Chapter One (early draft)

• Author's note. Below is an early draft sketch for a first chapter for a novel I had been planning to write in 2021. I thought I would share it as a taster of what (I hope) may eventually become a completed novel at some point in the future.

The cottage was awash with silver moonlight with a giant moon shining over it like a cosmic street lamp as the couple finally arrived at their new home in the country. It couldn’t have been a more auspicious greeting for this bold new chapter of their life together. Although they were only a couple of driving hours away from the city they’d left behind, it felt like travelling to an entirely different land.

“Like leaving Mordor for the Shire,” suggested Dan wryly, as he exited the car and stretched his arms upwards toward the night sky.

“I feel like I’ve had my lungs syringed,” he happily proclaimed, inhaling a good amount of the sweet, fresh country air into his lungs, before then, with eyes closed exhaling slowly back out through his nose like he was decanting a fine wine.

“We still haven't got a name. What shall we call it?” queried George, his wife, as she gazed lovingly toward their expansive, yet bohemian country dwelling. Since childhood she’d often fantasised of having a place of her own deep in the heart of the countryside and now that fairytale dream was finally realised.

“What about simply, home?” replied Dan succinctly.

The old Cotswold stone house was positioned high on the ridge of a hill, with west facing views overlooking an idyllic looking bowl-shaped valley secreted a short way from the distant town where they could see its many lights twinkling like thousands of impish eyes. George had made a point about them not being too far away from the local community even though Dan had made it clear that he was far less concerned about their proximity to the “village” as he mockingly referred to it. Being a fan of the subversive 1960's television series 'The Prisoner', he couldn't help but reference it for fun but it irked George for some reason she couldn't properly express.

“I want to play an active role in the community and not be just another 'Sloane Ranger' in exile walking round the place and showing off the latest Dubarry range even though I've rarely ever stood in a muddy field,” George had explained to her close friend Helena just a few days before leaving her home in Peckham. She always stated her intentions to anyone who cared to listen. Without witnesses, she knew she would only renege on her own self made plans. “I just think it’s important to assimilate with the place you choose to live, you know, like the Romans did with the Greeks. I don’t want to be a permanent tourist.”

"Well, just don't try too hard to fit in. Otherwise you'll come across as that annoying new girl at school that tries to please everyone but pleases absolutely no-one," Helena advised whilst pouring yet another excessively large glass of wine for herself, sensing that George wasn't even properly listening as she sorted through her many piles of clothes to pack. "By the way, if you have any Dubarry in there you want to donate to me I won't complain," Helena teased, always looking for the final punchline in their conversations. George often called her "the comedian".

The blissful sound of a babbling brook could be heard trickling quietly away nearby, close to the semi-concealed public footpath turnstile by the house and added to the many idyllic 'off-site factors' that Dan had kept referring to since his lengthy discussions with his old architect friend, Fred, from St John's Wood who did a survey of their new house for free in lieu of half a dozen future weekend getaways to their home at his random choosing.

“Let’s leave all the stuff in the car for now,” Dan said, remote locking the vehicle as he walked toward the romantic looking house with its unruly garden and tendril-like vines growing up the limestone coloured walls, what George had described as a cross between 'Mistlethwaite Manor' and Badger's house in 'The Wind In The Willows' with a dash of 'Manderlay' thrown in for good measure.

“It still needs a name!”

“Rivendell!” Dan said with total conviction.

“No more 'Lord of the Rings' references!”

And with that personal affront, Dan shook his head and reached into his coat pocket for the house key and teased it into the lock.

"The sooner you accept we're now officially hobbits, the better."

Upon entering through the cottage door into the lower hallway, Dan reached for the light switch and just as he flipped the switch, a bright spark flashed in the dark, followed by an efficient popping sound.

“I hope that’s not a bad omen” George said in all seriousness.

“You’ve watched too many horror movies,” replied Dan.

“Did we bring any spare bulbs?”

“We’ll find some tomorrow. Besides, don’t you think it all adds to the romance of the place?”

And as if on cue, the moonlight appeared to further welcome them into their rustic haven, spreading through the curtainless windows and creating a beautifully nocturnal atmosphere all throughout the lower section of the house.

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderlay,” quoted George with her best cut glass Joan Fontaine impression, feeling genuinely turned on by the cinematic ambience in their new home.

"Let's just hope it doesn't end up the same way as it does in the book. Which reminds me, did we include pre-meditated arson with our house insurance?"

George rolled her eyes at Dan but secretly appreciated their literary affinity when it came to the classics. Her husband wasn't quite Max DeWinter. But he'd do.

They slept in the expansive, empty living room that night, amidst a variety of duvets and bed toppers, resembling more of a den that kids might assemble on a lazy, rainy, bank holiday afternoon.

Inevitably, they made love in order to christen their arrival, and for both of them it was the first time in a long while it had not resulted in some sort of dysfunction. Back in the city, there was always the sound of neighbours arguing, dogs barking, babies crying, sirens wailing. It was nearly impossible to focus on intimacy in such circumstances (even though it had been claimed by some that Peckham had become gentrified with cereal bars and yoga studios in recent times). Even playing music to drown out the chaos of the city failed miserably when they tried to indulge their passion. Dan would throw everything at it - Bob Dylan, Beethoven and Prince but nothing could seem to touch the acute and sometimes obscure noises that threatened their love life.

But here, right now, in their rustic domain, they could focus intensely on each other in the moment and enjoy their sex without saboteurs, deliberate or accidental.

It was only afterwards, in their post coital reverie that they heard the unfamilar and violent sound of foxes involved in their own carnal ritual.

"What is that?" George said, alarmed.

"Foxes, I think," replied Dan.

"It sounds like an absolute massacre!"

“They make more noise than you!” chided Dan as George jabbed him in the ribs with her fingers. He let out a small yelp.

“Now who’s making the noise?!”

And with that, they had ignited all the encouragement they needed to make love again, accompanied at times in unison with the lustful foxes outside in the large garden.

Eventually, all was quiet in the valley again as the ever paler moon dissolved into dawn.

"Feel likes the night before Christmas," George whispered to Dan as she looked at her husband with all the innocence of a young child.

"Except it's mid-June," Dan couldn't help himself replying dryly. He was one for punchlines too.

"You know what I mean. Tomorrow is going to be so exciting. A fresh start in a new place."

"You're right. It is exciting. Maybe we'd better get some sleep then, eh?"

And as George tried to relax so she could finally catch up on some much needed sleep, she remembered the feeling of excitement when she was first told the story of 'Hansel and Gretel' as a young girl and how much she envied the brother and sister when they stumbled upon that enchanted house in the woods. She'd always wanted a similar such house in the woods.

Just ideally not one with any witch living inside it.