TALES FROM PANDORA 1 (close window to return)

Meredith thought it was more like a pig sty than a living space. But the rent he was asking was just about what she could afford for one month. It should give her the time to find work locally before her small savings of money ran out. She looked at the large frame of Mister Harold Mustard, and his smiling bloated face. She thought he had probably never done a stroke of work in his life. He was like so many in the south now, lazy sons of rich land owners that had passed away and left their property to the eldest son. He probably employed locals for a pittance and spent his time in the famed ale houses here.

“We used to store cattle downstairs ready for transport to the slaughter house in the centre of Wantage. When the cheaper beef started arriving from the Americas, my father could not compete and turned the business over to producing crops. This hasn’t been used for many years,” he said.

“It doesn’t have any furniture or wash room, or even a bed,” she said.

“The roof is solid and weatherproof,” he told her, pointing up at it. “If you take it, I’ll have some of my men bring over a bed, a rug, washing bowl, a large jug, and a chamber pot, along with other things from one of the disused cottages on the farm. We have stuff, quite old, stored there from the Manor House. The door to outside has a solid lock with a well made key. As a young lady, I think security is an essential for you here. You are at the edge of the town, so you should be far enough away from the nightly drunken louts who will be dizzily finding their way home.”

“When can you get your men to bring those things over?” she asked him.