A chill ran through me as I looked again at the brooding picture of Frank Barley. I quickly turned my attention to the other recently added photographs.

One of the editor’s new images made me sit up and take notice. A street scene of the main road from May 1964, but it was in colour! The roads were empty of cars, the trees in blossom; only the occasional pedestrian and a girl on horseback. And there was our very own Wisteria Cottage. I was excited to see a couple standing side by side just inside the gate – presumably Mr and Mrs Burrows, the former owners. It was interesting to think that these people had once lived in our home, raised their family within our walls. I suddenly remembered the magnifying glasses that Jack used for ophthalmic examinations. His veterinary bag was beside the armchair, so I rooted through to look for them. I took the magazine over to the lamp, to see if I could make out the couple’s features more clearly. Then I noticed something else. In the upstairs window of Rose Cottage, an unsmiling face, framed by short dark hair, was staring down at the street below.

But it was neither Mrs Barley, nor Frank.

It was the face of a young boy.

*

The following morning was exceptionally breezy. Jack brought me a cup of tea in bed before leaving for work, but I was still miffed with him and disinclined for conversation. And I daren’t tell him that I had broken into our neighbour’s house on a wild goose chase. Reflecting on my actions in the cold light of day, they seemed utterly deranged. If I was beginning to doubt my own sanity, God knows what anyone else would have thought. At least no one had seen me. I decided it was best kept to myself, and pushed it to the back of my mind.

‘We’ll have to agree to differ on this one, I’m afraid,’ he said gently, before planting a kiss on my head. ‘Put your feet up and have a rest today. You’re looking very tired, you know.’

No wonder. Even after going back to bed eventually, I’d lain awake half the night thinking about the insane thing I’d just done, the conversation with Jack and then the photograph I had seen. The frequent need to get up for the loo, plus the incessant noise of the wind rattling and wailing through the rafters, hadn’t helped either. My head swam with it all.