SHORT STORIES
1001 - 5000 words
THE 9TH STORY
Reading Time: 14 mins
We were standing on the ground and belittled by the grand structure in front of us. Necks craned and looking skywards the rows upon rows of windows were uncountable. After about the eighth row your eye loses its place. In the daytime, each window is a little black square hinting at a life. But life doesn’t fit neatly behind little black squares, boxes neatly designed and equidistant. Life spills out of those boxes onto balconies and communal corridors. These stories cannot be contained. Each window is framed with a flash of colour and in the evening when the light shines out from inside the building you are given more clues to the lives being lived inside. There’s a kitchen (you can tell by the yellow), there’s a bedroom (you can tell by the purple) there’s a living room (you can tell by the cream), that’s a kids room (you can tell by Buzz Lightyear). Although we may look at the same windows and see the same clues, we may not read the same story. For example, I might look up at the Buzz Lightyear window and imagine a story about a little boy named Jack who desperately wanted to be a super hero. I imagined that on Christmas Eve Jack felt all of the parcels beneath his tree and was disappointed to presume he was getting another year of nothing more than clothes – practical ones. But I imagine a happy ending and so to his delight, on Christmas morning Jack actually opened up this pair of Buzz Lightyear curtains. And they made him so happy that he thought he might actually die of happiness. However, you might look up at that very same window and imagine a different story about Jack. Maybe his Mummy is a prostitute and his Daddy is a thief. Mummy and Daddy both smoke crack and last Christmas Jack’s Daddy went out robbing and stole all of their Christmas presents from under someone else’s tree. Both Mummy and Daddy laugh hard when Jack opens up a pair of Buzz Lightyear curtains because this Jack is fifteen and he only cares about heroin. Who knows the real story behind those Buzz Lightyear curtains?
I’ve realised I’m squinting. I’m trying to imagine my life behind one of those black squares and it just doesn’t fit. I keep telling myself it’s just a street; a street that has been turned on its end. Not so different from the street in the rural town where we live now. I’m thinking about the WELCOME mat which sits outside on our front step which is weather beaten and beginning to bare. I could get us a new one, and maybe keep it nice. In this street after all, the one on it's end our WELCOME mat would always be indoors. I'm ignoring the warning sounds of this city centre location. Instead I am being serenaded by the traffic and the chatter.
We decided we would take the stairs. Even though the flat was nine floors up someone, somewhere had told me that the best test of a skyscraper is the cleanliness of the stairs. I had trusted them but we were excited about viewing a flat together and taking a step into our future, together. We were laughing and joking and seeing the positives, looking for the positives. The steep stairwell was a free alternative to a gym membership and so we rushed each other on, skipping over beer cans and ignoring the smell. Life felt like a game.
“We can always say no, right?”
“Right.”
“Yeah. Have you imagined being this central though?”
“Yeah. Have you?”
“Yeah.”
Though the territory was at that point unknown, this part of the story was already finished. We had both already skipped to the end and the decision to move into this flat, within this skyscraper had already been made. Perhaps we should have just taken our suitcases. There was going to be a lot of trips up and down those stairs.
The monotony of counting those steps was broken with the language of the building that we were not yet trained to decipher. The song of the tower block of the slamming of the rubbish chute with another dirty nappy and the ding of the lift delivering takeaway food and servicemen. The stairwell was disorientating. The interruptions of a black number painted on the wall not giving us a true indication of just how far we had strayed from solid ground.
3
2
1
However as we gained height we were reassured that we seemed to be going in the right direction. The numbers always rose, at times even comically. Someone had turned the “4” into an anecdote about someone else’s circumcision. We reached floor 666 but unfortunately at the time I still believed heaven was up and hell was down.
When we finally saw "9" in all of its glory, we laughed. We had made it, the test was passed and we agreed to take the lift back down. We caught our breath on the pongy landing and we found our door. Well, not our door yet we dutifully reminded each other. We smiled and we knocked. Together.
