Crisp, my aged companion, decided after a morning of rain that now the sun had come out there was a laneway she wanted to explore that led to an old ford.
We found the ford set in a shady grove and having packed our afternoon tea we settled down on the grass to enjoy both the location and our tea.
Then Crisp saw the cross leaning up against the tree. Scratched into it was Eunice Smith, murdered on this spot, June 2 1937.
“I wonder who remembers her?” asked Crisp. She had a thing for lost souls and Eunice Smith was going to be one of those.
“She was probably going home minding her own business when her life ended. Someone loved her enough to put up the cross,” she said reflectively.
Later I found her head down in the local archives trying to find out who Eunice Smith was.