The Girl in the Picture

My heels clicked on the pavement as I followed the line of the high stone wall. I was looking for the rusty locked gate that I remembered from childhood, the gate I used to believe hid a house of secrets.

When I reached it, I stared in surprise. The iron bars, with their pattern of metal flowers, had once been battered, but now they shone with black paint. And a smart wooden sign saying ‘Farthington House’ had replaced the old rotten one. Things had certainly changed.

Across the road the church clock began to strike. Ten o’clock, the time of my appointment. A quick check of my phone in case of last-minute messages and I was ready.

The gate opened easily at my touch, and I did what I’d always longed to do and stepped inside. The day was sunny, but in here it was chilly. High, clipped hedges on either side cast the garden in shadow. Coils of early autumn mist rose from a dewy lawn coated with fallen leaves.