Season of Trust

**The Season of Trust**

Early in May, when the grass had turned lush and the morning dew still clung to the greenhouse windows, Emma and James found themselves seriously considering renting out their cottage without an agency. The idea had simmered for weeksfriends shared horror stories about fees, and online forums were full of disgruntled reviews. But more than that, they wanted to choose who theyd trust with the place where theyd spent the last fifteen summers.

“Its not just square footage, is it?” James snipped away at the overgrown raspberry canes, glancing at his wife. “We want people wholl treat it like a home, not a budget hotel.”

Emma wiped her hands on a tea towel by the porch and nodded. This year, theyd decided to stay in London longertheir daughter was starting a crucial school term, and Emma wanted to help. The cottage would sit empty most of the summer, and the bills wouldnt pay themselves. The solution seemed obvious.

That evening, after supper, they walked through the house with fresh eyes, noting what needed tidying or hiding from prying hands. Books and family photos went into boxes stored in the loft; fresh bedding was neatly folded. Emma sorted the kitchen, leaving just the essentials.

“Lets document everything,” James suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed each room, the garden furniture, even the rusty bicycle by the shedjust in case. Emma jotted down details: how many saucepans, which quilts were on the beds, where the spare key was hidden.

A day later, as the first proper May rain soaked the garden, they listed the cottage online. The photos looked invitingsunlight filtering through the greenhouse where tomato plants stretched upward, dandelions peppering the path to the gate.

Waiting for responses felt like expecting guestsequal parts excitement and nerves. Calls came quickly: some asked about Wi-Fi or TV, others about dogs or children. Emma answered honestly; shed been a renter once and knew the little things mattered.

The first tenants arrived at Mays enda young couple with a seven-year-old and a “perfectly quiet” spaniel. They signed a simple agreement on the spot, nothing formal, just names and payment terms. Emma bit her lip; it felt risky, but for a summer let, what more did they need?

The first week passed smoothly. Emma visited weekly to check the greenhouse and drop off fresh towels. The tenants were friendlythe child waved from the kitchen window, the dog trotted to greet her at the gate.

Then the payments started lagging. First, it was forgotten transfers, then bank errors, then sudden expenses.

“Why do we even bother?” James sighed one evening, scrolling through messages as the sun dipped behind the apple trees.

Emma tried to be understanding, nudging gently about overdue rent, but the awkwardness gnawed at her. By mid-June, it was clear: the tenants were leaving early, unpaid. When they left, the cottage smelled of cigarettes (despite the no-smoking rule), rubbish lurked under the deck, and the kitchen table bore paint stains.

“Perfectly quiet, my foot,” James muttered, eyeing the claw marks on the pantry door.

They spent the day scrubbing: hauling out trash, scouring the oven, bundling stained linens for the wash. The strawberries by the fence were ripening; Emma plucked a handful, still warm from the rain.

After that, they debated giving up. Maybe an agency was worth the fee? But the thought of strangers managing their home felt wrong.

By midsummer, they tried againstricter this time, taking deposits upfront and outlining rules clearly.

The next lot were worse. A family of three arrived on a Saturday evening and promptly hosted a “couple of friends” who stayed all week. Laughter and barbecue smoke lingered till midnight. Emma called repeatedly, reminding them of quiet hours; James found beer bottles tossed into the lavender bushes.

When they left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa splashed with wine (or juicewho could tell?), bin bags piled by the shed, cigarette butts under the apple tree.

“How much more of this?” James grumbled, scraping charred kebabs off the grill.

Emma felt the sting of unfairnesswhy couldnt people respect a place that wasnt theirs?

“Maybe were too soft. We shouldve been firmer.”

In August, another inquiry: a childless couple for a week. Emma was meticulousdeposit required, pre-entry photos, rules spelled out.

They agreed without fuss, meeting at the gate on a sweltering noon. But when they left, the microwave was ruined (foil insidereally?), and they refused to pay.

“We barely did anything! It was an accident!” the woman protested.

Emma bit back her frustration. “Lets sort this calmly. Accidents happen. Well just deduct the repair from your deposit.”

A compromise was struck, and they left without drama. As the gate clicked shut, relief and weariness settled over Emma and James. Enough was enough.

That evening, with the apple trees shadow stretching across the garden, they sat on the porch with a notepad. The air smelled of cut grass and ripening fruit. Emma flipped through photos from the last handover, ticking off what needed fixing.

“We need a proper checklist,” she said. “So everyone knows the drill. Room by room: crockery, appliances, linens, bins.”

James nodded, tired but resolved. They drafted rules togetherphotos at check-in/out, deposits, key handovers. They explained how appliances worked, what to do if something broke. The tone mattered: firm but fair, leaving room for trust but drawing clear lines. Emma insisted on a contact number”Call us straight away if theres trouble.”

By nightfall, the checklist was typed up, photos filed in folders. It felt like scrubbing away more than just messlike cleaning up doubt itself.

The test came soon. In early August, a woman called, asked about the rules, listened carefully to the deposit terms. She arrived with her husband and teenage daughtercalm, unhurried, asking where the garden tools lived, if they could borrow the bikes, how often to water the porch flowers.

“Wed like two weeks, if thats alright,” she said, signing the contract without quibbling.

They toured the house together, noting the state of things. Emma showed them the spare lightbulbs, the hose tap. The family took photos, even asked about recycling.

“Will we be in the way if you come for the veg?” the man asked, holding the gate open.

“Not at all,” Emma smiled. “Just give us a heads-up.”

This time, everything changed. No complaints, no mess. When Emma visited, the kitchen was spotless, a bowl of strawberries on the table with a note: “Thanks for trusting us. Alls well.”

James peeked in the shedbikes and tools untouched. No bottles, no butts. Even the microwave was wiped clean.

On moving-out day, they walked through together, ticking off the checklist. Not a scratch on the furniture, laundry washed and folded.

“Your instructions made it easy,” the woman said at the gate. Emma smiledcaution still lingered, but the weight had lifted. The deposit was returned, the contract filed. Useful for next season.

August waned, days growing shorter. Emma and James tidied the garden, picking the last courgettes, pruning the blackcurrants. The cottage smelled of apples and fresh linen.

Theyd learned to say no without guilt, to set rules without sounding cross. The checklist wasnt suspicionit was care, for the house and its guests.

“Feels lighter now,” James admitted one evening, watching the darkening garden. “I used to worry: too many rules would scare people off. But honest folks prefer clarity.”

Emma grinned from the hallway, arms full of apples. Trust hadnt vanishedit had just grown wiser.

In September, they relisted the cottageno more anxiety, just confidence. The ad detailed every rule, even included a photo of the checklist on the table.

Responses came fast, questions practical: heating, transport. One reply stood out: “Thanks for the honesty. Rare these days.”

They planned the next season without dread. Peace was possiblethey just had to pay attention, to themselves and to those whod borrow their home.

On the last evening, a quiet breeze ruffled the garden. James locked the shed and joined Emma on the porch.

“Think weve missed anything in the rules?” he asked.

“No. Weve got the important bitjust remember to stay human.”

They sat side by side, watching the dusk. Ahead lay another season, more meetingsno longer shadowed by fear of losing what mattered.