Harold was a happy man. Every day at 6 am he would fling wide the glazed porch door of his Victorian B&B, take three deep breaths, and stride onto the prom for his ritual constitutional. ‘Good morning, bird!’ he would say to the first seagull that flapped out of his path, turning a wary pink eye toward him in the hope of breakfast. At high tide he enjoyed the roar and crash of great waves battling the town’s defences; if the tide was out he would take off brogues and socks to walk at the sea’s edge, its gentle ripples cool between his toes, fine sand comfortable and soon dry on his return to the sea wall and the steps outside his home, pockets full of quartz and tiny pink shells. At 7h30 he would join his wife in the kitchen to make breakfast for their overnight guests; she would do toast and tea, he would make perfect fried or scrambled eggs, sweet local bacon, succulent sausages. At 8h00 am Harold would be in the small, bright dining room refilling cups, chatting to that morning’s assorted visitors and - best of all - the little ones wide-eyed at the hugeness of the sea beyond the windows. He would have loved a family; instead he fussed over other people’s children ... and every evening came the best moment of all: when for this small, exclusive and ever-changing audience he performed his Magic.
Gladys however was not a happy woman. She hated the sea. Hated the gritty sand that got into every cranny of the house. Hated the raucous gulls that dive-bombed every walking snack and left their white excreta on walls and cars. She hated having to get up at 7 each day to feed a bunch of strangers taking the holiday that she could never have; hated their rowdy kids, incontinent dogs, untidy rooms and vulgar talk. Untrustworthy with the frying pan she often burned the toast and was mean with the butter. It pained Harold, who nevertheless loved his wife despite the sourness that was etching itself into her still beautiful fifty-year-old face. Once the guests had left for the day, chores done, napkins neatly folded, rooms smelling of citrus, Harold would go out again with a trolley to shop for fresh food - and Gladys would flee to the back room to watch TV.
It didn’t matter much what was on the box; but Gladys’ chosen fix was the property shows - A Place in the Sun, Escape to the Country, secret tapes of Location, Location, Location. She longed to step Alice-like through the HD screen and drive through immaculate lanes and fields to lonely, quaint cottages bursting with kerb appeal. She longed for the perfect finish, the spacious kitchen, the mature garden. Little by little she drew up her own check-list of all she desired in a home ... and all she loathed. In the latter category her B&B now ticked every box.
Over the summer of her 51st year Gladys found her obsession turning into a plan. She would confront her husband, tell him exactly how she felt, persuade him that they must move. He was now nearly 60; why shouldn’t they both retire?
One soggy morning after three extended families had gone out quarrelling under umbrellas she tackled Harold in the kitchen.
‘I’d like us to move, Harold.’
‘Gladys? What do you mean, move?’
‘I’m tired of all this, aren’t you? I want to be somewhere else.’
‘You mean swap our little B&B for a hotel?’
‘No Harold I do not mean that at all. I mean retire. Properly. Leave the seaside. Find somewhere peaceful in the country.’
‘But I love it here!’
‘I don’t.’
‘Gladys! We always planned to do this together. It’s our life!’
‘It’s not mine any more. You know it isn’t. I’m so tired of it all.’
Harold was in shock. He couldn’t accept what he had just heard. He was, for the first time in their life together, isolated and on the defensive.
‘The only way I leave this place is in a box!’
Out on the prom without her pink and blue umbrella Gladys’s tears mingled with the incessant rain. In Starbucks she silently replayed the morning’s conversation. ‘... in a box.’ That one phrase set her mind off in an alarming direction; to free herself from a lifetime of drudgery Harold would have to be dead. But he was never even ill! And despite her unhappiness, her frustration, her bottled rage, he was still the man she had married for love twenty-eight years before, and the very idea of losing him was out of the question.
What imp crept into her consciousness at that point? ‘Box,’ it whispered to her. ‘Box. The box he has always wanted. The Magic Box. The Disappearing Cabinet. Buy it for his birthday. Make something happen...’
The following day Gladys went Googling. On a specialist Magic page she found exactly what she knew she was looking for - shaped like a mummy case, richly painted and full-sized there was the box that would change Harold’s life ... and hers. ‘Add to cart ...’ absolutely. ‘Method of payment?’ With fingers tightly crossed, her over-loaded plastic. ‘Delivery notes...’ ‘It’s a surprise birthday gift; please send in plain packaging.’