On our first look inside the flat amazingly we saw the same things that weren’t actually there. The first thing we saw was breakfast in bed and lazy Sunday mornings. I could even see our new bed, even though it hadn’t yet been chosen. I could taste the chocolates I was going to leave on the pillow in the guest bedroom. Okay, so he didn’t see the guest bedroom, he saw a games room. But I had convinced myself the room was big enough to be both. Probably even big enough to be a guest bedroom, games room and office/workshop. Where there stood piles of unwashed clothes I saw my bookcase and where there was an old couch we saw our couch with our cats peacefully napping in the sunlight. The truth is, we were blinded by that sunlight. The living room opened onto a small balcony and from there we let the sun pick out boats far into the North Sea. The view was spectacular. Those extra flights of stairs may save us money on the gym and they also took us close enough to the sun so that our future looked bronze. Not bronze in a third place kind of way but in a tanned and toned sort of way. Following the coast line, Aberdeen's famous landmarks such as the Ferris wheel at Codonas and the harbour sparkled out to us. It was like being on holiday. We had already stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower and the Rockefeller. This balcony was our eight foot by three foot of holiday, anytime we wanted it. The sprawling landscape of granite glittered below us, broken up by Duthie Park and the river Dee leading the eye out to a patchwork quilt of the green fields outside the city in Aberdeenshire. That view convinced us why we were moving to that flat. We were blinded by our imagined future and it just didn’t occur to us that the sun doesn’t always shine.
* * *
Sirens, slamming doors and dogs barking. I’m petrified. I know my doors are locked but I am inclined to tiptoe and whisper in case someone realises I’m in. I inch towards the front door and holding my breath I take a peek out of the peep hole. I should really go and watch the telly and cross my fingers that it will drown out the noise. I pause and take a deep breath. I am only confronted with more sirens, slamming doors and dogs barking. There is a whole police force waiting to raid someone’s flat. Standard comedy police duo - a funny man and fool. One officer tells the other that they are waiting for The Negotiator. I’m intrigued, it all sounds so Hollywood. The funny man then says that The Negotiator’s a dick but he wouldn’t mind negotiating The Negotiator’s wife. My lips curve as the idiot repeats the joke failing to understand. It is all so obvious… Cue The Negotiator’s entrance and stern look past his unwilling audience. His presence demands attention. Low tones reveal that someone has been stabbed on the stairwell. The situation is critical and in the next two hours they could be looking at a murder enquiry. I wonder if this is going to be a cliff-hanger. A montage of failed entry attempts suggests there is a problem gaining access to the flat where the accused is hiding. Cut to the arrival of more police vans, more dogs, more equipment and more noise. It is all so loud and I wish I could turn down the volume but I know that I lost the control. Cut back to The Negotiator who has plans of the building, now laid out in the corridor. Two German Shepherds obediently sitting beside him. He mutters something about escape routes, fire exits. He gets to his feet and then he breaks the fourth wall. He’s looking straight at me, only I didn’t turn on the TV and we both know he can’t see through the peep hole. He can’t see the tears which are running down my face and my hands which won’t stop trembling but I think he hears my sobs because his eyes turn kind and I find myself opening the door. The Negotiator is telling me to wait in the living room because there is a dangerous man next door. It is his job to make the area safe again. He asks me if his officers can use the fire escape through my bedroom to block a potential escape route which the dangerous man might use. I’m nodding and wrapping a blanket round my shoulders. I tell him I’m going on holiday.
* * *
I went looking for the glitter but I didn’t find any. Searching for sunlight in the starry sky. You found me curled up on the balcony, sleeping peacefully above the theatre of horrors. You missed the warm up act, a chorus of glass bottles shattering on concrete. People aimed those bottles at those innocent police dogs and I can’t understand why, but I also can’t understand driving a kitchen knife into someone’s abdomen. I will tighten the blanket that is wrapped around my shoulders before I tell you what has happened. But before I tell you my story, the main act is dragged on stage and we hear approving applause from beneath and above us. We are caged in by other people’s praise. The balconies are alive with whooping and cheering and the leading man takes his final bow into the back of a police van. I point out The Negotiator as I begin to tell you my story. We are now going to go back indoors, into the box within a box, where I can make us feel safe again. Before I can shut everyone else out, a neighbour yells across the balcony that it was Jack who was stabbed in the stairwell. Jack? I don’t think knew him. Then, I remember. Jack! The old guy with a limp, who looked after his grandson after school. That kid was so cute, a little blondie who was mad about Toy Story. My shoulders tense and my eyes sting with a memory. The time Jack and his grandson helped me carry some shopping up the stairs.
