The Old Farm

Marian walked me around the muddy grounds of her last employment, a farmhouse, mouldy with age and deep in mourning for its own demise. The person who had loved it the most had died some time past. There was little optimism left for bricks and mortar.

The old man had gone to his grave leaving Marian, his cleaner, to respect his memory by wiping away mould from the woodwork and damp walls once a week. She, now, was departing her duties, succumbing also to the effects of the damp air.

The son, who lived away, was rarely seen locally. He was left with little money or desire to restore the family home to its former glory. It was not for him to put pigs back in the stys and apples back in the orchard. Those memories from his childhood were best stored away in the photo albums.

The persistent subterranean streams will have their way with this memorial to village life, seeping through home and heritage, without so much as an eye being batted from this cricketing community of Hawk Green.

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