It came a few days later while Harold was out buying toilet rolls. She struggled up to the attic with it, where it would stay until September. Back on her bed, aching from the effort, immediately she went online again - this time to every TV property website she could find - and was just in time to apply for Escape to the Country. And next she did the unthinkable: breathing deeply to settle her palpitations, she listed Sea Breezes Guest House on Zoopla for £297,750.
* * * * * * *
‘Harold,’ she said, ‘I have to go away for a few days. Can you manage on your own till I get back?’
Of course he could. But ...
‘Why? This is sudden! Where are you going?’
‘An old friend from school has been in touch on Facebook and now she’s poorly; I’d like to help her out if I can.’
She hated lying. But what else could she do?
‘When shall I see you back?’
‘At the end of the week, all being well.’
And off she went into the unknown, her body guilty from Harold’s farewell hug.
* * * * * * *
‘And this ...’ said Jules Hudson with weary pride, ‘ ... is the Mystery House.’ The first two that Gladys had seen through the rain that set in for the entire week of the search had been disappointing. There seemed to be nothing left in the heart of the Cotswolds in her apparently limited price range, and now in late summer gardens were beginning to look tired, perennials going to seed, lawns unkempt and lanky because of the thunder showers. Houses primped for sale were blank and characterless; look closely and you saw the short-cuts the TV cameras astutely avoided. But the sun had come out at last, and the countryside was looking quite pretty as the film crew ushered her up a little alleyway between village houses of golden Cotswold stone. There at the end was a tiny cottage fronting straight onto the path with woods behind.
‘We thought you should look at this, simply because you could afford it, Gladys, and it does appear to tick many of your boxes - especially the last box on your rather comprehensive list! ... it’s very peaceful.’
‘It’s so small!’
‘But nicely laid-out.’
‘There’s no garden!’
‘But you have woods to explore.’
Jules had got it right, though. Once inside Gladys fell utterly in love with its simplicity, its quiet, the soft light in every room, the pretty, modern kitchen and the short walk to the village with its busy pub and higgledy-piggledy store. There was a bank, a post office, a surgery ... and no seagulls. Her iPad pinged. It really was her day; there was a message to say an offer of £290,000 was on the table for Sea Breezes and would she accept? It was all coming together just as she dreamed.
‘Thank you Jules!’ The surprised presenter nearly had the life hugged out of him as Gladys agreed to take the Mystery House and they all turned back for home.
Gladys however was not a happy woman. She hated the sea. Hated the gritty sand that got into every cranny of the house. Hated the raucous gulls that dive-bombed every walking snack and left their white excreta on walls and cars. She hated having to get up at 7 each day to feed a bunch of strangers taking the holiday that she could never have; hated their rowdy kids, incontinent dogs, untidy rooms and vulgar talk. Untrustworthy with the frying pan she often burned the toast and was mean with the butter. It pained Harold, who nevertheless loved his wife despite the sourness that was etching itself into her still beautiful fifty-year-old face. Once the guests had left for the day, chores done, napkins neatly folded, rooms smelling of citrus, Harold would go out again with a trolley to shop for fresh food - and Gladys would flee to the back room to watch TV.
It didn’t matter much what was on the box; but Gladys’ chosen fix was the property shows - A Place in the Sun, Escape to the Country, secret tapes of Location, Location, Location. She longed to step Alice-like through the HD screen and drive through immaculate lanes and fields to lonely, quaint cottages bursting with kerb appeal. She longed for the perfect finish, the spacious kitchen, the mature garden. Little by little she drew up her own check-list of all she desired in a home ... and all she loathed. In the latter category her B&B now ticked every box.
Over the summer of her 51st year Gladys found her obsession turning into a plan. She would confront her husband, tell him exactly how she felt, persuade him that they must move. He was now nearly 60; why shouldn’t they both retire?
One soggy morning after three extended families had gone out quarrelling under umbrellas she tackled Harold in the kitchen.
‘I’d like us to move, Harold.’
‘Gladys? What do you mean, move?’
‘I’m tired of all this, aren’t you? I want to be somewhere else.’
‘You mean swap our little B&B for a hotel?’
‘No Harold I do not mean that at all. I mean retire. Properly. Leave the seaside. Find somewhere peaceful in the country.’
‘But I love it here!’
‘I don’t.’
‘Gladys! We always planned to do this together. It’s our life!’
‘It’s not mine any more. You know it isn’t. I’m so tired of it all.’
Harold was in shock. He couldn’t accept what he had just heard. He was, for the first time in their life together, isolated and on the defensive.
‘The only way I leave this place is in a box!’