The worst thing about living in a sky scraper is carrying twenty litres of cat litter and forty-six pounds worth of groceries up those smelly stairs. It is enough to make the strongest of men’s eyes sting. And when you finally get to unpacking the shopping ordeal you remember all the things you have forgotten. I'm sure there is an aisle in the supermarket which contains all of the things you forgot and all of the things that you wished you could buy, but were too heavy or too awkward to get back home. I love – absolutely love – a baked potato which is crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, a knob of butter secretly melting away under lashings of baked beans and topped with cracked black pepper. Simple culinary magic. And to make it even better, a tin of beans is only 19p and you can get four tatties for less than a quid. But as I wander round the supermarket with a basket cutting into my arm, I know that carrying the weight of a couple of tins of beans will be torture. So I forego my tasty treat and opt for a loaf of bread instead of potatoes and a packets instead of tins. It all piles into the basket easily enough (using a trolley would simply be madness), it all scans through quite nicely and then you are standing at the other side of the till with four plastic bags, somehow full to capacity and of course twenty litres of cat litter.
Anyway, I had made it back to the flat with my forty-six pounds worth of groceries (no beans and forgotten the washing up liquid) and of course my twenty litres of cat litter. I was having a break and a cigarette outside the door of the tower block, trying to catch my breath for the long haul upwards when Jack and the cute little blonde kid came round the corner. I could hear stories of a school project about owls. I threw my unfinished cigarette on top of a pile of well smoked butts to gather my bags, suddenly disappointed in myself for littering and not recognising that as something I do. Seeing that Jack and his grandson were coming into the building, I thought they could hold the door and save me from juggling the fob, the shopping bags and don’t forget – cat litter. Of course they obliged and I said thank you, still embarrassed about litter-bugging in front of a little one. My embarrassment was further exploited when I realised I would have to struggle up the stairs. I took a deep breath to begin my ascent but I didn’t get far before Jack stopped me. I was away to lose my cucumber which had pierced a hole in the flimsy plastic bag. But before that cucumber became the last straw to break this pack mule’s back, Jack had the cat litter and the cute little blonde kid was doing his best with one of the bags – a handle in each hand. I blushed as I saw a box of tampons peeping out the top and hoped the kid wouldn’t take any notice. I didn’t need to worry though. He was so excited, telling me all about snowy owls he wouldn’t have noticed if he was carrying a bag full of chocolate. His chitter kept us entertained all the way to floor number nine and I was so overcome with gratefulness that I actually considered inviting them in for a cup of tea. Then I remembered that the building is full of nutters so instead I snapped off two half and half yoghurts to say thank you. Jack wouldn’t hear of it so I slipped them to the kid and told him to pop them in his bag. Noticing his Toy Story schoolbag I smiled and asked if his room was the one you could see from the front with the Buzz Lightyear curtains. His eyes were like full moons as he nodded so hard I thought his head would fall off. He then looked to Jack and then to the yoghurts, Jack shook his head but smiled. With the yoghurts safely stowed in his school bag the blonde kid scampered off down the stairs before either of us could stop him. Jack said bye and wished me a nice evening. Jack slowly disappeared down the stairs after the kid and I realised. The Buzz Lightyear curtains are on the third floor and I was six floors higher than they had needed to come.
Anyway, that is the story about a man who was stabbed on the stairwell of this tower block and who lost his life in a lonely hospital bed. He got septicaemia from the rusty blade that his neighbor who was a heroin addict attacked him with. I don't know who picked up Jack's grandson from school after that. However one question remains unanswered. I'm sure you are asking it. With twenty litres of cat litter and four bags of groceries, why didn’t I take the lift the day Jack and his grandson helped me up the stairs?
You see on that day, in this glittering tower of dreams one of the lifts was broken. And in the other as is often the case, someone had taken a shit.
ROSEMARY AND THYME
Reading Time: 16 mins
She stretched her legs out from beneath a heavy feather duvet and wiggled her toes in sunlight which was streaming in through the window. Before opening her eyes she filled her lungs with the sweet scent of lavender and her nostrils flared to allow a bigger breath.
“Fit like iday, quine?”
Her eyes snapped open. Angry with the voice that had startled her, the smile turned into a grimace and Rosemary growled, “What are you doing here?”
“Och Rosemary darlin’, I’ve jist cam by to see if you wint some mate. We’ve heen fresh breid teen in and there’s ai that blackberry jam we made yisterday.”
