More from the personal memoirs of Sharples
It was one of those winter evenings that bite at the throat with every breath. The clear night sky lit by a radiant moon sharpened the outlines of the houses on Craydon Street. The street itself was silent, with a haunted stillness that descends as people remain inside next to a roaring fire.
He was no different as he stretched out on the thick pile rug watching the flames dance and play in the grate. He felt his limbs absorbing the warmth. Oh the luxury of the sensation after walking the streets on such a bitter night. He stretched a little more – relishing every moment.
Life on the road was all very well most of the year. In fact, he enjoyed it. He loved meeting people as he made his way from place to place. In the winter there was not so much fun to be had. People did not have the time or inclination to stop and chat for a few minutes.
A few days ago he had been sitting on the front wall of the house at the end of the street when Mrs. Johnson had spotted him. ‘Hello fella!’ she had said. He played the game and shied away, watching her from a distance.
The next day she saw him again. This time he followed her for a few yards then shied away again. Each day he followed her a little bit more then shied away until she stood at the door of this house. She offered him a plate of food and he accepted.
Now just a day or two later Sharples looked around him as he stretched in front of the fire, his tongue kissing the last remains of cream from his lips. Yes, he had done very well to find Mrs. Johnson.
© JG Farmer 2014