The House Near Fallowfield

								
A big house on the corner. An elaborate garden, full of secret paths and artificial ponds. That is what she always remembered. And behind the house, fields and a hill leading down to the river. She used to play there with her friends. After the war and in the early fifties. And now it was empty. And it belonged to her.
  She had never expected to be so alone. Twenty-four years old, a widow after only three years of marriage and now this. She was still living in the rented house she had shared with her husband in Des Moines when she received the call with the news of the car accident. Dead on impact. They were almost sixty and she had been counting on her parents for another ten years at least. Now she had nobody, only the house and a generous pension from her husband's insurance company. 
  It was December, 1964 and she was in the north of England. What a contrast with Iowa, now full of snow and ice. Green grass. Roses in the front garden. No heating in the house though. She always remembered that. She went in and turned on the little electric fire in her mother's lounge.
  The house was just as it had been left. She went into the kitchen, made some tea, took some biscuits and sat again in the freezing living room in front of the little heater.
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