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76
The Little
House In The
Valley
Niamh McCarthy
When one looked down from the hills and into the valley, the only
sign of life was the small spiral of smoke coming from the chimney of
a small cottage. If one stared closely, they could make out a narrow
stream snaking alongside a grassy trail leading to the front of the
dilapidated gate of the property. The house was once pure white;
however, over the years the crisp white had faded to grey. Rogue vines
and moss clung to the spouting of the roof and the wooden façade
had begun to rot away in several places. The cottage was enclosed by
majestic oak trees, as if to keep others out, and the only facet not in
disrepair was the vivid rose bushes which brushed the front fenceline.
With no other properties in the valley, the house was surrounded for
miles with fields upon fields of untamed grass. No one from the
nearest town had ever seen who lived there.
Mrs Russell, who was notorisouly known as the town’s gossip,
would gush at anyone and everyone she could about who resided in
the house in the valley. ‘It’s an elderly spinster who lives there,’ she
would start with, ‘I saw her once while I was looking down into the
valley. She was a hunchback with a hideous tattered hat and ragged
clothes. Honestly Mrs Hughes and Miss Johnson, it’s true! I don’t lie
about these things. If you don’t believe me, you should go take a closer
look yourself. But I’d be careful if I were you. Apparently she’s gone
insane due to living there by herself.’ Of course no one ever did look.
Mrs Russell was quite wrong. The elderly woman of whom Mrs
Russell had spoken was an elderly man. He did not wear ragged
clothes; his clothes were in fact neat and clean. And the man was not
insane, just withdrawn and a recluse. However, of one fact Mrs
Russell was somewhat accurate. Although he was an old man, he
wore an aged, tattered straw hat perched upon his head at all times
during the day. It was once a grand, wide brimmed straw hat adorned
with elaborate faux roses. Now, the edges of the rim had worn away
and strands of straw poked out at odd angles. The once vibrant roses
had faded to a speckled grey and were on the verge of falling apart.
The old man who lived there was called Henry. The townspeople
speculated as to how he could live being so isolated. But Henry had
his treasured Collie, Atticus. And Yvonne. She was always there
whenever he needed company.Hewould often talk to her throughout
the day; she usually sat above the fireplace unless it was dinner or
lunch. Then he would set the table for her and put her opposite him
so that he could see her smile locked in place in the old black and
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