As I strolled up the long driveway of my parents’ home, I caught sight of their neighbour, Stanislaw Johnson, then 73, pottering about in his front garden. ‘Hi there,’ I called. ‘Alright,’ he grunted back.
My daughter Mackenzie, then eight, and I had moved in with my mum and dad, Patricia, 74, and Peter, 70, in Lytham, Blackpool, after Mum was diagnosed with chronic pancreatitis.
It meant we saw quite a bit of Stanislaw as we came and went.
‘That’s it, good girl, Caroline,’ he said in a soft voice as I walked past. ‘Lovely girl.’
His comments seemed a bit odd, but I just put him down as eccentric. ‘I’m sure he’s harmless,’ Mum reassured me. They’d known him for years and just thought he was an odd bod.…
