Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass had turned the colour of fresh spring and dew still lingered on the veranda panes, Margaret and Thomas finally gave serious thought to the idea of letting their Kent cottage go directly, without an estate agent. The decision had been ripening for weeks; friends recounted tales of hefty commissions, and forums were full of grumbles about middlemen. Yet the chief motive was different: they wanted to choose for themselves who would be trusted with the house that had sheltered them for the past fifteen summers.
After all, a cottage is more than just square metres, Thomas said, trimming the dry raspberries while stealing a glance at his wife. Wed like people to treat it with respect, not as a cheap hotel.
Margaret dabbed her hands on a towel as she stood on the step 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 be needed at home. The cottage would sit 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 roomsa familiar route now seen with fresh eyesdeciding what needed tidying, what should be stowed away so as not to tempt strangers with superfluous clutter. Books and family photographs were packed into boxes and placed on the loft, fresh linens were folded into neat stacks, and in the kitchen Margaret sorted the crockery, leaving only the essentials.
Lets record everything, Thomas suggested, pulling out his mobile. They photographed every room, the garden bench, even the old bicycle in the shedjust in case. Margaret noted the minutiae: the number of saucepans, the type of bedspread, the location of the spare set of keys.
Later that day, after the first May showers had puddled the driveway, they posted the advertisement on a local rental site. The pictures turned out bright; through the windows one could see tomato vines already scrambling up the greenhouse, while dandelions crowded the footpath to the gate.
Waiting for the first replies felt both uneasy and hopefulmuch like the anticipation before guests arrive, when the house is ready but the faces unknown. Calls came quickly: some asked about WiFi and the television, others whether dogs or children were welcome. Margaret answered honestly and in detailshe remembered searching for a place herself and knew the price of small particulars.
The first tenants arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold child and a mediumsized Labrador, whom they assured over the phone was as quiet as a mouse. The lease was signed on the spota simple sheet of paper with names, passport numbers and payment terms. Margaret felt a flutter of nerves; formally the contract was unregistered, yet 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. The tenants were friendly: the child waved from the kitchen window, the dog greeted them at the gate.
But after three weeks the rent began to lag. At first the delays were blamed on forgetfulness or bank errors; later excuses about unforeseen expenses emerged.
Just what we need, more nerves, Thomas muttered, scrolling through messages on his phone while the evening sun slipped behind the apple trees, painting gold strips across the floor.
Margaret tried to resolve matters amicably, sending gentle reminders and offering to split the payment. Yet tension grew; each conversation left a lingering 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 moved out, the cottage greeted them with the smell of cigarettes on the porch (despite a request to smoke outside), rubbish under the veranda and paint splashes on the kitchen table.
Thats the quiet as a mouse dog for you, Thomas said, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent the whole day clearing away the mess: hauling rubbish, scrubbing the stove, and sending the old towels for washing. The strawberry patch along the fence was already blushing; between chores Margaret plucked a handful of berriessweet and still warm from the rain.
After that episode they debated at length whether to continue at all. Should they turn to an agency? The thought of strangers meddling with their home and taking a cut felt wrong.
By midsummer they tried again, this time selecting tenants more cautiously, demanding a months rent in advance and spelling out the house rules. Yet the new experience proved no better. A family of two adults and a teenager arrived on a Saturday evening and promptly invited friends for a couple of days. The noisy parties lingered almost a whole week, with laughter and barbecues spilling into late night.
Margaret called several times, asking them to respect quiet after eleven. Thomas inspected the garden and found empty bottles beneath the lilac bushes.
When they finally departed, the cottage looked weary: the sofa stained with wine, trash bags piled by the shed, and cigarette butts scattered beneath the apple tree.
How long can we put up with this? Thomas muttered, sorting the remnants of the barbecue.
Margaret felt a growing disappointment; it seemed unfair that people could treat a beloved home so carelessly.
Perhaps we were too lenient? We should have set firmer boundaries, she thought.
In August another inquiry arrived: a childless couple wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous mishaps Margaret was especially thoroughshe laid out all conditions on the phone, insisted on photographic evidence of the propertys condition at checkin, and required a deposit.
The couple accepted without protest; they met at the gate in the scorching noon, the air trembling above the path to the shed, insects buzzing from the open windows.
