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Copyright Oggbashan August 2016
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. This is a fantasy.
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Westry Bay is a gated community and has been since long before the term existed. In the nineteenth century the local landowner built a couple of lodges near the beach for his hunting, shooting and fishing visitors because he personally didn't indulge in those sports. His younger brother did and by building the lodges the elder brother could keep his house free for his intellectual friends, and his string of expensive mistresses -- that's another story.
The only road access is by half a mile of causewayed road over the freshwater marshes. At the start of that road is the gatekeeper's house. The gates are kept shut and are opened by an electronic key. The gatekeeper can open for named visitors who are only allowed in during daylight hours by prior arrangement. The marshes are still the barrier they were. There is a private footpath through the marshes that is just passable with care. That has an electronically controlled gate on the only bridge across the stream that meanders through the marsh.
Even by sea the access is difficult. Swimming is safe inside the shifting sandbars that deter anything larger than a canoe. The treacherous currents beyond are too much for the canoe. Once a resident landed a hovercraft. His neighbours protested about the noise and the experiment wasn't repeated.
In short, Westry Bay is as isolated as it can be in the first part of the 21st century. Tradesmen deliver to the gatekeeper's house. Any maintenance of the buildings is performed by the estate's staff who are resident. None of the houses are privately owned. All are leased from a trust that took over from the descendant of the original owner about fifteen years ago. All the houses were modernised and renovated by the trust. None of the residents who lived on the estate before the trust took over are left. As previously, the current residents arrived by invitation only. By tradition the invitation was considered by all the current householders before it was issued but now the trust approves the invitation.
I was vaguely aware of Westry Bay as an anomaly. I never thought I would visit it or that anyone I knew might live there. When my long term friends Alan and Julia had their car accident I visited them at the nursing home where they were recovering. Alan would never be the same man. He would eventually walk again with a stick but his former skiing and mountaineering would be impossible. Julia had been less active than Alan. She seemed prematurely aged. They surprised me by announcing that they were moving to Westry Bay.
When Julia went off to organise some tea and cakes I asked Alan bluntly:
"Why, Alan? Why are you two moving to Westry Bay? It's isolated."
"It's very simple, Ian. All the properties at Westry Bay are serviced, better than this nursing home. We'll have two live in maids and a cook. Julia wouldn't be able to look after me, and for months I wouldn't be able to look after myself. The maids are not just maids. They are trained as nurses as well and can easily cope with our needs."
"Ouch! Won't that cost a mint?"
"It's surprisingly cheap for the service we get. We have a lease, not a freehold purchase, but unlike normal leases it is more like renting. We pay an annual charge which covers the house, the utilities and the staff. It is cheaper than a mortgage would be on a first time buyer's small house, and there is no deposit required -- if you are accepted by the other people at Westry Bay. You could visit us. There are apartments for visitors which we can use for up to three months in any year. Those apartments are serviced too. The visitors don't have to cook, clean, or do any housework."
"I think I'd find that boring, Alan."
"Maybe. You're more active than Julia was, and even more active than I was before the accident. But for us it's ideal. We don't have to worry about our care. This place may be good as nursing homes go, but we only have two rooms, not our own house. What you might like is seeing the staff. The maids and cooks all seem to be in their late twenties or early thirties and very attractive."
That was a sore point. My wife had left me for a younger man, twenty years younger than me. Our divorce had been finalised two years ago. She seemed happy with her young stud. He seemed happy with her. But I still felt betrayed.
When Julia returned and the tea and cakes followed within minutes she was even more enthusiastic about Westry Bay. She told me how much the annual fee was. It seemed very cheap for such a complete service.
They invited me to come to Westry Bay about a month after they would have moved in. They had an ulterior motive. They wanted me to take Alan out for drives around the local area which they didn't know. By then he should be reasonably mobile, enough to walk around a historic house or garden, but unlikely to able to drive himself for a few months more. He might not be able to drive unless his condition improves significantly. Julia had been disqualified from driving for twelve months for 'careless driving' that led to the accident.
After they had moved in I had a few enthusiastic emails from them. They were enjoying life but Alan was looking forward to my visit. He was very pleased with the maids and cook. His emails sounded as if he was almost falling in love with one or more of them.
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A month later I drove up to the entrance of Westry Bay. I stopped in front of the closed gates. The security guard came out to me.
"Mr Ian Sanders? You're expected. Here is a map of the estate. I have marked your apartment and your car parking space. Your friends' house is about fifty yards away from where you park. If you go to your apartment your maid will let you in and tell you about our site. Your friends are expecting you for dinner tonight."
I drove at the ten mile per hour speed limit and parked my car. As I unloaded my suitcase a tall black woman came out of the apartment block.
"Mr Sanders? I am your maid Mariena. I will take your suitcase for you."
I was about to protest that it was heavy. She lifted it as if it was very light. I followed her nicely rounded backside into the block. I couldn't stop my instant erection as she wiggled in front of me, her long black skirt swaying attractively. Once inside the apartment she told me to sit down and wait for her to bring the coffee. She took my suitcase into the bedroom before going into the kitchen. Within less than a minute she came back with a tray of coffee and cakes. She sat down opposite me and poured the coffee exactly as Julia would have done. Julia knows how I like my coffee -- strong and black.
Mariena didn't drink. For a quarter of an hour she talked about Westry Bay and the facilities including what she as my maid would do for me. It sounded as if she was a saleswoman trying to sell me on moving to the estate. There was a hint that she might do more than she was saying, or was I reading too much into my first contact with a young woman for months? I was trying to place Mariena. Her name suggested she might be Afro-Caribbean but her perfect English had no accent. Her straight hair swung around her face as she moved. I was enjoying watching the movements of her glossy brown skin over her obviously fit frame. My erection continued to be embarrassingly obvious.
Eventually she stopped extolling the benefits of Westry Bay.
"Mariena, I think I'd like to walk around the estate for a while. I'm not seeing my friends for three hours and I'd like to get my bearings. Is that OK?"
Mariena seemed doubtful.