Out on the prom without her pink and blue umbrella Gladys’s tears mingled with the incessant rain. In Starbucks she silently replayed the morning’s conversation. ‘... in a box.’ That one phrase set her mind off in an alarming direction; to free herself from a lifetime of drudgery Harold would have to be dead. But he was never even ill! And despite her unhappiness, her frustration, her bottled rage, he was still the man she had married for love twenty-eight years before, and the very idea of losing him was out of the question.
What imp crept into her consciousness at that point? ‘Box,’ it whispered to her. ‘Box. The box he has always wanted. The Magic Box. The Disappearing Cabinet. Buy it for his birthday. Make something happen...’
The following day Gladys went Googling. On a specialist Magic page she found exactly what she knew she was looking for - shaped like a mummy case, richly painted and full-sized there was the box that would change Harold’s life ... and hers. ‘Add to cart ...’ absolutely. ‘Method of payment?’ With fingers tightly crossed, her over-loaded plastic. ‘Delivery notes...’ ‘It’s a surprise birthday gift; please send in plain packaging.’
It came a few days later while Harold was out buying toilet rolls. She struggled up to the attic with it, where it would stay until September. Back on her bed, aching from the effort, immediately she went online again - this time to every TV property website she could find - and was just in time to apply for Escape to the Country. And next she did the unthinkable: breathing deeply to settle her palpitations, she listed Sea Breezes Guest House on Zoopla for £297,750.
* * * * * * *
‘Harold,’ she said, ‘I have to go away for a few days. Can you manage on your own till I get back?’
Of course he could. But ...
‘Why? This is sudden! Where are you going?’
‘An old friend from school has been in touch on Facebook and now she’s poorly; I’d like to help her out if I can.’
She hated lying. But what else could she do?
‘When shall I see you back?’
‘At the end of the week, all being well.’
And off she went into the unknown, her body guilty from Harold’s farewell hug.
* * * * * * *
‘And this ...’ said Jules Hudson with weary pride, ‘ ... is the Mystery House.’ The first two that Gladys had seen through the rain that set in for the entire week of the search had been disappointing. There seemed to be nothing left in the heart of the Cotswolds in her apparently limited price range, and now in late summer gardens were beginning to look tired, perennials going to seed, lawns unkempt and lanky because of the thunder showers. Houses primped for sale were blank and characterless; look closely and you saw the short-cuts the TV cameras astutely avoided. But the sun had come out at last, and the countryside was looking quite pretty as the film crew ushered her up a little alleyway between village houses of golden Cotswold stone. There at the end was a tiny cottage fronting straight onto the path with woods behind.
‘We thought you should look at this, simply because you could afford it, Gladys, and it does appear to tick many of your boxes - especially the last box on your rather comprehensive list! ... it’s very peaceful.’
‘It’s so small!’
‘But nicely laid-out.’
‘There’s no garden!’
‘But you have woods to explore.’
Jules had got it right, though. Once inside Gladys fell utterly in love with its simplicity, its quiet, the soft light in every room, the pretty, modern kitchen and the short walk to the village with its busy pub and higgledy-piggledy store. There was a bank, a post office, a surgery ... and no seagulls. Her iPad pinged. It really was her day; there was a message to say an offer of £290,000 was on the table for Sea Breezes and would she accept? It was all coming together just as she dreamed.
‘Thank you Jules!’ The surprised presenter nearly had the life hugged out of him as Gladys agreed to take the Mystery House and they all turned back for home.
* * * * * * *
Back with a relieved Harold, she said nothing. Life went on as normal. At last came his birthday; the massive box was wrangled down from the attic.
‘Gladys! What have you done? This must have cost a fortune! Dear girl,’ he cried, ‘what a wonderful, wonderful present!’
Harold opened the cabinet’s exotic door.
And stepped in.
And Gladys leaned over and kissed him and thrust a wad of chloroform over his mouth and nose and slammed the box shut and locked it, and, shaking, met the appointed removal men on the front steps.
‘Gladys! What have you done? This must have cost a fortune! Dear girl,’ he cried, ‘what a wonderful, wonderful present!’
Harold opened the cabinet’s exotic door.
And stepped in.
And Gladys leaned over and kissed him and thrust a wad of chloroform over his mouth and nose and slammed the box shut and locked it, and, shaking, met the appointed removal men on the front steps.
* * * * * * *
As the sun set behind the woods at the back of their lovely new cottage and the echoing van drove away Gladys, two whiskies poured, unlocked the door of the Magic Disappearing Cabinet.
It was empty.
It was empty.