A lot of money went into this castle. I suppose it was intended to be an investment for the future. Whether it was a wise investment is beyond the scope of my story. I don't think the owner understood the environment he was building his castle in. This desert is hot and dry and far away from most of the world.
The owner made the additional mistake of installing a magnificent swimming pool when he built this estate, not realizing that it would require expensive maintenance whether or not it was used. You’d think that would provide even more incentive for me to live here, but it doesn't. I don't spend my time hanging around the pool. For one thing, the thing is filthy. I rinse off under the shower from time to time to get wet and cool off. The owner has contracted with a guy to come once a week to clean it and do whatever else it needs. At least, that was what I understood. I haven't seen anything like that yet.
After about the first month, I spend most of my day nude. It’s just easier that way. I came to this quite naturally. It is hot in the workshop after noon, even with the garage doors open and it occurred to me one day to unbutton my shirt. The first time I did that I looked around fearfully to see if anyone was watching, then laughed at the absurdity of that. There was nobody for miles around in any direction to see me, dressed or not. So day by day I shed my clothes, piece by piece. By the end of the week I just didn't put clothes on when I got up from sleep and haven't thought much of it since then. I wear sandals sometimes when outside to protect my feet from the gravel and the hot concrete.
Almost nobody ever comes through the archway. The mailbox is outside the gate, so the postal person never sees the house. Deliveries usually do not need my attention. The driver lets himself inside, leaves the package by the door, and pushes the doorbell. Then he leaves. I watch this from the workshop, but he doesn't see me. So I am almost never disturbed while nude.
I have to make a quick adjustment to my lifestyle when someone does need to be met. Sometimes I have to sign for something. The first time that happened I ran out the back door of the garage to the main house and put on a housecoat. After that I left a housecoat permanently hanging on a nail just inside the door to the workshop, in case of emergency. That left me with no housecoat inside the main house. I now have a housecoat near every entrance and a spare. This nude business has special requirements I hadn't foreseen.
But most of the time all those preparations are unnecessary. The delivery van arrives at the same time of every day that he comes and poses no threat whatever to my lifestyle. But the housecoat remains on it’s hook next to the door. You never know, I suppose. Anyway, I don’t want word getting around. I have a phobia about anyone knowing anything at all about me and especially about this part of my life. It’s bad enough that everyone in town knows what I eat, because there's only one grocery store in town and some people would say my meal habits are crude. In fact, most people would say my meal habits are crude.
With the need for clothing, the need for hairstyle and makeup follow. I have no earthly use for makeup and my brown hair is growing slowly down my back to my waist. That and my brown body makes my blue eyes all the more startling than they otherwise would be, I suppose, but so what? Nobody looks at them.
Then came the first and only surprise visit from the owner and his family, he learned from that visit that he must give me several days warning if he wanted to have a suitable arrival and a comfortable stay. He complied enthusiastically after the shock of his first visit.
I maintain the house well enough, but I don’t keep it ready for guests, especially demanding guests. My housekeeping doesn't include daily dusting for example, which would be required out here. The sand continuously sifting into the house just has to be seen to be believed. I sweep out my own area every day, but if tried to keep the whole place sand free I wouldn't be making any pots.
So the accepted procedure now is for him to give me two weeks warning before a visit. I will then hire the extra help in the form of a cook and cleaning person from the very expensive agency he recommended to prepare the estate for the visit. They are to help me get the house back up to standard for the grand arrival. They will do most of the cooking, cleaning, and laundry for the duration of the stay.
Upon the owner’s departure the extra help will be let go and the house will return to it’s native state. When the owner isn't in residence I plan to live lightly in my castle using only part of the ground floor and my workshop in the garage. The rest can gather dust and sand. I do water the plants. The palm tree by the swimming pool is recovering, I think.
Living isolated, I never have to explain what I'm doing or why I'm doing it to anybody. I don't have to do anything at any particular time of the day or night. I can live by the sun and the stars. Nobody complains about any of this. That took a little getting used to, believe me. I really should get that cat. It would disapprove, I'm sure.
The only time I have to behave like regular people is when I go to town. I go to town wearing jeans and a shirt one day a week for groceries and whatever else I need and to drop off pots as necessary to the parcel delivery shop. Isolation is relief from human conflict. I guess I'm a hermit. I never thought of it that way, but I guess I am. I don't mind people, I just want time to make pots.
