Myrtle was an old lady when I met her. We lived in the seaside village of Looe in Cornwall and she was our next door neighhbour, in the days when having a thin wall between you and a neighbour didn’t mean you heard their music blaring through your house at all hours. She actually told my mother she liked her music because it made her feel more alive.
She moved slowly as she was very overweight and I recall she had a certain smell about her, which was on all the furniture. The houses were damp as it was a fishing village with a huge tidal river flowing through its heart, but I think the smell was from mustiness and moth balls. Quite probably she and Reginald couldn’t smell much anyway. Our houses connect at the back with a door that lead into her kitchen from ours. They built houses once to be more communal.
She was always a kind lady who walked with difficulty and lied about her age. We lived next door to her for two years and I went back six years later to visit. Reg had died and she was on her own. She had never had any children but was very proud of her fishing heritage and the men in her family who had helped to build the village and its famed pier.
She is buried in the church at the top of the hill and one day I should pay my respects to a gentle Cornish woman who liked the company of a five year old.