Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass had turned a deep, fresh green and the morning dew still clung to the verandah panes, Margaret and Edward finally asked themselves a serious question: might they try to let their cottage go on its own, without an estate agent? The idea had been maturing for weeksfriends spoke of commissions, online forums brimmed with complaints about brokers. Yet the strongest reason was personal: they wanted to decide for themselves who could be trusted with the house that had sheltered them for the past fifteen summers.
After all, a cottage is more than square footage, Edward said, trimming the dry raspberry branches while glancing at his wife. Wed like people to treat it with respect, not as a cheap hotel.
Margaret wiped her hands on a towel as she stood on the porch and nodded. That year they planned to stay in town longerher daughter was about to begin an important stage of her studies, and Margaret would need to help. The cottage would sit empty for most of the summer, yet the upkeep costs would not disappear. The solution seemed obvious.
That evening, after dinner, they walked through the house togethera familiar route, now seen with fresh eyes. They noted what needed tidying, what should be stowed away so as not to tempt strangers with unnecessary clutter. Books and family photographs were boxed and placed on the loft, fresh linens stacked neatly, and the kitchen was stripped down to the essentials.
Lets record everything, Edward suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed each room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle by the shedjust in case. Margaret wrote down the little details: the number of saucepans, the bedspreads, the location of a spare set of keys.
Later that day, as a May shower left puddles across the garden, they posted an advertisement on a rental site. The pictures turned out bright; through the windows one could see tomato vines already reaching up the greenhouse, and dandelions crowded the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first replies felt both anxious and oddly joyfullike waiting for guests when everything is ready but the knock is still unknown. Calls came quickly: some asked about WiFi and the television, others about whether dogs or children were welcome. Margaret answered honestly and in detailshe remembered how it felt to hunt for a place herself and knew the value of small particulars.
The first tenants arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold son and a mediumsized dog, who over the phone insisted the pet was absolutely quiet. They signed a simple paper with names, addresses, and payment terms. Margaret felt a flutter of nerves; formally the contract was unregistered, but it seemed sensible for a seasonal let.
In the first days everything ran smoothly. Margaret visited once a week to check the garden and water the tomatoes, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread from town each time. The tenants were friendly: the boy waved from the kitchen window, the dog greeted them at the gate.
After three weeks, however, payment began to lag. At first they blamed forgetfulness or a bank error, then they offered excuses about unexpected expenses.
Now were losing our patience, Edward muttered, scrolling through messages on his phone as the sun set behind the apple trees, painting golden stripes on the floorboards.
Margaret tried to negotiate gently, reminding them politely and offering to split the overdue sum. Yet the tension grew; each conversation left a feeling of awkwardness and a vague, useless fatigue.
By midJune it became clear the tenants intended to leave early, leaving part of the rent unpaid. When they finally vacated, the cottage smelled of cigarette smoke on the porch (despite a request to smoke only outside), the veranda was littered with rubbish, and paint splashes marred the kitchen table.
There’s your absolutely quiet dog, Edward said, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent most of the day cleaning: hauling out trash, scrubbing the stove, washing old towels. The strawberry patch by the fence was already blushing with fruit; between chores Margaret snatched a handful of freshlyripe berries, warm from the rain.
After that episode they talked at length: should they continue at all? Perhaps they should turn to an agency? Yet the thought of strangers handling their home and taking a commission for simply handing over the keys felt wrong.
By midsummer they tried again, this time selecting tenants more carefully, demanding a months advance and spelling out their house rules in greater detail.
The new experience proved no better. A family of two adults and a teenager arrived on Saturday evening and immediately invited friends for a couple of days. The noisy parties lingered for almost a week, laughing loudly in the yard and grilling barbecues late into the night.
Margaret called repeatedly, asking them to keep the noise down after eleven. Edward inspected the garden and found empty bottles hidden under the lilac bushes.
When the family finally left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa was stained with wine, rubbish bags lay by the shed, and cigarette butts were scattered beneath the apple tree.
How much longer can we put up with this? Edward grumbled while clearing the last bits of the barbecue.
Margaret felt a growing disappointment, thinking it unfair that strangers treated their home so carelessly.
Perhaps were at fault? We should have been stricter about the rules
In August another enquiry arrived: a young couple without children wanted to rent the cottage for a week. After the prior incidents Margaret was especially vigilant. She outlined all conditions over the phone, insisted on photographing the property on arrival, and demanded a security deposit.
The couple agreed without protest; they met at the gate in the sweltering midday, the air trembling over the path to the shed, insects humming from the open windows.