Rosemary’s eyes found the person behind the voice and when they settled on a scrawny and ugly woman there was a flicker of recognition. But as soon as it had come it was gone. Then fear settled in. The woman recognised the look of fear because her own big smile quickly faded which Rosemary knew was a sign of her evil. Rosemary began thrashing and screaming, “Get out! Get out of my room you bitch. Stay away from me. You’re not going to hurt me again. I’ll get my son on you.” Despite Rosemary’s desperation the woman continued. Taking no heed she approached Rosemary’s bed.
“Now now Rosemary. Malik isna coming the day mind. I’ll jist open these curtains and gee yi five minties, fit div you think? Maybe we tak a wak later on the day seen as it’s bonny oot. Yi ken we dinna aiwis get the chance.”
With that the woman opened the curtains as promised and shot Rosemary a nasty, warning look. Stiff with fear and breathing in sharp staccato, Rosemary closed her eyes. She slowly re-opened them, trying to start the morning again. With her eyes open on her second try she swung her legs out of bed and tried to find her sandals. Aggrieved that they weren’t where she expected, she hopped down from the bed and reminded herself that she really had to see about getting a new one. That bed really was too high and it was simply unnecessary to begin the day with a free-style jump. As she found her way around the room, fingering various objects and trinkets that had no meaning to her she came across a suitcase with a busted lock. She opened the suitcase and out spilled manuscripts of all sorts. Some handwritten, many typed. Letters, postcards and drawings. Rosemary was delighted to come across a photograph of a pretty young girl aged about five or six and on the back in Malik’s handwriting it said, “Please take Frances with you on your travels – Love M xxx” Rosemary giggled and once again looked at the photograph. Where have the years gone? Frances looks so grown in this picture. The picture jolted her back to reality and it all came flooding back bringing tears to Rosemary’s eyes. She knew where she was and why she was here. She looked to the door and saw Morag. Awash with love for her carer and friend she beckoned Morag in and made her sit on the bed that was too high. “Look at what I found. This is my grand-daughter Frances. Isn’t she pretty?”
Morag smiled and held the photograph, “Aye Rosemary, she’s a bonny craitur. And cliver ina. Fa wid she get that fae I wonder?” Morag paused and turned to Rosemary, and the two women shared an appreciative smile. “So Rosemary, tell me fit wid ye like ti de es morning?”
Without a pause for thought, Rosemary launched into a familiar routine. “Well, I really must go to the lake but only just this morning I remembered how behind I am with my work. You know, the publishers don’t wait for anyone and I’m sure they have already pushed the deadline back for me. I’ve got a good feeling about today. I think I could maybe get quite a lot done.” Rosemary then paused, trying to remember what she was going to say next, but there was something bothering her. There was a bitter smell sitting just on the edge of her brain and she knew it would give her a headache. Morag was looking at her expectantly; and Rosemary thought that she really was such a sweet girl. Then Rosemary remembered, “Margaret, you couldn’t be a dear and perhaps see if the manager could arrange another room for me? Perhaps one with a lower bed? I really do find this one quite a struggle. There must be an alternative as I believe this is one of the best hotels in the area.” Morag looked shocked and Rosemary knew it was because it really wasn’t like Rosemary to complain. Then Morag smiled that sweet smile and said she would see what she could sort out. As she was leaving the room she picked up some lavender which was wilting in a glass, “Ken fit Rosemary, see afore I ging to the manager I was gan to hae a wak masel. I could see aboot picking some mare lavender for you. Fit div yi think til at?”
“Oh please, don’t trouble yourself dear. I really do detest lavender.”
Later, Rosemary was thrilled to be spending the lovely warm day watching new lambs master the art of walking. Their enthusiasm for the new world around them was fascinating her and she couldn’t help but smile at their inaccuracy. With most steps the lambs stumbled, which was similar to Rosemary’s own gait out with her wheelchair. The wheelchair aggravated Rosemary, she thought it really was quite unnecessary and she made to get out and perhaps take a walk along the stream. But she was gladly interrupted by Frances.
“Hi, where you off to?”
“Oh I was just going to take a walk along the stream.”
“Cool, can I come?”
“Of course you can, dear.”
