At the end of the street, near the pasture land, is a small structure, almost hidden by vegetation. So hidden, that it was some three months after I moved into the street that I saw it.
“Who lives there?” I asked of my landlady.
“Oh, that’s old Joyce – she’s as mad as a hatter!”
“Who takes care of her?”
“I think she takes care of herself. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her for ages.”
The next day, as I set off on my daily walk, my feet unbidden set off towards the hidden house. As I came close, I heard singing – a joyous, uplifting sound, the notes lilting on the early morning rays.
The house whispered into view. The windows sparkled in the burgeoning sunlight. I could see a cat indolently sunning itself in the open doorway. I was drawn to the wooden gate, festooned on either side with creepers of old fashioned dog roses.
The light emanating from the house beckoned, the singing mesmerised.
I stood, uncertain, my hand hovering near the latch on the gate. I wanted to make contact. I wanted to see the owner of the voice, and I oh so desperately wanted to peek inside the little house that nestled gemlike in its Edenic garden.
As if sensing my presence, the singing stopped. A shadow shuffled across the doorway, and the tiniest figure materialised out of the glistening dust motes. Bright eyes pierced towards me.
I smiled.
The eyes twinkled, a finger beckoned.
I opened the gate.
