July 31st, 2023
William Thornton had always been a confirmed bachelor. He lived his quiet life without much fuss, never burdened by loneliness. He worked like a carthorse, putting his all into his job—perfection was his standard in everything. Women had come and gone, but none had ever measured up to his impossible ideal.
That summer, towards the end of July, worn out from months of grinding labour, William decided to escape the city. He wanted solitude, somewhere far from the tourist traps. A quick search online led him to a listing—a room in a countryside cottage near the coast. The owner, a woman named Eleanor Whitmore, lived there with her two children. Twenty minutes’ walk to the sea, home-cooked meals in exchange for groceries, and no nosy neighbours. It sounded perfect.
The journey was uneventful. The satnav guided him without fail, and the cottage, though old, was tidy. His room was cosy, Eleanor polite but not intrusive. A little Yorkshire terrier scurried about the garden while the children—a boy and girl, no older than ten—helped with chores. Eleanor asked what he’d like for supper, offered him fresh strawberries with a warm smile, and left him to himself.
William spent his days at the shore—swimming, climbing the cliffs, taking photos, and sending messages to an old friend. Occasionally, he wondered how a woman of fifty had such young children. One evening, over a glass of homemade elderflower wine, he asked.
“Eleanor, are they your grandchildren?”
“No,” she replied. “They’re mine. Late arrivals. Life didn’t hand me a marriage, so I decided on children instead. And I’m not so old—only forty-eight.”
As they spoke, William studied her—soft-spoken, gentle, with a quiet grace. He liked her name, too. Eleanor. It reminded him of his mother. She smelled of strawberries and fresh cream. The nights were cool, the sky full of stars, and neither of them played games. By day, they were civil; by night, he slipped quietly into her room, then crept back before the children woke.
The terrier—Matilda—never barked at him. Clever little thing, watchful but economical, eating only a spoonful of food yet guarding the house like a mastiff. She began following him to the shore, even swimming beside him before darting home ahead of him. Until one day, she didn’t.
William searched, called her name, plastered the village with flyers. An elderly neighbour suggested travellers might’ve taken her—those renting a caravan on the far side of the village. William drove straight there, but they’d already left, apparently with a small dog in tow. He gave chase, overtaking them eighty miles down the A-road.
Two young women stepped out of their SUV, sharp-tongued and defiant.
“Move your car, granddad, or we’ll call the police!”
“Go ahead,” William said. “But first, give me the dog.”
“Not yours,” sneered the taller one. “She was stray—we rescued her.”
William clenched his jaw. “She has a family. Let her go.”
“Piss off!” the other shrieked, raising her fists.
Then a traffic officer arrived—burly, sweaty, rubbing his temples at the screeching. He lifted Matilda.
“Quiet, the lot of you. Whoever she goes to, keeps her.”
The women cooed, waving sausages. “Princess! Sweetie! Come to mummy!”
William merely said, “Let’s go home, Matty.”
The officer set her down. Matilda bolted to William, tail wagging furiously.
“Case closed,” the officer grunted.
The women protested, threatening complaints, but the officer cut them off.
“Either drive off now, or I’ll inspect your insurance, tyres, and count every pill in your first-aid kit. And let’s talk about that muddy licence plate…”
They fled.
Back in the car, Matilda curled on his lap, warm and velvety. For the first time in years, William felt content. Then came the ache—soon, he’d return to his empty flat. A mad thought flickered: turn around. Take Matilda. What did he have back in London? A few shirts, some books, nothing binding him.
The remaining week was rainy, but William swam anyway. Matilda followed. Nights were spent with Eleanor; mornings grew heavier with reluctance.
On his last day, the sun shone. He packed, gave Eleanor his number, and drove off. As the cottage shrank in the mirror, a small shape dashed after him. He accelerated—Matilda kept pace. His chest tightened. Faster. She fell behind, vanished.
William stopped. Hands shaking, he lit a cigarette. Then—a speck on the road. He ran, praying no car would come. Matilda barrelled towards him, dust-covered, wheezing. He scooped her up, wiped her clean, and called Eleanor.
“She followed me. I’ll bring her back.”
“You can keep her,” Eleanor said. “I found her dumped outside a shop days before you arrived.”
Six months later, at the university, William overheard colleagues gossiping.
“Guess who the dean married? Some countrywoman—two kids and a dog!”
“And what magic did she use to snare an old bachelor like him?”
William stepped into view. The women tittered.
“Professor Thornton! Do share her secret—was it a love potion?”
William chuckled. “The strongest kind, ladies. Irreplaceable.”
He walked home—to Eleanor, the children, and Matilda.
Some things, once found, are worth keeping.
—William ThorntonHe closed the diary, smiling, as Matilda curled at his feet and the scent of Eleanor’s baking filled the house.
