Henry Wilson was an old bachelor, perfectly content with his solitude. He worked like a carthorse and loved every minute of it—a man who insisted on everything being just so. He’d dated plenty of women but never found one who matched his exacting standards. That July, exhausted and craving an escape from modern life, he scrolled through rental listings online.
A reply came from a woman with two children, living in a quiet coastal village—a 20-minute stroll from the sea, far from tourist traps. His own room, home-cooked meals in exchange for groceries—it sounded ideal. The trip was uneventful, the satnav flawless. The house was old but tidy, the room cosy, the hostess warm. A tiny Yorkshire Terrier, Matilda, scampered around the yard. The garden was heavy with fruit, and the children—a boy and girl, about nine or ten—bustled about. The woman, Anna, didn’t fuss over him, just asked what he’d like for dinner, piled his plate with strawberries, and smiled sweetly.
Henry spent his days swimming, clambering over rocks, snapping photos, and texting an old mate. Occasionally, he wondered how a woman of fifty had such young children. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him.
“Anna,” he ventured, “are these your grandchildren?”
She laughed. “No, they’re mine—just late arrivals. Never married, but I wanted children anyway. And I’m not *that* old—only forty-eight.”
As they talked, Henry studied her—kind, soft-spoken, always smiling. He liked her name. *Anna, Annie.* It reminded him of his mother. She smelled of strawberries and fresh butter. The homemade elderflower wine was delicious, the nights cool, the sky starry. Neither pretended otherwise—they were adults. By day, they carried on as normal; by night, Henry tiptoed to Annie’s room, then back before the children stirred.
Matilda never barked at him—just watched slyly, as if in on the secret. A fine little dog, frugal too. A couple of spoonfuls of food, and she’d guard that yard like a soldier. Soon, she followed Henry to the beach, even paddled in the waves, shook off, sunbathed, then trotted home ahead of him.
Until the day she didn’t.
Henry searched, shouted, plastered the village with flyers. Where had she gone? An elderly neighbour muttered something about outsiders—holiday renters at the far end of the village. Henry marched over. They’d already left, she said, with a small dog, headed for the motorway.
He jumped in his car and sped off. Eighty miles later, he blocked the road with his car. Two young women clambered out of a Range Rover, all attitude.
“Move your car, grandad, or we’ll call the police!”
“Go ahead,” Henry said. “But first—hand over the dog.”
“Keep dreaming,” the taller one sneered. “She was stray. We *rescued* her.”
“That dog has a family,” Henry said. “And it’s not yours.”
“Piss off!” the other shrieked. “Move the car or we’ll smash your windows!”
Henry circled the car, calling, “Matilda! Tilly!” A frantic yapping erupted from inside. The women clawed at him, swearing, swinging wild slaps. Henry floundered—he couldn’t hit them.
Then a squad car rolled up. A sweaty, wheezing sergeant clapped his hands over his ears. “Enough! No papers? Let’s see who the dog chooses.”
“Princess! Sweetie!” The women waved sausages. “Come to mummy!”
“Come on, Tilly,” Henry said quietly.
The sergeant set Matilda down. She bolted to Henry, tail wagging madly.
“Case closed,” the sergeant wheezed.
“She’s *ours*!” they screeched. “We’ll report you!”
The sergeant turned scarlet. “Either leave now, or I’ll inspect your insurance, first-aid kit, fire extinguisher—count every pill in it. And your filthy car looks stolen. Shall we check?”
The Range Rover vanished.
Henry shook the sergeant’s hand. “Cheers, officer.”
“Don’t mention it. Got one just like her—Gizmo, little menace. Wears a jumper in winter. Loyal though. Handy size.” He nodded. “Drive safe.”
Back in the car, Matilda curled on Henry’s lap, warm as a velvet hot-water bottle. For the first time in years, he felt properly *happy*. The road hummed, the engine purred, Tilly snored.
Then grief hit—he’d have to leave soon. Back to an empty flat. A wild thought flickered: *Turn around. Take the dog. What’s in that flat anyway? A few shirts, some socks.* He sighed, marking the idea, and drove back to Annie’s.
The last week was rainy, but Henry still swam. Matilda joined him. Nights were Annie’s; mornings grew heavier with dread. On his last day, sun blazing, he packed early, left a gift, scrawled his number, and gripped the wheel.
Asphalt replaced gravel. Then—a tiny blur chasing the car. Henry accelerated. Matilda ran faster. He pushed the speedometer up; she faded, vanished.
He braked, hands shaking. Smoked a full cigarette, crushed it, stared down the road. A speck moved toward him. Henry ran—*please, no cars*—like he hadn’t in a decade.
Matilda sprinted, dust caked in her fur, tongue lolling. Her tail wagged weakly; a cough replaced her bark. Henry scooped her up, wiped her clean, cupped water for her to drink. Then he called Annie.
“Your dog’s with me. She chased the car—I’ll bring her back.”
“Keep her,” Annie said. “I only found her ten days before you came. Someone dumped her outside the shop.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
So he kept her.
Six months later, overhearing colleagues gossip, Henry paused.
“Did you hear? The dean remarried—some woman from the coast. Seen her?”
“Yep. Ordinary. His age, two kids, and a dog.”
“At least she didn’t bring chickens. How’d she snare a confirmed bachelor? Wish I knew her trick.”
Henry stepped into view. The women tittered.
“We were just wondering, Professor Wilson—what’s your wife’s secret? Love potion?”
Henry grinned. “Oh, there was a potion. The strongest kind.”
“Would she share the recipe?”
“Afraid not. Impossible to replicate.”
Laughing, he headed home—to Annie, the children, and Matilda.
Elena Andriyash.
