MRS HUNT'S GUEST HOUSE – By Susan A Eames
Mine was one of the few guest houses that survived the pandemic. In the aftermath, I positively flourished in this new, altered, world.
The old school style of guests were gone. No more foreigners on cultural visits to experience an English Seaside Town. In this new world, foreign travel was now anathema. And no more pensioners! In this new world, the elderly had been erased.
I embraced the new breed of survivors by welcoming them and tolerating their little foibles.
'Live and let live' became my mantra. After all, I felt lucky to be alive.
Before long, I almost forgot the old days and the new norm became, well, normal.
A deep growl had woken me: a dissonance that sort of stretched until it elongated into a full blown howl. I blinked. Why was the sound reverberating inside the house?
At breakfast no one mentioned the nocturnal howling.
Mr Canid pick, pick, picked at his food, as per usual.
'Eggs aren't to your liking, Mr C?' I said.
'No, they're delicious.'
But he didn't finish them, as per usual.
Jodie changed her order. 'Just bacon and sausage please, Mrs Hunt.'
'No eggs? No toast?' I said.
'No, thanks,' she said.
The howling woke me again, filling the empty spaces in the house. I investigated. It took but a moment to establish the howls were coming from Jodie's room. My mantra might be, 'live and let live', but this really wouldn't do.
After breakfast I took her aside. 'I can't have you disturbing the other guests.'
Jodie bared her teeth.
That night I went to close the curtains against the bothersome glare of the full moon. Jodie and Mr Canid were loping across the lawn. They stopped and stared straight at me.
When I joined them they nodded in satisfaction and we threw back our heads to howl in the moonlight.
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