Rosemary would have preferred if Frances had not wheeled the chair down to the stream, she was more than capable of using her legs. But she was happy to be enjoying the day with her sweet grandchild, so she hadn’t argued. During their walk Rosemary told Frances that she was behind with her work and that she had a deadline to meet for the publishers, but every time she planned to continue, she noticed that her papers were out of order. Rosemary was suspicious that someone was trying to sabotage her work. Frances promised to take a look when they went back indoors, although she was certain it was just a misunderstanding. Frances pointed out some lavender growing along the path pleased that she could identify the plant and hoping to impress her grandmother, but Rosemary was uninterested. Instead she was fixated on the little lock which Frances was willing to lend her to keep the manuscripts safe. Though she doubted it would be enough to keep the beasts from stealing her things. Grandmother and child spent a blissful afternoon at the stream and Frances even had some bread to feed to the ducklings. When they returned they ate a banquet of fresh fruit, fresh bread and a variety of cheeses. There was homemade jam which everyone was raving about and a chocolate cake for afters. It really had turned out to be a superb day.
Back at Rosemary’s, Frances was gathering her things and preparing to leave, when she saw the photograph of herself on the bedside table. She picked it up and smiled, turned it over and laughed.
“I didn’t know you had a picture of me,” she said, sitting back down on the bed. She handed it to Rosemary who studied it carefully, trying to place the face.
“Oh yes dear, your mother sent it to me years -” she stopped abruptly and turned to Frances. “Why, how old are you now dear?” Frances laughed and replied, “Nineteen.” Rosemary could not believe it, nineteen and not married! “Surely you’ll be an old maid before long?” Well, Rosemary just could not believe what happened next, because Frances just laughed more, she just didn’t seem to care! It wasn’t long before Rosemary was laughing too, though for the life of her, she didn’t know why. The two ladies sat together laughing and Rosemary was swinging her legs with glee. Frances reminded Rosemary that she herself was too busy travelling the world to be married at nineteen. Frances went to replace the photograph under the lamp on the bedside table when Rosemary asked her to bring the suitcase to the bed. Frances did as she was asked with a sinking feeling. The treasures which Frances sometimes found in that suitcase were precious, but dwindling on a daily basis. Rosemary didn’t mean to misplace them, she intended to keep them safe. There were letters from faceless strangers who knew and loved a very different Rosemary and letters which provoked stories of foreign lands and impossible journeys. Sadly, those stories were slipping away. As Rosemary was flicking through the papers her mood began to change. This was what Frances had feared all along. The sun was beginning to set on their perfect day.
“Frances dear, you have to get me out of here. You have to help me get away, get back to Greece.”
Trying to remain cheerful and untrained in what to say, Frances played along. She asked Rosemary where would she go in Greece, what would she do?
“I’ll take a taxi to Kythera and I’ll finish writing my book in the cottage. I just want to get back to my cottage and get back to my dogs. They will need me now, I’ve been away for too long already. Please Frances dear, help me get back to Kythera.” From the look in Rosemary’s eyes, Frances knew that she was sincere and Frances was sincerely sad that there was nothing she could do to help. Frances knew that everyday Rosemary was living a nightmare, and every day the nightmare was brand new. Fighting her own tears and desperately trying to avoid a scene Frances knew she would be leaving a trail of destruction for someone else to tidy up. But before Frances was able to make any sort of a get-a-way, the events which followed had her stiff with fear and breathing staccato. If she hadn’t seen the whole thing with her very own eyes, she would have believed Rosemary’s retelling of the events that followed. Her story was convincing, proving her memory an enemy.
The story went like this - Rosemary had been preparing for bed when a stranger had come into her room and had started rifling through Rosemary’s documents trying to steal her most recent work. Rosemary told the woman to leave the room at once, but the woman ignored her and made threatening advances. The woman viscously grabbed hold of Rosemary and threw her onto the bed, but Rosemary was quick and had managed to lift the bedside lamp and smash it over her assailants head. Dazed but not finished, the strange woman made another advance for Rosemary who amidst the struggle was thrown from the bed and lay on the floor with a huge gash on her foot.
Having witnessed an entirely different scenario, Rosemary’s terrified screams startled Frances into action. She looked down at her aged grandmother who was bleeding and shaking, screaming: “Get that bitch out of here. You wicked girl, you’ve been after me for years. Well you have been caught now. My daughter has seen it all. Get her out Frances, get that bitch out.”
