Metamorphosis
Metamorphosis
From a young age Mary had grown up in a large town, a city dweller for most of her life. Now, having the freedom that money brings, she decided to indulge her long held ambition to own a cottage in a quiet and unspoiled part of the country. With time on her hands, Mary had spent most of that Autumn looking for somewhere suitable until, in late October, she came to a small village on the road from Oxford to Gloucester with the name ‘Charnley’ painted on a decorated board above the road. A newsagent, Post Office and other shops scattered around the village green. Among these the Estate Agent's premises stood back a little; a low timbered building with bow fronted windows set in black painted frames.
Mary parked her car and looked at the building for a moment.
“Well, Amelia, this looks interesting,” she said to the cloth doll sitting in the back of the car.
Amelia was Mary’s longest surviving toy, her enduring token of childhood, Mary had owned the doll since before she could remember. The stitched mouth and red woollen hair were faded and worn but the pale brown glass eyes were as bright as ever. Leaving Amelia in the car, Mary went into the shop to be met by an elderly, smartly dressed man with paper white skin, his voice no more than a sigh that floated around the room and lodged in the dry oak beams. The agent showed Mary a number of properties then came to a photo of a thatched and timbered cottage. Noticing that Mary was immediately attracted to the picture he murmured,
“The cottage is called 'Toyscote', off the Cirencester Road, I am sure you will like it,” His voice imitating the sound of the draught breathing through the cracks in the ancient timbers.
The directions the agent gave to Mary took her away from the village for nearly ten miles into wooded, hilly country with narrow lanes and high hedges obstructing her wider view. The road meandered downhill into a series of wooded hamlets. As the afternoon wore on Mary drove along the lanes, looking for the cottage; driving past a number of times until she saw the roof and red brick chimneys and the name, 'Toyscote', painted in faded white on a rotting wooden board partly overgrown by the high, thick, hedge. The cottage was older than the photo from the estate agent made it appear. Nestling against high beech tree as if in protection from the lane in front. Toyscote seemed to be set apart from other scattered cottages in the hamlet. A little tinkling stream formed one of the boundaries separating it from the fields beyond. Mary sat in her car for a while, fingering the keys given her. Unsure now that she could see the age of the building set in the tiny but well kept garden.
“We should go in, Amelia”, she said.
Clutching Amelia tightly, Mary opened the front door with the large, clumsy key and stepped inside. The rooms were small and cosy. In the fireplace, an unlit fire prepared from a pile of fresh wood in the hearth; as if in waiting for the new owner.
“Well, Amelia, what do you think”, Mary asked unnecessarily but welcoming a companion to talk to. Amelia seemed to cuddle closer as they moved from room to room.
Mary cast her eye over a pile of old newspapers on a three legged stool. Beside this a worn sofa with cushions and a brown and green leaf patterned cover. The cottage felt as if it closed around her, in a comfortable, ageing, restful, sort of way. In the large garden behind the cottage, by the stream, an elderly gardener dressed in a faded brown tweed jacket shovelled leaves into an ancient wooden wheelbarrow.
Mary was enchanted by the cottage that seemed so welcoming, Amelia sitting on the sofa beside her, her brown glass eyes staring into the gloom. In the fading light of the late afternoon sunshine, as beech tree shadows played in the light breeze, strange patterns formed and flickered. A cushion on a chair took on the shape of a Siamese cat. A small wooden black and white dog appeared to wag its tail. Scraps of paper on the table flapped like butterfly wings. Painted birds in a picture above the antique clock drifted and soared. Amelia stared at a small wooden horse that seemed to rear restlessly. Mary's attention was drawn to a monkey she thought she saw hiding in the shadows behind vases on the mantle shelf. Amelia seemed to smile as the cat winked secretly.
When Mary looked at her watch she was surprised to see an hour had passed. Shaking herself, she picked up Amelia and left the cottage. Driving back to Charnley, Amelia sat on the rear parcel shelf, wistfully looking at the cottage settling back into the woodland.
When Mary returned the keys, the estate agent asked how the cottage felt. “Who is the gardener?” She asked, “I saw him by the river.” The agent gave Mary a quizzical look but said nothing.
“Would you like to view again?” He asked, “The cottage has had many owners, each has left something of themselves. It is a building of great historical interest.”
“Yes, O.K., I think I would.” Mary replied, persuaded by the agent's soft, murmuring voice.
“Good,” whispered the agent, “I am sure you won’t be disappointed.”
A few days later Mary returned to the cottage with her toy companion.
When Mary returned nothing had changed in the shadowy rooms and beyond, the cottage's open sunny fields. A light breeze rustled under the eaves and blew the beach tree branches that wrapped around the ancient building. Mary noticed that although some tiles had fallen from the roof and windows stuck in their frames where slow drafts filtered in there was no sign of damp or dry rot in the building.
Looking through an upstairs window at the rear of the house Mary watched the gardener clearing leaves. Closer this time, his face hidden in the shadow of a wide brimmed hat, Mary could not see the man's face in the shadow as he looked up and smiled. Mary watched the figure for some time. Amelia's seemed to stir, her bright glass eyes following the elderly gardener as he moved across the grass.
Some time passed before Mary left the cottage, stepping onto the path between the beech trees and into her car. Driving along the lane back to town, her thoughts coming out loud, “It’s lovely, Amelia,” she mused, “I think I could live here forever.”
But Amelia did not hear. In the cottage she watched in the fading light as the monkey moved among the vases and the dog stretched.
Realising her toy doll was missing, Mary drove back along the lane. As she entered the cottage the strong arms of the beech trees seemed to enfold the ancient building. In the dim light Mary saw Amelia on the sofa, a slight smile on her upturned, stitched, mouth, her glass eyes twinkling at the cat that appeared to grin back. The wooden dog licked its black and white spotted coat. Mary settled beside Amelia, the leaf patterned cover seeming to enfold her. The cottage faded from Mary’s vision; the beech tree roots spreading out forming a comfortable hollow, the leaves scattering over Mary, covering her in a soft blanket. The sound of the stream near, its laughter filling the cottage. She did not hear the creak of the wooden wheelbarrow, or the sound of the gardener’s footsteps on the worn tiled floor.
“Hello, Amelia.” The gardener whispered, his voice floating around the room, lodging in the cracks of the dry oak beams.
The cloth doll seemed to recognise the old man; the toy collector in the shop where the cat sat in the black painted bow fronted window with the monkey and the black and white spotted dog. Painted paper butterflies hovered below the ceiling, a brown glove puppet with a friendly bear’s face lay on the table, a wooden horse stood in a cabinet with a clockwork mouse and a stuffed toy giraffe looked over them.
A young girl came in with a man and a woman. The bell on a spring above the door rang, sounding like the tinkling of a distant stream. The girl looked round for a while, picking up toys and putting them down again.
“May I have this one, please.” The girl asked, holding up a stuffed cloth doll.
“Yes, of course.” said her mother.
“I will call her Amelia.” The girl said.
First Posted 22/10/2016
Barry Stebbings
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