At the end of their stay, however, the microwave was brokensomeone had tried to heat foil. When Margaret asked for compensation, the woman protested, It was an accident, we didnt mean any harm!
For the first time that summer Margaret felt a flash of anger, but she held back sharp words.
Lets resolve this calmly. Things happen. Well agree on a modest repair cost, she suggested.
A brief discussion led to a compromise: part of the deposit would cover the repair, and they left without a scene.
When the gate slammed behind them and only the heat and the hum of bees remained on the terrace, Thomas and Margaret felt a strange mix of relief and exhaustion. They both understood that this could not go on.
That evening, as the lingering warmth faded and the long shadows of the apple tree stretched across the yard, they sat on the veranda with a notebook. The scent of cut grass and ripe apples lingered; the orchards fruit hung heavy, some already touching the ground. Margaret flipped through the photographs taken at the last checkin and quietly ticked off items demanding attention.
We need a detailed list, she said without looking up. So everyone knows exactly what to leave behind: dishes, appliances, linen, rubbish.
Thomas nodded. He was weary of the endless negotiations, yet he knew that without a clear system things would revert to the old chaos. They recorded that photos should be taken with tenants at both arrival and departure, that a deposit was mandatory, and that key handover procedures be spelled out. They listed how to use the equipment and what to do if anything broke.
They debated phrasing for hoursmaking it sound welcoming rather than hostile, ensuring guests felt like visitors, not suspects. Each line preserved room for trust, yet drew firm boundaries. Margaret insisted the contract include a phone number for emergencies, so any problem could be reported immediately.
Later, as night fell and the veranda grew cool, the table damp with evening dew, they no longer argued. The new checklist was copied neatly into a paper notebook, then entered into a spreadsheet on their laptop. The photo archive was sorted into folders: before, after, handover, return. It felt as if they had cleansed not only the kitchen counter but also a corner of their conscience.
The first test came swiftly. In early August a woman called to ask about the rules, listened carefully to the photo requirement and deposit, and asked for details. She arrived with her husband and teenage daughter. The family seemed calm: they inquired where the garden tools were kept, whether the bicycle could be used, and when to water the roses by the porch.
Wed like to stay two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the lease without hesitation.
Together they toured the cottage, noting the condition of furniture and appliances. Margaret showed where spare bulbs lay, how the irrigation pump worked. The family listened, took photos, and even asked where to dispose of waste.
Will we be a bother if we come 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. No complaints arrived in the two weeks. 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 the trust. All is well.
Thomas peeked into the shed: the bicycles remained in place, tools neatly arranged. No bottles, no cigarette ends littered the garden. Someone had even swept away last years fallen leaves beneath the apple tree. The microwave, too, was left gleaming.
On the day of departure the family met them at the gate. Together they walked through the house, crosschecking the checklist; no new scratches, the linen was 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 mind felt lighter. They refunded the deposit without fuss. The lease and checklist were tucked into a folderready for the next season.
August waned, days grew shorter, and a light mist settled over the beds. Margaret and Thomas cleared 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 shame and to explain rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist spoke of carecare for the cottage and for the people who entered it.
Its quieter now, Thomas confessed one evening, standing by the window, watching the dimming garden. I used to worry that too many conditions would scare people away. Now I see honesty makes it easier for a decent person.
Margaret smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples in her arms. She knew trust had not vanished; it had simply maturedmore cautious, but still open.
In September they posted a new ad, this time with confidence rather than anxiety. The description listed every rule, accompanied by photos of the rooms, the garden, and the checklist laid on the kitchen table.
Responses arrived quickly, practical inquiries about water, heating, transport. One young man wrote, Thanks for the honesty and detailthis is rare.
Margaret and Thomas discussed the upcoming season without the old fatigue. They understood peace was possible, provided they remained attentiveto themselves and to those who would stay in their home.
The final night before the cottage closed for the year was unusually quiet. A gentle breeze brushed the fields; a distant dog barked. Thomas locked the shed with a new bolt and joined Margaret on the veranda.
Do you think we need anything else in the rules? he asked.
No, Margaret replied. Weve learned the essentials. Just remember to stay human.
They sat together, eyes on the garden, the future season ahead, new meetings awaitingnow without the fear of losing what mattered most.
