Chalet Retreat
Copyright oggbashan December 2022
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
Some of the conversations are assumed to be in Spanish, translated for this story.
+++
"James? Our visas are genuine, but only as students, but the work we were promised and paid for, doesn't exist."
Pablo was speaking. He and his wife Inez had got off the bus at the stop on the edge of my land which adjoins the South Downs Way. They were in their mid-twenties, heavily laden with large back packs. I had been sitting on my veranda recovering after unloading too much shopping from a supermarket. I had done more than I should with my age and disabilities. I had left the piles of bags on the kitchen work surfaces.
As they got off the bus the rain started in earnest. I invited them on to my veranda to shelter from the rain.
"I am sorry," Inez had said." We don't know much Inglez."
The word "Inglez" made me suspect they were Spanish. I spoke to them in Spanish while they were drinking coffee and looking out at the pouring rain miserably.
It took some time for them to explain why they were on the South Downs Way.
They had answered an advertisement in their Spanish local paper offering to obtain visas and guarantee a job for a year in England for a fee of five hundred Euros each.
They wanted to improve their almost non-existent English and had paid the fee. But when they arrived in Brighton on Friday afternoon, the office they were supposed to go to was locked and looked abandoned.
A neighbouring shopkeeper had just about managed to convey through the language barrier, that the office occupier had been arrested on Thursday for running a scam business. None of the 'work' existed except as slave labour at car wash sites or nail bars or even worse for attractive young women.
Pablo and Inez didn't have enough money to go back to Spain. They had hoped to find work in Brighton but there were too few vacancies and too many people chasing the jobs that existed. They also needed somewhere to live.
They had spent two nights sleeping rough in Brighton but thought it very dangerous with too many drunken people in the streets. They had met another Spaniard, visiting Brighton for the day, who had suggested they might be safer camping in the countryside, which is why they had taken a bus to the South Downs Way.
They had used their last money to buy some second-hand camping equipment.
I asked when they had last eaten. The answer was yesterday lunchtime.
"Can you cook?" I asked.
Yes. They were both graduate catering students who had hoped to get work in a Brighton restaurant.
I took them into the kitchen of my chalet and pointed at the pile of supermarket purchases waiting to be put away.
"Please, can you put all that away for me and make breakfast for yourselves."
Inez started crying but Pablo hugged her. I watched as they put everything away, in the fridge, the freezer and the kitchen cupboards. I had to suggest where was appropriate sometimes. It took the two of them ten minutes. I would have taken over an hour.
Half an hour later they were eating breakfast and obviously enjoying it.
+++
I was missing my beach hut. I had owned it for forty years in a seaside town that I had visited with my parents on summer holidays. But seven years ago I decided I could no longer use it. The nearest place to park a car was at the top of a hill and there were one hundred steps down to where the beach hut was.
My reduced mobility after the car crash that had killed my wife meant I could no longer use the hundred steps. My children and grandchildren were too far away for it to be useful for them, so I had sold it at a considerable profit. I didn't need the money, but I was regretting losing it.
Over the first couple of years after the accident my mobility had become worse. When going from my large suburban house to the City of London about twice a week I used a limousine car hire service. I would sit in the back reading the Financial Times, but I knew most of the information before it was published. That was why I owned a stockbroking company that was very profitable.
I knew I ought to sell the company and retire. Five years ago Uncle Frank's will was the catalyst for me to do just that.
He was rich but he had distributed much of his wealth to his sons, daughters, and grandchildren long before he died to avoid inheritance tax. I attended the family solicitors for the reading of Uncle Frank's will knowing he had left me something, but what?
He had left me the farm and farmhouses. He had lived in the medieval farmhouse. His tenant farmer lived in the 'new' farmhouse built about 1905.
The will said: 'I am leaving the farm and houses to my nephew James because he is the only one with enough money to look after them.'
The farm was in the Sussex Downs, far too far for me to travel to London. I sold my company and moved in, shortly followed by a whole company of builders.
Through the farmland was the South Downs Way, a national footpath and bridle track. Thirty years ago, Uncle Frank had negotiated with the local council and the park authority to divert the path to an improved route. He had made it wider, with more space where there were good viewpoints. It had become a shared foot and cycle path. He had surfaced the whole route through his land three metres wide. Alongside it was five metres of soft earth for the horses. The revised route followed field boundaries so didn't interfere with agriculture as the old route had. At each extreme he had provided car parks. At one end the route ran between the old and new farmhouses. That wasn't inconvenient because the houses were fifty yards apart but shared an access from a roundabout where the major roads separated.
At the other end, at a high point, was a derelict farmworker's house. It still had permission to be used as a dwelling since it had been rented out to an elderly couple until they died about ten years ago. But it was in poor condition and beyond repair. I kept the planning rights to build a house there but I didn't need it. I had asked my builders to demolish it and install a wooden chalet, to make it habitable for me while the major works were done on the old farmhouse. The chalet was single storey, with a bedroom, and an annexe bathroom adapted for disabled use.
I had to negotiate with the local council to get planning permission. What helped was that I provided land for a lay-by including a dedicated bus-stop. I gave the land to the council and paid for the works -- and I got my planning permission.
The chalet had a large covered veranda with extensive views over the farmland. Unless it was cold, I could sit out, even in the rain. If the weather was inclement I could move into a living room with full length French windows. Whether indoors or out I could see the South Downs Way climbing up the steep hill to the car park and road.
It almost felt as if I was in my beach hut again with many people passing every day. Instead of the sea I was looking at rolling grassland dotted with sheep. If the weather was forecast to be fine, I would ride my electric pavement buggy to it. I had charging points at the chalet and at the house. If there was any doubt about the weather I would drive my people carrier by road.
The path went beside my veranda so I could greet people, some of whom were tired after climbing the hill. I could offer them tea, or coffee, and a chair to sit in. I provided shelter from bad weather and coffee or tea if needed. The benefits for me were the thanks of the men and often hugs and kisses from the women. I enjoyed them. It made me feel I was providing a useful service.
I was slightly sad that my future seemed to be one of gradual decline. Although I had sold most of my company I had kept fifteen per cent. The proportion gave me a large income and I had a considerable capital as well. But I had nothing to live for except interacting with passers-by and an expectation of my mobility becoming gradually worse.
