Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass had turned a deep emerald and the morning dew still clung to the veranda panes, Margaret Harper and her husband Ian Clarke finally began to wonder whether they ought to let their cottage go on the market themselves, without an agent. The idea had been simmering for weeks; friends had told tales of high commissions, and threads on gardenforum sites were full of complaints about estate agents. Yet the chief reason was simpler: they wanted to decide for themselves who could be trusted with the house that had sheltered them for the last fifteen summers.
Remember, a cottage is more than square feet, Ian said, snipping dry raspberry canes and glancing at his wife. Wed rather people treat it with respect than treat it like a hotel.
Margaret dabbed her hands on a towel while standing on the steps and nodded. That year they had chosen to remain in the village longerher daughter was about to start her university term at Cambridge, and Margaret needed to lend a hand. The cottage would stand empty for most of the summer, yet the upkeep costs would not disappear. The solution seemed plain.
That evening, after supper, they walked through the rooms togetheran old route now seen with fresh eyes: what needed tidying, what should be stowed away so as not to tempt strangers with clutter. Books and family photographs were boxed and placed on the loft, fresh linens were folded in a tidy stack, and in the kitchen Margaret kept only the essentials.
Lets put everything in writing, Ian suggested, pulling out his mobile. They photographed each room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle leaning by the shedjust in case. Margaret noted the small details: the number of saucepans, the type of bedcovers, the location of the spare set of keys.
The following day, as a gentle May rain began to puddle across the allotment, they posted an advertisement on a local lettings website. The pictures turned out bright; through the windows one could see tomato vines already stretching toward the greenhouse, and dandelions were blooming thickly along the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first enquiries felt both nervous and hopefulmuch like waiting for guests when everything is ready but you dont know who will walk through the door. Calls came quickly: some asked about WiFi and the television, others whether dogs or children were welcome. Margaret answered each query honestly and in detailshe remembered her own search for a place to stay and knew how the little things mattered.
The first renters arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold son and a mediumsized Labrador, who over the phone had assured them the dog was perfectly quiet. They signed a simple paper on the spot, listing names and payment terms. Margaret felt a flutter of anxiety; the agreement was informal, yet to them it seemed sensiblenothing more was required for a summer let.
In the first few days everything ran smoothly. Margaret visited once a week to check the garden and water the tomatoes in the greenhouse, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread from town each time. The renters were pleasant; the child waved from the kitchen window, the dog greeted them at the gate.
After three weeks, however, the rent began to slip. At first they blamed forgetfulness or a bank error, then spun excuses about unforeseen expenses.
Now were wasting our nerves on this, Ian muttered, scrolling through messages on his phone as the sun set behind the apple trees, casting golden strips across the floorboards.
Margaret tried to negotiate kindly, offering gentle reminders and suggesting a partial payment later. Yet the tension grew; each conversation left a feeling of awkwardness and a vague, exhausting fatigue.
By midJune it became clear the family intended to leave early, leaving part of the sum unpaid. When they finally moved out, the cottage smelled faintly of cigarettes on the porch (despite a request to smoke outside), the veranda was strewn with rubbish, and paint splatters darkened the kitchen table.
Looks like the quiet dog left a mark, Ian said, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent the afternoon cleaning: hauling out trash, scrubbing the stove, taking old towels to be washed. The strawberries along the fence were already turning a deep red; Margaret snatched a handful of warm, rainkissed berries as she worked.
After that episode they debated long into the night whether to continue at all. Perhaps an agency would be better? Yet the thought of strangers handling their home and taking a cut for merely handing over the keys felt wrong.
By midsummer they tried again, this time being more cautious in selecting tenants, demanding a months rent up front and spelling out their house rules in greater detail.
The next set of rentersa family of two adults and a teenage daughterarrived on a Saturday evening and immediately invited friends for a couple of days. Their noisy parties lingered for almost a week, with raucous laughter and barbecues that carried late into the night.
Margaret called several times, pleading for quiet after eleven, while Ian inspected the grounds and found empty bottles beneath the lilac bushes.
When the family finally departed, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa bore stains of juice or wine that could not be removed, trash bags lingered by the shed, and cigarette butts littered beneath the apple tree.
How much longer can we put up with this? Ian grumbled, sorting through the remnants of the barbecues.
Margaret felt a rising disappointment, thinking it unfair that strangers treated their home so poorly.
Perhaps we were too soft? We should have been stricter about the rules
In August another enquiry arrived: a young couple without children wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous mishaps, Margaret was especially vigilant, laying out all conditions over the phone, insisting on photographic evidence of the propertys condition on arrival, and demanding a security deposit.
The renters agreed without protest; they met at the gate on a sweltering afternoon, the air shimmering over the path to the shed, insects humming from the open windows.
