They were the sort of houses that looked well. Built around the 1850s the old weavers cottages had managed to survive all that growing old bring to cottages of this age. Sure, one or two may have slightly slipped, had the odd paint job, but at least they had hung on to their beautiful sash windows, despite the reoccurring attacks from plastic men. The upvc salespeople who would sell their souls for a commission.

These, the sort of houses that would sell well; there is a security, solidness and reassurance to their faces, this row of six. Never looking hard though, softened with colourful-planted hanging baskets, festooned window boxes and geranium filled pots with the greenness leaves and landing platforms for basking butterflies. However, one remained bleak to all this. A house that seemed forgotten and still in the troughs of a winters look. This was the house of Mr Long, not a popular neighbour to Mildred or Madge.

Between Mildred’s and Madge’s house was Mr Hustwick’s house. A private old soul, that always gave a friendly wave to Mildred as she passed his front window. She would call out, in that neighbourly way; to see if there was anything she could get for him. Mr Hustwick would indicate he was okay, he was fine, and he did not need anything. Mildred would look towards Mr Long’s house; she did not like that fact that he was somehow guardian to Mr Hustwick. She was convinced that Mr Long had poisoned her dahlias. She had voiced her concerns many a time to her husband who tucked away behind his newspaper replied with the same line. Best leave alone Mildred.

On Mildred’s return and walking passed Mr Long’s house, Mildred, suddenly startled, at a bucket of dirty water hurled ahead of her missing by a moment. She jumped back and managed to choose her words just before the door slammed shut. She thought better of it and returned to tell of what had happened to her husband who remained hidden behind the broadsheet newspaper.

The knock on her front door told Mildred of a strangers urgency. She opened it to reveal a small group of people asking if she had a key for next door, Mr Hustwick’s house. Mildred was concerned and felt not all was well. Mr Long kept a key, at the end of the row, she said, her concerns not answered.

By now Mildred, Madge and their husbands gathered outside as a police officer with a key sought to enter Mr Hustwick’s house. Mildred could not hear the commotion; she was looking at Mr Hustwick waving as he always did from the window to indicate all was well.

The police officers voice suddenly drew Mildred's attention. The police officer now fighting back an urge to wretch, Mr Hustwick, he must have been dead for weeks he said...

I leave you all with a quote attributed to Lord Byron.

One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other...