Out here a lot of people live remote from each other. So they aren't thought of as strange if they live alone, although mostly they are in a family group, so not really alone.
The owner very wisely put in satellite internet, so I can shop for everything else online. He knew he wouldn't get anyone to live here without internet and needs it himself continuously when his family visits. I don't even see the bill for this one, and it's probably a good thing.
Many of the townspeople know more or less who I am but not much more than that. They know I live on an estate east of town which is otherwise uninhabited, that I do not own it, and that I make and sell pots. That is about all they know. I am not social, I don’t have friends, and I never come to town except for my shopping needs. I have nothing to say to anyone about my life or anything else beyond what is necessary to purchase and drop off packages. My visits to town are confined to business.
In earlier centuries I would likely have been thought of as a witch for my remote attitude and disinterested social life but no one in this small desert community has thought of that yet.
Things were very quiet for a while after the owner's visit, then one morning, while innocently throwing a skinny neck vase, or trying to at any event, I looked out the garage door at the sound of someone in the driveway opening the gate. Panicked, I leaped into the housecoat and peeked out to see who it was. From the sign on the side of the van it was a guy from the swimming pool maintenance outfit. What a surprise! There actually was one. The owner must have called him. He drove through the gate, carefully closed it behind him, and drove up to the pool.
A very good looking young man in shorts and a muscle tee shirt walked around to the back of the van and opened the doors. Face it, Claire old thing, this guy is a hunk. He probably knows it, too.
I scooted out the back door to the house and put on clothes. Not just clothes, but my authority outfit I wear when we have guests and extra help. Suitably attired, I went to see the hunk.
"Good morning. I'm Claire Yates. I'm the caretaker."
Just like that and nothing more, but I did make eye contact and stick out my hand. After all, he wasn't just a casual drop-in. He had business here, I hoped. I knew we were supposed to have pool maintenance but I hadn't seen it in the months I had been here, the pool looked awful and I wondered what I ought to do about it.
"I'm Larry Winston. I'm here to service your pool. I've never met, I mean I didn't know there was a caretaker. I mean, I knew, sort of, that someone lived here but I never saw anybody. I'm supposed to come every week but, well, with nobody here, I've sort of skipped a week now and then."
"You've skipped a couple of months that I know of. But never mind. There were circumstances, I'm sure. So what do you do?"
"Skim the surface, vacuum the bottom. It gets a lot of sand blown in that settles on the bottom of the pool. Then clean the filters, check the chemicals, check the pump and valves, and like that. Twice a year I drain and refill the pool. It needs that now, I'm sure."
"Who pays you?" I knew who paid him, but I wanted to hear what he said about it.
"We have a maintenance contract with the owner. I don't see the paperwork."
Now for the important question. "Do you have a regular schedule? Can I expect you on Tuesdays for instance?"
"Yeah, Tuesdays I make my route this way. Three pools, this one and two more on the other side of the reservation. I'll get here generally at about 10 AM. Is that all right?"
"Yes, that's good. Will you call if you are coming some other time, or day?" I gave him the owner's business card with Claire Yates, Caretaker and the castle number on the back. "I'll let you get to it then." Then I walked, I hoped purposely, back to the house."
He was there for a good three and a half hours, probably doing more than he had for the past year. He spent a lot of time vacuuming the bottom of the pool while it was draining. He did a lot of other things while the pool was refilling. I have no idea what pool-cleaning is about and watched the whole thing from a window in the dining room. When he was done he walked towards the house. He looked tired.
I met him outside in the shade of the driveway awning.
"I'm sorry it took so long. It takes a while to drain and refill a pool."
"Maybe it won't take so long next week, now that you've caught up a little."
"Yeah, maybe not." He sort of smiled, as though he wasn't sure he ought to. "Please sign this. It shows that I came and what I did." He hesitated. "And I wonder if I can ask a favor. I left the pool filling. It should be done in another couple hours. It's supposed to stop when it gets full. Can you look to see if it really does stop? It would save me a trip back here this evening."
"What do I do if it doesn't?
"Call me, and I'll run by and shut it off."
"OK, I can do that."
"Thanks, saves me an extra hour travel time."
Saves me the necessity to get back into these clothes. "You're welcome."
I signed and handed his clipboard back to him. "So you'll be back next Tuesday."
"Sure thing. About ten." He handed me a business card with a phone number on it.