Granda Jeemsie stumps up from the Lily as though sure of his footfall on the sand, as though he has every right in the world and nothing indeed to be sorry for. He looks towards the village, slows a little, picks up his pace again. He canna see me, not from that distance, not in the winter dark with nought but the glow of a skinny moon, but I fancy he knows he is being watched this night. I fancy he knows I’m here.

~

It was a sombre Christmas. A holiday, a kirk day, a family day. But when we crowded into the pews of the Auld Kirk, it was not the spirit of Christmas I felt, no.

They turned their heads to look, our neighbours did, they were silent on this day of greetings and goodwill. Sailor Wattie, Unty Leebie and Unty Jinna, all of them came forward with handshakes and cheer. But the others, no. Buckey’s John’s Mary turned her face to the altar. She did not ask me about Ma, she did not speak to any of us. And Maudie Ross could hardly keep her bug eyes off Granda, until he set his scowl on her—and then she whipped around like she’d seen a selkie. All through the service, I kept thinking: The Christmas hymns sound different without Ma’s piping voice carrying the tune. If Ma were here, it would be all right, it would be better.

After the service Unty Jinna and Liza came home with us, all of us trudging with our heads down, shawls and scarves clutched to our chin. The roar of the wind tore snatches of carols from a choir and tossed them round in the grey air.

~

We sat around the fire in silence, and I could hardly bear it.

I crept away to check on Ma. Her cough was worse, her skin red and dry. The sight of her there, lying on the bed, was a thing to catch at my breathing. Ma, my bustling, strong, always-working mother, just lying there. A ruddy, unmoving, unseeing thing.

It’s Christmas, Ma, I whispered. Listen, can you hear the carols outside?

She pushed my hand away when I tried to stroke her damp hair.

What can I get for ye, Ma?

She moaned and pushed at me again.

Ma? What is it ye want? Ma?

Her eyes flew open, wide as can be, and she grabbed at my hand.

Snow.

Snow? Isn’t snowing, Ma. There’s no snow.

She turned to look at me and her face broke. Ah, my Meggie, back from the fish.

I pressed a wet towel against her head and she giggled like a little girl. Ginger Meggie cross your leggie.

I came asunder and wept.

~

Kitta refused help with the dinner. She’d boiled a rabbit and roasted it brown with neeps and tatties in dripping—a rare treat.