Some would say move on, but how can I, for no one has laid hands on me for a year. There was a boy who came every day. He loved the walled garden, he explored every nook and cranny. Marvelled at the steam coming from a huge mound of grass clippings. Wondered at the deserted potting shed, at the broken greenhouse, at the smashed plant pots. He searched for understanding but found none. He loved the bounty that came from my soul, from Walnuts to Cider apples. I had so many varieties of apples for him to taste. In good seasons there were pears and grapes, not to mention all the soft fruits, he especially loved the gooseberries. He learnt to till my soil, and to sow seeds, and was fascinated by the intricate plants that were his reward. I watched as he grew in stature. I loved him and and had high hopes for our future, but the lady fate would decree otherwise. We had a great five years, no one can steal those memories. But they did steal our future. Time never stands still. Fletcher’s House is to be a museum, the boy must leave.
Footnote. This is a clip from my memoirs, I resided at Fletcher’s House Woodstock, in Oxfordshire for just over five years. At that time it was the fire station headquarters for the county. Fletcher’s House was a fabulous place to grow up in.