Post 1435. Saturday January 28
The Sunday Whirl
I stood on the stony track outside Hawthorn Cottage. Unwise it clearly was, but I needed to see inside. Then and there.
The eaves did little to protect me from the drizzle as I edged my way along the moss covered wall, my feet snagging on overgrown thorny plants. Shabby curtains hung forlornly across the filthy windows so the only way for me to peer inside was to be through a skylight. I stumbled my way to a crooked coal bunker which creaked, threatening to collapse as I climbed upon it. As I heaved myself onto the sloping roof, there was a clatter as several tiles shattered on the paved area beneath. Had I been heard? I held my breath. No. Clambering on hands and knees, I reached the skylight. Years of tobacco smoke had stained the glass a dirty brown, so using a tile I smashed a hole in its centre.
Many years ago, a brutal murder took place at Hawthorn Cottage. An elderly lady was slain by an opportunist thief who wasn’t expecting her to put up a fight. No-one attended her funeral. Was she not someone's mother? Grandmother? But then I never knew my Grandmother. I've never questioned it; it was a taboo subject in our house.
I peered through the broken glass. There was furniture scattered everywhere. Upturned chairs and toppled tables. There on the floor, lay a frame, its glass shattered. I could just make out the faded photograph within. It was a picture of me.
This week's words at The Sunday Whirl are eaves, plants, sky, hole, crooked, world, wise, tobacco. grandmother, first and there.