When the week ended they discovered the microwave had been ruinedsomeone had tried to heat foil. The tenants refused to pay for the damage.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident! the woman protested.
For the first time that summer Margaret felt genuine anger, yet she held back sharp words.
Lets resolve this calmly. Accidents happen. Lets agree on a compensation without a quarrel.
After a brief discussion they settled on a compromise: part of the deposit would cover the repair, and they left without a scene.
When the gate slammed shut behind them, the garden only held heat and the buzz of bees under the terrace roof. Edward and Margaret felt a strange mix of relief and weariness. They both realized that this could not continue.
That evening, as the heat lingered and the long shadows of the apple tree stretched across the yard, they sat on the verandah with a notebook. The scent of fresh grass and apples hung in the airripe fruits already touching the ground in places. Margaret flipped through the photos taken at the last checkin, marking with ticks everything that now needed attention.
We must draft a detailed list, she said without looking up. So everyone knows what to leave as it is: dishes, appliances, linen, rubbish.
Edward nodded, exhausted by the endless talks but understanding that without a list things would revert to the old way. They wrote down that photographs should be taken together with the guests at both arrival and departure, added a clause about the deposit, clarified the key handover process, and listed instructions for using the appliances and what to do if something broke.
They debated the wording for hoursseeking a tone that was not hostile, that made people feel like guests rather than suspects. Each line left room for trust, yet set clear boundaries. Margaret insisted on including a contact phone number in the contractif anything went wrong, the guests could call straight away.
Later, as night fell and the verandah grew cool, the tablecloth dampened by evening dew, they no longer argued. The new checklist was copied neatly into a notebook, then transferred to a spreadsheet on the laptop. The photo archive was organized into folders: before, after, handover, return. It felt as if they had cleaned not only the kitchen table but also a hidden corner of their own minds.
The first test came almost at once. In early August a woman called, asked about the rules, listened carefully to the photo requirement and the deposit, and clarified details. She arrived with her husband and teenage daughter. The family seemed calm, asked where the garden tools were kept, whether they could use the bicycle, and when to water the flowers by the porch.
Wed like to stay for two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the agreement without hesitation.
Together they walked the cottage, noting the condition of furniture and appliances. Margaret showed where spare bulbs lay, how the irrigation pump worked. The family listened, photographed the rooms, and even asked where to dispose of rubbish.
Would it trouble you if we came for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Margaret smiled. Just give us a headsup.
This time everything ran differently. In two weeks no complaints arrived. When Margaret checked the greenhouse, the kitchen was spotless, and a bowl of gathered strawberries sat on the table with a note: Thank you for your trust. All is well.
Edward peeked into the shed; the bicycles were in place, tools neatly arranged. No bottles, no butts lay on the ground. Under the apple tree someone had swept away last years leaves. Even the microwave was polished.
On the day of departure the family met them at the gate. Together they walked through the house, checking the checklist: no new scratches on the furniture, linens washed and folded.
Thank you for the clear instructions, the woman said as she left. It made everything easier for us and for you.
Margaret returned a restrained smile; caution still lingered, but her heart was lighter. They returned the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist were filed away, ready for the next season.
September approached. Days grew shorter, a light mist settled over the beds each morning. Margaret and Edward tended the garden, gathering the last courgettes and peppers, pruning the blackcurrant. The house smelled of apples and fresh linen.
That summer they had learned to say no without shame and to explain rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist now sounded less like suspicion and more like carefor the house and for the people who entered it.
Its calmer now, Edward admitted one evening, standing by the window, watching the darkening garden. I used to fear that too many conditions would drive people away. Now I see honesty works when everything is laid out plainly.
Margaret smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples in her hands. She knew trust hadnt vanished; it had simply maturedstill present, but more discerning and not closed off.
In September they posted another advertisement, this time with confidence rather than anxiety. They described every rule, attached photos not only of rooms and garden but also of the checklist laid on the table.
Responses came quickly. People asked practical questions about water, heating, transport. One young man wrote, Thank you for the honesty and detailrarities these days.
Margaret and Edward discussed the upcoming season without the fatigue of the past year. They understood that serenity was possible, provided they remained attentiveto themselves and to those who came to stay in their home.
The final evening before winter settled in was unusually quiet. A gentle breeze swept across the grounds; somewhere distant a dog barked. Edward locked the shed with a new lock and joined Margaret on the verandah.
Do you think we should add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, Margaret replied. Weve learned the essential things. Just remember to stay human.
They sat together, gazing at the garden. Ahead lay another season and new meetingsthis time without the fear of losing what mattered most.
