Summer's Lease

1

“The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,” John Tennant said, then hiccupped. He turned his gaze from the waves which, though moonlit, weren’t exactly cloudy. Nor, as far as he could make out, were there any galleons, ghostly or otherwise. Stumbling, he looked down and stared at a smooth white stone that was no bigger than a golf ball. “Hello, who put you there?”

He smiled, feeling happy for the first time since…“George,” he said aloud, his mood abruptly plummeting.

Reaching the end of the garden path, John lifted the dustbin lid and dropped in his bag of rubbish. Not that there was much; he’d been in the cottage for less than a day. But Morwenna, the owner of the half-dozen cottages that formed the tiny hamlet of Bishop’s Cove, had advised him that the bins were only emptied once every two weeks.

“And the bin men are apt to come early. Being from the city, you might not be awake in time to put out your rubbish.”

John had bristled; he’d always been an early riser, but then he supposed his definition of early might not be Morwenna’s. If her multi-coloured, tie-dyed, and no doubt home-spun clothes, the myriad bangles on her wrists, sandals on her feet, and the nest of twigs and wild flowers in her hair were any indication, she probably got up with the sun and danced naked in the dewy grass. John resolutely turned his mind away from such a mental picture. She was sixty if she was a day, and even if she were younger, the image would have still been distasteful. John didn’t fancy women.

Facing the sea once again, he breathed deeply of the salt-laden air. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the hypnotic rhythm of the waves. The stress of the past few months began to loosen some of its crippling hold.

John hadn’t known why he’d been surprised at Morwenna’s unorthodox appearance. Hadn’t he figured she’d be…free-spirited when he’d spoken with her on the phone?

Handing him a glass of wine, which she had explained was fermented from the elderflowers that grew in her garden, Morwenna had gone on to say something…strange. “Yes.” She’d looked him up and down. “You’re exactly how I saw you. You’ll do very nicely.”

“Um,” John had hesitated, wine glass hovering midway to his lips. “Maybe I should explain. I’m gay. I don’t—”

Morwenna had laughed and clapped her hands. “I know.”

“Oh.” Obviously she was one of those new-age types, or perhaps just a bit touched, John thought.

Morwenna’s cat, which had been slinking around in the shadows, slid out and wrapped itself around John’s legs. John had not been tempted to bend down to stroke the thing—he didn’t really care for cats: aloof, self-important creatures that they were.

“He likes you. Another excellent sign.”

John had taken a sip of the wine. It was surprisingly palatable if you went in for rustic-type beverages, which he usually didn’t.

Morwenna had insisted John take the rest of the bottle away with him.

On getting back to his cottage, and after unpacking his car, John had seen the bottle on the draining board and decided to take a quick sip.

The sip had led to a glass, which had graduated to three glasses.

“No wonder I’m a bit unsteady on me pins.” John smiled to himself, leaning against the dustbin

He hoped he wouldn’t have a hangover in the morning, but then, would it matter if he did? He didn’t need to get up early—he’d got a long leave of absence from his middle-grade paper-pushing position in the Department of Work and Pensions. The job was dull, but it suited him. Maybe he was dull, too. Though George had always told him off when he started to go down that road.

George’s life insurance and his work pension meant John didn’t need to work ever again if he was careful with his investments and lived simply. Careful and simple were John’s middle names. He sighed. Yes, the money was nice, but he’d much rather have George alive and well.

John’s only big expense of late had been renting the cottage. But fate, in the guise of a curious gust of wind, had almost literally landed the summer getaway in John’s lap.

He thought back to that day in Regent’s Park.

After feeding the ducks, he’d settled himself on a wooden bench to enjoy the spring sunshine. It had been a cold winter and this was one of the first nice days they’d had.

Within seconds of settling his thin frame, a breeze got up, disturbing a nearby pile of litter. A brightly-coloured piece of paper separated itself from the rest and skipped across the grass toward him, coming to rest against his right shoe. John ignored the paper, but another gust blew the thing up his leg and onto his lap. The large typed words, Relaxing Cornish Getaways, caught his eye, so, not having anything else to do, he began to read the rest of the leaflet, thinking when he got up, he’d deposit it in one of the rubbish bins that were dotted around the park. But, although he had no memory of doing so, he must have folded the glossy leaflet and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. The next time he’d seen the brochure was a week later when he went to collect his dry cleaning.