Monday 21st July 2014
I walked through the picturesque village of Leasdale and wondered, how somebody made a life for themselves in such a place? As a twenty-something male, unattached and living alone—for example, would I be capable of becoming a resident in a village of no more than one thousand inhabitants? Somehow, I couldn’t see it happen.
It was seven-thirty on a lovely summer morning in the Yorkshire Dales. I’d been up and around for an hour and had already enjoyed breakfast. As I strolled into the middle of the village towards Pamela’s Pantry I was smiling.
Only two weeks earlier, the storekeeper had been one of only ten in the small congregation at my Aunt Elaine’s cremation. When I’d met and recognised Pamela at the intimate service I’d asked why more of the village had failed to drive to the peaceful crematorium outside York.
“Elaine was a friendly person, Brandon,” Pamela told me. “She got on with everybody, but she also enjoyed her privacy, and her wishes for her departure were common knowledge—it started as a joke, but she assured us that when the time came she wanted to go quietly.”
I’d responded by saying, “If it’s what she wanted, she’d be happy to know her wishes were met.”
“I’m sure she would be, but none of us thought we’d lose her so soon—she was forty-six for heaven’s sake; four years younger than me.”
“I don’t suppose heart attacks consider your personal circumstances, and while we’re talking about age, she’d be the first to agree with me that you shouldn’t pretend to be twenty years older than you are.”
“Now,” Pamela had said with a grin. “I’d be happy to have a young man like you in the village if you dropped by with a compliment like that now and then.”
It was with the memory of that brief conversation that I arrived at the convenience store.
“Good morning, Pamela,” I said after the small shop’s doorbell had announced my presence.
“Good morning, Brandon.” The handsome middle-aged woman gave me a smile and stepped forward for us to kiss each other on both cheeks. Pamela’s light blue overall camouflaged the her figure, but couldn’t hide her striking features.
“It feels a bit strange coming in here and knowing that my aunt won’t be there when I get back to the cottage.”
“Elaine was a popular member of our community, and she was always boasting about you.” She nodded. “I suppose to you she felt like much more than an aunt.”
“I only saw her every three or four months, but Elaine wasn’t like an aunt, or a mother figure. Strangely, she was more like a close friend. We could discuss anything. I got so well with Elaine, but I never imagined she’d leave me her cottage.”
“Elaine was my closest friend, as you know, and I already miss her terribly. The woman has only been gone a couple of weeks, and I keep expecting her to walk through that door.” She smiled briefly. “Have you worked out how long it will take to prepare the cottage for sale?”
“I’ve given myself a minimum of two weeks, but I’ve got plenty of time because it’s mid-term.”
“We’re a friendly bunch in Leasdale, Brandon, so while you’re here, if you ever feel you need to have a chat, don’t be afraid to drop in.”
“Thank you … Pamela.” I lifted a basket and wandered off along one of the short aisles and lifted a few items. I accepted that the pricing might be slightly higher than in a big town supermarket, but I didn’t need much. During my fifteen minutes or so walk around the small store I found myself looking at the owner as she went about her routines. I thought Pamela must have been a real looker in her younger days. She was easily five-ten and her shoulder-length blonde hair could be the natural colour, but even if it wasn’t, she suited it and her features were striking.
“How did it go?” The storekeeper said as she approached and went around the counter. “Did you find your needs?”
“I did, thank you. When I arrived yesterday evening I had a few essentials with me—enough to see me through until breakfast this morning.” I filled my reusable bag with my items and paid with cash.
“Remember, Brandon.” She handed me my change. “If you ever need somebody to talk to ….”
“I wouldn’t want to have the other residents talking about you.” I laughed.
Pamela leant forward and my gaze was briefly drawn to the generous cleavage now visible down the front of her overall. “Brandon, if the talk is about me and a handsome younger man, I don’t mind.” She winked and then gave a girlish laugh. “The people around here have been accustomed to seeing you visiting your aunt, and they’d readily accept that you and I were friends.”
“Thank you—I don’t feel so alone now.” I laughed, but even I recognised that my laugh had a hint of nervousness. “Which of the two pubs would you recommend if I went for a quiet drink one evening?”
“They’re both nice places. The Shepherd’s Inn is cosy and traditional, but if you like sitting out in pleasant weather there is a beer garden out behind The Wishing Well.”
“I do enjoy a chilled pint in a beer garden—thank you, once again, Pamela.”
“My pleasure—even if you don’t have to buy anything, don’t be a stranger. I’ll be expecting you to drop by and say cheerio when you finish all your preparations.”
“I will—I promise.”
Instead of walking back to the cottage, I turned right from the shop and walked to the other end of the village. I’d been to the place often enough in the past to know what was around, but there was a different feeling, knowing I was going back to the cottage to be alone. From Pamela’s small general store in the centre I passed the butcher, a hairdressing salon, The Wishing Well—one of the two pubs, a bakery, the church, and a hardware store.
I reached the other end of the village and stood for a few minutes looking out over the countryside, at the rolling green hills divided by their dry-stone walls and hedgerows. It was a similar view to what I had from the cottage at the other end of the small community. I shook my head.