Frances ran out of the room before Morag, no longer able to silence her sobs. She found a lone chair in the dining room and cried loudly. She didn’t care who heard and she thought no-one would probably care. That was until she felt a hand on her heaving shoulder and turned to see the only friendly face she could trust:
“I’m so sorry Morag. I’m so sorry. She doesn’t mean those things, she loves you.”
“Och my wee quiney, cam here. Dinna you be affrontit ower fit comes oot that peer wifeys moo. Am aul eneuch ti ken better and it wid tak mare than that to shock me. Ma darlin, you’re greetin ower a perfect stranger. Da you min her like at. Dinna let that a’ffa thing happening til her mind spile a them lovely memories you hiv oh that funny al biddy. She’s hid me lachin sae hard I’ve hid to beg her ti stop so's I can get a break for breathing! Did you ken that I’ve been deein this job for twenty-seven years next month. I’ve seen a lot of ladies in my time but nae een o them has taught me as much as your grandma. Yesterday, we were picking blackberries and as God looks down on me I’m telling you nae one word of a lie here, weel - Rosemary... she just shamelessly started flirting wi this young loon oot wi his dog. I thocht, this loony will wak straight past or gee us a mooful o chick. But wi that twinkle in her eye she had him hooked. I’m tellin yi Frances, he micht hae been at the school wi you! But after he left, you know what she said to me? She looked me clean in the een and said –
Morag dear, you must really see about getting yourself a nice young man. I never found much use for them myself, but I think it’s time you moved on. Let him go dear, he’s gone from the sea, he's in the air now.
I didna ken far to look but I’ll tell you this, I wis happy to hear those words. I da ken foo she kens aboot Jimmy and fit happened til him. I dinna spik about them days but she’s richt. And its fit neen o my ain femily is willin to say. I needed to hear someone else say it to make it aricht. And noo, mebbe I will. Och, she mebby did think we were still bairns, twinty year aul and oot on the toon but fan she looked at me, she looked as though she wis spikkin to a freen. You dinna need to tell me she loves me, I ken that. She loves abidy, she aiwis has. But her mind is turning against her and sometimes she aint that feisty twinty year aul onymare. She canna pack her bags and head onto the next city cuz her body just winna let her.”
Frances winced at the memory, the shame of her grandmother attacking this kind lady who does so much more than is required by her job description. Morag took a tissue to Frances’s eyes and told her that it was time to see if Rosemary had settled into bed. The nurse had been in to bandage her foot.
“But what if she goes crazy again?”
Morag winked, “That's how I’m pittin you in aheed o mi.”
With a stone in her stomach Frances listened at Rosemary’s door. The sound of Rosemary’s sobs made her rush into the room without question. She sat on the bed and cradled the old woman, soothing her with whispers. Rosemary was telling Frances of a terrible nightmare she had had, which had caused her to fall out of bed and hurt her foot. In the nightmare, Rosemary had been attacked by evil-doers trying to steal her work but she couldn’t quite remember the end. Frances continued to coo and soothe and when Morag popped her head round the door Rosemary looked up abruptly.
“Morag, my sweet dear. It was you. In my nightmare, it was you who came in and saved me.”
Frances exchanged a troubled look with Morag, but Morag simply sat on the bed and put her hand on Rosemary’s.
“Is that richt? Well am gled ti have been oh some assistance.”
Rosemary yawned and settled her head back onto her pillow. With the bedside lamp smashed into a thousand pieces Morag found a plug in light which cast a scene from under the sea onto the ceiling. The three ladies giggled at the nightlight but agreed it made a wonderful picture. Frances didn’t bother to ask what a children’s lamp was doing in an old people’s home. Frances blew a kiss to her grandmother when she turned to leave and she heard Rosemary say to Morag, “Thank you for rescuing me in my dreams my dear. I really don’t know what I would have done without you. And I almost forgot, tomorrow I am going to be sure to write a letter to the manager thanking him for this lovely new bed. Tomorrow, we may take a walk. I know a lovely patch of lavender growing wild which I would like to give to you for your room. I may even take some for myself.”
Morag nodded and left Rosemary to sleep. At the door, Frances whispered, “What new bed?”
Morag tutted and put an arm around Frances’s shoulder, “Sweetheart, I hinna got the slightest idea. But if she thinks she's a new bed I’m nae fechting wi her to pit her richt. It’s deeing naebody nae harm the noo so its hame time my quine.”