Sitting Tenants and Other Stories

Sitting Tenants

I am surprised at how it all came to this.  Things have certainly changed since I bought Holly Cottage last spring.  I had received a modest inheritance that would enable me to purchase a rental property - something to provide me with a little extra income and perhaps be a starter home for my son in a few years' time.  A quick search of the internet narrowed my options down to about ten possibilities, all of which were unsuitable - some soulless purpose built flats, a granny-style maisonette and some spacious apartments in large converted residences that had long since lost their grandeur and sported damp on the walls, rotting windowsills and peeling paint.  These last properties looked like they would make good crack-dens, but were trumpeted without irony by the estate agent as 'an ideal opportunity for a first time buyer or investor'.  I was beginning to consider alternative investments when my attention was caught by a 'For Sale' board while running on my usual Sunday morning route on the outskirts of town.

Holly Cottage was a modestly proportioned period property built in grey stone and had been the gatehouse for the impressive country house and gardens that had once stood here.  Everyone who had grown up here knew the story. With suburban encroachment of the 1930s, the house had no longer been in the country and then during the Blitz, a stricken German bomber, struggling to make its way home, had emptied the last of its payload on the grand house before turning south to follow the railway tracks that led to the coast and safety.  The house having been destroyed, the gardens became a local park with only the perimeter walls and the gatehouse remaining.  My curiosity aroused, I walked over to the cottage for a look. Pressing my face to the window and cupping my hands to the flanks of my face to block out the ambient light, I peered in.  Net curtains hung limply from an unseen rail, but through a gap I could just discern some old fashioned, but homely furniture, an open fireplace and through the kitchen door, an ancient range cooker.  A character property with open fireplace and a range! This could be gold dust; a sure-fire winner for renting to young professionals with a hankering for country-style living in the suburbs!  It was with a sense of rare excitement that I telephoned the estate agent that afternoon.  I was not to be disappointed, the house was priced for a quick sale with vacant possession. More importantly, Holly Cottage was within my budget, would enable me to be a cash buyer and leave a spare ten thousand to do the refurbishment.  Anxious not to lose such a bargain, I arranged a viewing and soon after made an offer.  The purchase of the property went through with no fuss and I took possession of the keys on a bright spring day. 

As I pulled up on the driveway I felt an immense pride.  The stone walls were bathed in the bright sunlight and the daffodils that lined the borders danced in the gentle breeze, giving the place a homely feel.  "Someone," I thought to myself, "is going to be very happy living here."  Over the next few weeks I cleared the house and hired a gang of Eastern European tradesmen to get the place into shape; putting down new laminate flooring, installing a new bathroom suite and a country style kitchen complete with a 'Butler' sink and using the range as a central feature.  Despite its age, the range had turned out to be in good working order and after a clean-up, looked almost good as new. 

The men had been working there a few days when my mobile rang; I answered, "Hello?", "Yes, hello John, is Jacob. We have...problem."  Jakub, who insisted on being called Jacob, was the Polish foreman, a wiry chap in his late thirties.  He sounded worried.  "What is problem, what is matter?" I asked, conscious that I was needlessly speaking in broken English and that Jakub probably thought I was an arse for doing so.  "No, not wrong, but...something happen to Goran" he replied.  Goran was an enormous Serbian lad and the idea that something could just happen to him was unbelievable.  "Well, what happened?" I retorted, inwardly flapping at the fact that I was paying these guys cash in hand.  "You come, John, you see!" replied Jakub, hanging up.

I arrived at the cottage to find the lads loitering outside, smoking and drinking the Turkish style coffee that they cooked on a small gas stove.  Goran, standing at six feet five inches stood off to one side with a home-made dressing applied to his head and tied under his chin.  Dried rust-coloured blood was encrusted in his hair and the shoulders of his lumberjack shirt.  Shaking him by the hand, I noticed at once that he was pale, shaking slightly and looked frightened but embarrassed.