At the end of the week, however, they claimed the microwave had been damaged when they accidentally heated foil, yet refused to pay for the repair.
We hardly broke anything! It was an accident! the lady protested.
Margaret felt anger for the first time that summer but held back sharp words.
Lets try to resolve this calmly. Accidents happen. How about we agree on a modest compensation?
After a brief discussion they settled on keeping part of the deposit to cover the repair, and the couple left without a scene.
When the gate slammed shut and only the heat and the buzzing of bees remained in the garden, Ian and Margaret felt a strange mix of relief and fatigue. They both realised that the current approach could not continue.
That evening, as the heat lingered and long shadows from the apple tree stretched across the yard, they sat on the veranda with a notebook. The scent of cut grass and ripening apples hung in the air; the orchards fruit dangled low, some already touching the ground. Margaret flipped through the photos taken at the last checkin and silently ticked off items that now needed attention.
We must draw up a detailed list, she said without looking up. So everyone knows what must be left as it is: crockery, appliances, linens, rubbish.
Ian nodded. He was weary of the endless negotiations but understood that without clear guidelines nothing would change. They recorded that photographs should be taken with tenants at both arrival and departure, added a clause about the deposit, clarified the key handover procedure, and listed instructions for using the equipment and what to do if anything broke.
They debated the wording for hoursseeking a tone that was not hostile, that made visitors feel welcome rather than suspected. Each line was crafted to keep trust while establishing firm boundaries. Margaret insisted the contract include a contact telephone number for any emergencies.
As night fell and the veranda grew cool, the tablecloth damp with evening dew, they no longer argued. The new checklist was copied neatly into a ledger, then entered into a spreadsheet on Ians laptop. Photo archives were sorted into folders: Before, After, Checkin, Checkout. The relief was palpable, as if they had not only wiped the kitchen counter but also a hidden corner of their minds.
The first test came swiftly. In early August a woman called, asked about the rules, listened carefully to the photo and deposit requirements, and confirmed details. She arrived with her husband and teenage daughter. The family seemed calm, asking where garden tools were kept, whether the bike could be used, and when the roses by the veranda should be watered.
Wed like to stay two weeks, if thats alright, the lady said, signing the agreement without hesitation.
Together they walked the cottage, noting the condition of furniture and appliances. Margaret showed where spare bulbs were stored, how the irrigation pump worked. The family listened attentively, snapped photos of each room, and even asked where to dispose of waste.
Will you mind if we come back for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Margaret replied with a smile. Just give us a headsup.
This time the stay unfolded differently. No complaints came in. When Margaret checked the greenhouse, the kitchen was spotless, and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries sat on the table with a note: Thank you for your trust. All is well.
Ian peeked into the shed: the bicycles were neatly aligned, tools folded away. No bottles, no cigarette ends. Someone had brushed away last years leaves beneath the apple tree. Even the microwave had been wiped clean.
On the day of departure the family met them at the gate. Together they walked through the cottage, checking each item against the list. Margaret marked: no new scratches on the furniture, linen washed and folded.
Thanks for the clear instructions, the lady said as she left. It made everything easier for us and for you.
Margaret returned a measured smile; caution still lingered, but her heart felt lighter. They refunded the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist were filed away, ready for the next season.
August waned, days grew shorter, and a soft mist settled over the beds. Margaret and Ian tidied the garden, gathering the last courgettes and peppers, pruning the blackcurrant canes. The house smelled of apples and fresh laundry.
That summer they had learned to say no without guilt and to explain the rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist carried not suspicion but carefor the cottage and for the people who entered it.
Its calmer now, Ian confessed one evening, standing at the window, eyes on the dimming garden. I used to think that too many conditions would scare people away. Now I see that honesty makes it easier for a decent person.
Margaret smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples in her hands. She knew trust had not vanished; it had simply become more mature, more guarded, yet still open.
In September they posted another advertisement, this time with confidence rather than anxiety. The description listed every rule, accompanied by photos of the rooms, the garden, and even the checklist spread on the kitchen table.
Responses came quickly. People asked practical questions about water and heating, about transport links. A young man wrote, Thanks for the honesty and detailrare these days.
Margaret and Ian discussed the coming season without the old weariness. They understood that peace was possible, provided they paid attention to themselves and to those who came to stay in their home.
The final night before the cottage closed for the year was unusually quiet. A gentle breeze drifted over the grounds, a distant dog barked, and Ian secured the new lock on the shed before joining Margaret on the veranda.
Think we need any more rules? he asked.
No, Margaret replied. Weve learned the essentials. Just remember to stay human.
They sat side by side, watching the garden. A new season lay ahead, with fresh meetingsthis time without the fear of losing what mattered most.
