~ Sadly, you cannot choose your neighbours ~: Ken Gibbs

When UNICEF finally decided to dispense with my services as a Programme Officer, we found ourselves in the unusual position of owning two properties in the UK. The first was our primary residence – a very modest house on a hill in Kent – and the second had been willed to my wife – which was on the north coast of Cornwall. This latter ‘property’ had lain abandoned for some time because the previous owner had suffered a stroke and remained in care for eight years before she died, naturally leaving the house unoccupied and uncared for, all the while. We had inherited an almost wreck in a coastal village but in a lovely position overlooking a tidal estuary.

Owning two properties has the singular disadvantage that one has to pay two lots of Council (local) tax so we decided early on to sell the Kent property in favour of a slightly less arctic location – marginally warmed by the Gulf Stream – where the pace of life was supposed to be rather more peaceful. As soon as the decision was made, I left to ensure an income stream while we had quite a few ‘outgoings’, with Mary, my wife, being responsible for making the house habitable. For someone not trained in the builders’ arts, she managed extraordinarily well. The central heating which had to be installed, was functional by the time I returned from abroad. At least I had shown administration skill in choosing Mary as my agent in such matters.

Naturally, we inherited a whole set of new acquaintances in the area who were, for the most part, interesting and welcoming. One of those who lived two doors down from where we are, was an older spinster who lived alone with her pet rabbit. She rejoiced in the name of June Hodgkinson-Smith. She had travelled widely during her earlier life, so we had many experiences in common. Then came the inevitable, she died, but I can’t recall what happened to the rabbit. There were so many wild rabbits on our own place, that we weren’t interested in any additional wild or tame rabbits.

A couple who live in Bristol were the beneficiaries of June’s will. Unlike June, they were not sociable and spent much of their time trying to upset the locals – in which art form, they were pretty successful.

One of the conditions of their inheritance was that she - June that is - was to be buried in the garden. In this part of the world, you require permission of the local County Hall to do this and you are obliged to put the fact on to the title deeds for future generations. Presumably that is to allow whoever gets to possess the property will know who it is that haunts the place. Also, they were obliged to inform near neighbours that this was going to happen (ie a local burial). Happily, when we were informed, we knew that we lived at a higher elevation than the plot where June was to be buried, but we wondered about those immediately below because my engineering background inclined me to believe that fluids tend to flow downhill. The neighbours on the downhill side of where June was to be buried, rejoiced in the name of Windeler.

~ June ~

The summer season looms with the bounty it will bring

The plants with pretty berries will soon themselves festoon,

But in the Wind’ler garden, they will always ask themselves

Whether June is full of berries or the berries, full of June.

*****