Reginald was a confirmed bachelor of a certain age. He lived his quiet life, untroubled by solitude, working like a carthorse—and loving every minute of it. A perfectionist by nature, he liked things just so. Women had come and gone, but none had ever quite measured up. That July, exhausted, he decided to escape civilisation for a bit. He went online and placed an ad.
A woman from a southern village responded—Amelia, a mother of two. Twenty minutes’ stroll to the sea, far from bustling resorts, a private room, and in exchange for groceries, home-cooked meals thrown in. Tempting. The satnav delivered him without incident to an old but tidy house. His room was cosy, the hostess welcoming. A tiny Yorkshire terrier scampered about the garden, where fruit ripened on the trees, and two children—a boy and girl, around nine or ten—bustled with chores. Amelia didn’t pester him, just asked what he’d like for dinner, piled his plate with strawberries, and smiled sweetly.
Reginald spent his days swimming, clambering over rocks, taking photos, and messaging an old mate. Occasionally, he wondered—how did a woman in her late forties have such young children? Eventually, he asked.
“Amelia, are these your grandchildren?”
“No,” she said. “My son and daughter. Just… late arrivals. Life didn’t pan out with marriage, so I thought, why not have them anyway? And I’m not *that* old—forty-eight, thank you.”
As they talked, Reginald took her in properly—soft-spoken, warm, her smile like sunshine. He liked her name, too. Amelia. His mother’s name. She smelled of strawberries and fresh butter. The homemade wine was good, the evenings pleasantly cool, the sky starry. Neither pretended otherwise—they were grown-ups. By day, business as usual. By night, Reginald crept to her room, then tiptoed back before the children woke. The little dog never barked, just watched shrewdly, as if in on the secret. A proper little guard, that one—ate two spoonfuls of food but patrolled the garden diligently. Matilda, she was called.
Soon, Matilda followed Reginald to the sea, even swam with him, shook off, sunbathed, then scampered home ahead of him. But one day, she didn’t return. Reginald searched, called, even plastered the village with lost-dog notices. Where had she gone? An elderly neighbour muttered something about outsiders—holiday renters at the far end of the village. Reginald marched over.
“Left an hour ago,” they said. “With a little dog. Headed for the motorway.”
Reginald floored it. Eighty miles later, he blocked the road with his car. Out stepped two young women, all attitude and lip gloss.
“Move your car, grandad,” the taller one sneered. “Or we’ll call the police.”
“Go ahead,” said Reginald. “But first, hand over the dog.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “She was stray. We *rescued* her.”
“She’s not a stray. She’s got a family. And it’s not yours.”
“Piss off,” the other shrieked. “Move or we’ll smash your windows!”
Reginald circled the car. “Matilda! Tilly!” A frantic yapping erupted from inside. The girls clawed at him, swearing. What could he do? He couldn’t hit them.
Then—salvation. A traffic officer pulled up, red-faced and puffing. “Quiet, the lot of you!” he boomed, scooping up Matilda. “No papers? Whoever she goes to, keeps her.”
“Princess! Sweetie!” The girls waved sausage. “Come to mummy!”
“Ready to go home, Tilly?” said Reginald.
The officer set her down. Matilda bolted to Reginald, tail wagging furiously.
“Case closed,” wheezed the officer.
“You can’t do this!” they screeched. “We’ll report you!”
The officer’s face darkened. “Leave now, or I’ll check your insurance, fire extinguisher, first-aid kit—and count every tablet in it. Plus, your car’s filthy. Might even run it for theft. Computer’s back at the station, though…”
The jeep vanished.
Reginald shook the officer’s hand.
“Cheers, mate.”
“Don’t mention it. Got one myself—Biscuit. Barks, wees indoors, crafty little blighter. Wears a jumper in winter. Good breed, though. Loyal.” He winked. “Drive safe.”
Matilda curled on Reginald’s lap, warm as toast, fur like velvet. For the first time in years, he felt… content. The road hummed beneath him, the engine purred, and Tilly snuffled happily. Then—a pang. Soon, he’d be back to his empty flat. A thought flickered: *Turn around. Take her home.* Just a suitcase of clothes, really. He noted it, sighed, and drove back to Amelia.
Rain poured the final week, but Reginald swam anyway. Matilda joined him. Nights, he stole to Amelia’s room; mornings, he grew quieter. On departure day, sunshine returned. He packed, gifted Amelia a thank-you, left his number, and drove off.
Matilda chased the car.
Reginald accelerated. She kept pace, tiny legs pumping, until—she didn’t. He braked, hands shaking, smoked a cigarette, then sprinted back.
There she was—a speck on the road, coughing dust, tail wagging feebly. He scooped her up, wiped her clean, let her sip from his cupped hands, then rang Amelia.
“Your dog’s with me. Ran after the car. I’ll bring her back.”
“Keep her, if you want. I only had her ten days before you came. Someone dumped her outside a shop.”
Six months later, at the university, he overheard:
“Did you hear? The dean remarried.”
“That woman from the countryside? Middle-aged, two kids, a dog?”
“What’s her secret? Witchcraft?”
The gossips spotted him.
“Professor Whitmore! What’s your wife’s magic trick?”
Reginald grinned.
“Oh, there was magic. The strongest kind.”
“Would she share the recipe?”
“Afraid not.”
He walked home—to Amelia, the children, and Matilda.
✍ Elena Andriyash.
