The story was that Mrs Savage had lived in the old place and after her death it had been left to ruin.
She had been married to Mr Savage, a railway fettler who was killed working on the train line one cold foggy morning.
Mrs Savage lived on in the small house until her death aged 94. There was no family and certainly no will. So her death began the argument as to who owned the house. The Railways argued it was theirs, the local council the same. As is the case in these matters the house was left and neglect moved in.
Living in the town we all knew the story. I watched over the years the house deteriorate more and more. Before it fell to complete ruin I decided to go and have a look inside.
It was a dark and dingy place. A fire box at one end and a bed at the other. I was surprised at what was left of it. Mrs Savage had died and no one it appears bothered to clean the place up. There were still cups and plates, a few pieces of cutlery lay on the floor. Her old ice-box left open and destroyed by time.
As I looked around I thought how could anyone have lived in this house? But it’s all relative isn’t it. What you know is what you know.
For Mrs Savage I’m sure knew it was not the best place in town, but I’m also sure she saw it as a roof over her head.