On my stroll back through the village I nodded and said hello to a handful of people who were out walking their dogs or heading to one of the village stores. At least three of the locals were caught out, possibly mesmerised by my appearance.
I passed The Shepherd’s Inn—the other pub, a newsagent, the library, a tea-shop called Holme Maid, and the village community centre.
As I arrived back to Rose Cottage I appraised the place from across the road. A picture postcard old cottage with ivy growing over the front walls and four large rose bushes—two, evenly spaced either side of the front door. The bright green bench under the left hand window was more of a decoration than a piece of furniture, but I knew the work that had gone into keeping the front garden and the small hedge in good order. Whenever I visited I’d do anything I could to help with the tidying up and general maintenance. I liked the front garden, but the rear garden was my favourite—spacious and enclosed with a high hedge.
*
After unpacking my few groceries I fixed myself a coffee and went to relax out in the conservatory. I sat on the big comfy corner sofa in the left hand side. As I looked around me it felt so unreal. Never again would I sit out in this wonderful extension chatting to my lovely aunt.
I watched the birds out in the rear garden and then I turned my head to gaze at the studio easel standing in the other half of the huge extension in which I was sitting. I wondered if it was because we were both artists that I’d gotten on so well with my aunt.
While I sipped my coffee my thoughts drifted.
I’d always enjoyed my occasional trips south to visit and spend a weekend with my aunt, and after we’d had the obligatory discussion about how my parents were doing in their new life, we would relax in each other’s company and chat more like friends than relatives.
Elaine was an attractive forty-something with a modern attitude to life, which made talking and listening to her a pleasure. One of the things I liked about her cottage was how it looked so quaint on the outside, but was bright and modern inside—a by-product of her artistic and design oriented nature. Apart from the smart house, she wore clothes and shoes which might have been intended for somebody a few years younger, but once again carried off the look easily. I often wondered why there was no man in her life, but after a casual response once when I asked, I never asked again.
Instead of driving down to spend a weekend with her in early July as we’d agreed I would, I received a phone call from her solicitor—my aunt had succumbed to a massive and unpredicted heart attack. Due to my parents having emigrated when I started university, I was the only relative in the UK, and left to deal with the aftermath. Fortunately for me, the woman had everything in order, from her will and and funeral plan right down to a list of who to contact regarding household bills.
After her cremation I’d returned to the cottage for one more night to make some preparations to leave the place unoccupied for a couple of weeks. I told the solicitor I would return to prepare the property for sale. Simple things like emptying the fridge, and dealing with the bins became a necessity before I headed back north to Edinburgh. I received another call from the solicitor a few days later, to inform me that I was my aunt’s sole benefactor—I had become the owner of Rose Cottage, Leasdale, in the Yorkshire countryside.
*
Now, here I was, considering a life-changing decision—did I sell the place, or live there? If I sold the cottage I’d make a lot of money. If I rented the place out as a holiday home I’d have an income of sorts. If I stayed, I would no longer have a steady job.
For the past couple of years I’d shared an apartment with somebody else in Edinburgh, but I was now the owner of a lovely cottage in a small picturesque village. The place was clean, tidy and for one person; spacious. While I’d been performing my initial clearance of most of my aunt’s belongings I’d appreciated once again her idea of using half of the big conservatory as a studio—the natural light was incredible.
My aunt was like me—minimalist, so the decor and furnishing had clean lines, and there wasn’t a vast collection of miniature ornaments, or excess bric-a-brac tucked into every corner. It was great to know that a general clean to prepare the place for sale would be straightforward.
I was content to use the spare bedroom—my bedroom as my Aunt Elaine always referred to it. I didn’t have a massive amount of personal baggage so the wardrobe and drawers held everything easily.
After a bite to eat I had a mug of tea while I sat once again to consider my next moves. I strolled around the house and assessed each room once again, but my thoughts wouldn’t settle.
“Time for some fresh air and a change of scene,” I announced to the empty house. I had a long hot shower and wrapped a towel around my waist while I sat sat to dry my hair. Before getting dressed I looked at myself in the pedestal mirror. I was happy with my physique, average build and no excess weight anywhere. My arms and legs were devoid of hair and I had shaved my pubic area for years. It was when I looked up that my doubts about socialising crept in.
My shoulder length, ash-blonde hair was parted and neatly brushed. The features framed by my hair were my Achilles’ Heel, or my greatest asset, depending on your outlook. Natural shaped eyebrows, and bright blue eyes with long dark lashes looked back at me, taunting me, as did my high cheekbones. My nose was ‘just right’ according to my friends, and my lips were ‘sensuous’, as judged by the same folk.
I opted for a black T-shirt and stonewashed jeans with a pair of white trainers. After one final quick appraisal I headed out and strolled along to The Wishing Well.
I got on famously with Pamela in the small store, but I wondered if the rest of the local people in this remote village were ready for an androgynous person living in their midst. Behind my back, would I always be ‘that strange-looking character in Rose Cottage’?
To continue with life as it was, or give up what I had and move here—a big decision indeed.
“Two weeks, Brandon,” I told my reflection. “Give yourself two weeks and see how it feels.”
***
Katya Cumming Erotica 