This week’s photo prompt is provided by wildverbs. Thank you wildverbs!
Everyone on the little cul-de-sac of sooty terraced houses said what a good neighbour Beryl was.
When Mary at number 5 was laid up with a broken hip, it was Beryl who fed her budgie, put the ancient Hoover through its paces. And when Fred and Sylvie’s son died in a car crash, it was Beryl who organised the wake, made the beef paste sandwiches, kept the mourners topped up with tea and sweet sherry.
On the day she passed away there were many tears shed. By the next day – when her diaries were found – there were no more tears.
There was a diary entry about the baby Mary had given up for adoption when she was fourteen, a sad little snapshot of the golden haired baby boy – the only picture Mary had of him.
There were newspaper clippings of Fred and Mary’s son taped on one page, about the trouble he’d got into in Exeter with that young typist and the reason he drank.
Only the vicar attended Beryl’s funeral.
Yes, I’ve gone a little left field. I struggled to begin with but once the title phrase blipped into my head, the rest came easily.