Some things just don’t make sense, no matter how much life experience you’ve got. Why do some people grow wiser with age while others just grow bolder? Why does kindness sometimes invite not gratitude, but exploitation? This isn’t some tall tale—it’s a bitter truth. The story of my neighbour, Margaret Wilkins. A woman of advanced years, with a heart of gold and, as it turned out, a tragically trusting soul.
She lives alone in a cosy little cottage on the outskirts of York. The house isn’t new, but it’s well-kept and homely. Next to it stands a tidy two-bed annexe she used to rent out. Before the pandemic, she had regular tenants—students, tradesmen, folks just looking for a temporary roof over their heads. But lately, it’s been empty more often than not, with the occasional short-term lodger passing through.
One day, she rang me up, sounding positively chirpy:
“Emily, don’t bother sending anyone my way—I’ve found tenants! A lovely young couple, very polite, just moved up from the Midlands. Said they’re looking for work, bit strapped for cash at the moment, but promised they’d pay up as soon as they got settled.”
I raised an eyebrow. Something about this didn’t sit right, but I didn’t want to meddle. Shrugged it off and let it be. A week later, though, Margaret called again—this time in tears.
As it turned out, a neighbour down the lane had “recommended” this pair—oh, such nice young people, just needing a place to stay. They showed up with little backpacks, claiming their brother would bring the rest of their things from the village. No food, no bedding, no dishes—not even a teacup. Margaret took pity. She let them in. Gave them everything they needed: blankets, plates, pots, even dug out three tins of baked beans from her cupboard—“just to tide them over.”
They swore up and down that the brother would arrive in a week with their belongings and money, and that they’d both nearly landed jobs—her at a corner shop, him on a building site. It all sounded plausible. A bit too plausible.
A couple of days later, the “wife” proudly announced she’d started training at the shop, that all was well, and she’d get her first wage packet soon. The “husband” had popped off to the village to fetch their things from his brother.
A week passed. No husband. No wife. Their phones went straight to voicemail. At first, Margaret fretted, ringing every day, worrying—what if something awful had happened? But by day three, the ugly truth dawned: she’d been had. Completely taken for a ride.
That pair had lived in her annexe for a week, eaten her food, used her things, warmed themselves with her electricity—and vanished. It was a well-rehearsed con. They’d sought out a lonely pensioner, played on her sympathy, and walked away with a free week’s stay and more.
What stung Margaret most wasn’t the lost groceries or the missing blankets. It was her trust. That at 73, she still hadn’t learned to spot sincerity from a scam. They’d hit her where it hurt—her faith in people. She’d truly believed she was helping, doing a good turn. And what did she get in return? Silence. And empty pots.
So tell me this: is it always the “greedy landlords” itching to fleece their tenants? Or is there another side—people who walk in with lies ready, who deliberately seek out the elderly, the lonely, the soft-hearted, and exploit them without a second thought?
Margaret’s story is a reminder to us all. A reminder that kindness shouldn’t be blind. That trust isn’t the same as gullibility. And that even the kindest hearts must sometimes say “no”—especially to those who turn up empty-handed but full of promises.
