of use, but the more calls we received the more distinct the voices became.
Our bird friend, whose wing we thought had been broken, came back (feathers on that particular wing were still missing, so we felt sure it was the same mistle thrush) and he had no reservations about flying straight into the kitchen to perch on the table or the back of a chair. Others soon followed his example, their wariness becoming merely alertness, and that eventually turning into trust. Birds and the squirrel weren't the only visitors either: mice, bees, a fox, came by; even a stoat looked in one day. We got used to the odd spider or snail inside the cottage, and these were carefully taken outside on newspaper and set down in the flowerbeds.
Our three new friends from the gray house kept to their word by calling in on us from time to time, usually bearing a small gift of some kind—food, a bottle of home-made wine, an inexpensive ornament; nothing fancy, just goodwill things. We were always too busy to chat with them for long, and they never imposed themselves upon us, never outstayed their welcome. They were pleasant and informative about the area, useful with certain tips on countryside living. They were okay.
After a few nights the noises from the loft ceased to bother me; in fact it was fascinating at dusk to sit outside on the bench and see the bats skittering from the eaves toward the nearby forest, a sight that became less eerie the more we watched. As we'd been advised earlier, they were quite harmless; they were unsociable creatures (thank goodness) who kept very much to themselves.
We ploughed on with the work, determined not to relax until we'd accomplished enough to be able to take things easy. There were only a few overcast days, the rest being brilliantly sunny, the air clear and revitalizing first thing in the morning, comfortably sluggish in the afternoon.