This is a gentler (and longer) story than what usually seems to come out of my head - so much so I was tempted to file it under the Romance section rather than Mature, so you might want to bear that in mind before you start. Rest assured there is some sex, but it takes its time to arrive. All characters are of the age of consent or older.
If you make it to the end, thank you, and let me know what you think via votes and comments.
Thanks to VM for some terrific proofreading and feedback.
**
It was, whichever way you looked at it, a great deal.
The house was positioned on the edge of the national park, perched on the lower slopes of a gentle valley with a stretch of garden that ran down to a small lake. It was over a hundred years old but had been carefully and tastefully modernised and restored. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large and well-equipped kitchen and a comfortable if rather cluttered living room. The nearest village was a 15-minute drive away. Mobile reception was a bit iffy, but there was a half-decent internet connection - good enough for web browsing and email if not for streaming TV shows. But that suited me fine. This was going to be the summer, after all, that The Novel finally got written. No binge watching for me.
Six weeks of perfect isolation.
Oh - except for Polly.
Polly was the reason the whole deal was on offer, really. She was a bouncy six-year-old black Labrador. I was more of a cat person myself, but when I was introduced to Polly she wagged her tail approvingly and I patted her head and Mrs James cooed that she seemed to like me very much. Mr James muttered something inaudible which sounded faintly scathing. I guessed he wasn't much of a dog person either.
Anyway, Mr and Mrs James were off on their long-promised world cruise after his early retirement. He'd sold his company, his children were off his hands, and I surmised that he'd run out of excuses not to give his wife the trip that she'd long been clamouring for. But Polly, of course, couldn't go with them. Hence the hurried if informal search for a house-sitter and dog-walker. Hence a friend of my uncle's making casual enquiries as to whether I was still trying to make a go of writing after quitting my teaching job. Hence me sitting there on that first evening in their garden after waving them off a few hours earlier, watching the sun go down while I sipped a cold beer.
Polly lay quietly beside me. She'd had her walk, a brisk hour through some local foothills that she'd enjoyed very much, scampering off in pursuit of various interesting smells and startled rabbits but always obediently coming back to me when I called her.
I scratched her head affectionately. Already she had won me over.
"Thanks Polly," I said. "I think this going to be a great summer." She lifted her head and looked at me and thumped her tail softly.
**
I soon worked out a routine. At eight in the morning I unplugged the internet connection in the garage and made my way to the study. There I worked pretty solidly through until eleven. Then Polly had the first of her walks, which took us up to an early lunch. Then I was straight back to it until around four in the afternoon, or until I'd done my four thousand words for the day, whichever came sooner. Then Polly, to her stunned delight, had her second walk of the day. On this second walk I was more adventurous, choosing footpaths and directions at random and relying on a combination of wonky signposts, intermittent Satnav readings on my phone, and Polly's sense of direction to get us back home again. Sometimes we were back inside an hour. Sometimes it was nearer three hours and getting perilously dark. Polly never seemed to flag, which is more than I can say for myself, but gradually my stamina increased. I was also eating more healthily than I had for some time, being limited to the extremely tasty but relatively limited foodstuffs available in the local village shop - lots of vegetables, fruit and eggs.
The days flew by. Fifteen thousand words became thirty and then forty and then fifty. More importantly, they were words I didn't hate when I re-read them. Perhaps this was the breakthrough at last. I made a promise to myself that if I ever made any good money out of my writing, I would buy myself a house here or somewhere very like it. It seemed to me utterly perfect. Memories of my short, failed marriage with its bitter ending seemed a lifetime away. If I wanted to chat, Polly was always willing to listen and always in complete agreement with whatever I said.
And then, towards the start of my third week there, I was awoken at two in the morning by the sound of somebody breaking in.
**
Of course, it was Polly who actually heard them.
Polly was supposed to sleep in her basket downstairs. This had lasted all of two nights - she'd looked so reproachful when I left her to go upstairs that I had caved in and now her basket was at the end of my bed. She snored slightly but rather charmingly.
And that night I woke to find her growling.
"Hey Poll... what is it?" I asked sleepily. She growled again, then was silent. I listened.
Downstairs, very faint but definitely audible. A window scraping open. I recognised the sound as I'd opened it myself only a few days previously. A thump, then another. Unmistakably man-made sounds.
I looked quickly at my mobile. No signal, of course. There was no landline in my room - there was only one handset in the house, which was downstairs. Nor, my mobile informed me, had I remembered to turn the Wi-Fi back on after our second walk. So, no emailing or Skype calls for help either.
I guessed a house like this was an obvious target. Fairly remote, obviously well to do. Break a window, get in, grab as much as you can and be gone in twenty minutes. Even if it was alarmed it would take the local police a good half an hour to make it out here. Maybe closer to an hour.
The sensible thing to do would be to lock my door and wait for them to go. But I had a sense of responsibility. I'd been hired as a house sitter and it seemed rather feeble to just cower in my room. Plus - I was angry. Everything had been going so well. The last few weeks had been the happiest, most productive I could remember for a long time and now one or more lazy, unimaginative low-life criminals were spoiling it. I was going to damn well tell them what I thought of them.
I took hold of Polly's collar. Her fur was bristling. She was obviously of the same mind.
"Come on Polly," I whispered. "Let's give these fucking bastards the fright of their lives."
I took hold of a poker from the fireplace in the other hand then threw open the door.
"WHO'S DOWN THERE?"
Polly barked furiously.
There was a loud and very feminine shriek from downstairs.
Polly barked again, but in a different tone. Before she was angry. Now - in the space of an instant - she was excited. She pulled away from me and I lost my grip on her collar. I noticed as she shot down the stairs that her tail was wagging.
"POLLY! What are you doing here?"
"Who's that?" I called again, still very worked up.
"Well, who's that?" said the voice, rather nervous. "And what are you doing in my parents' house?"
**
I made my way somewhat cautiously down the stairs, still clutching my poker.
In the living room, just visible from the light coming through from the kitchen beyond, was the slight figure of a girl. Polly was prancing around her, clearly delighted. The girl was trying to pat her with one hand, while clasping an ornamental letter opener in the other. This she was brandishing rather unconvincingly at me. I could see she was young, no more than eighteen, and I relaxed a little though I was still pumped with adrenaline.
"Who the hell are you?" she said.
"Me? I might ask you the same question!"
"This is MY house!"
"So... why the window? Where are your keys?"
"I've... lost them."
