When Ma got back from her rounds, she could see at once how it was with Granda and me. But she was sick, too sick to press, too sick to scold me as she normally would do. Her throat was coughed raw, a rattle in the ribs, the curve of her spine worse than ever.

I wasn’t talking to Granda, not since the day he called our Kitta a limmer. But our usual conversation was only ever thready, so the fact that I was ignoring him likely passed him by. So much for me taking a stand, lambsie. In any case, there was much to do with Ma sick, and I was too worried for her to let much else bother me. Even school had to wait. Unty Jinna had me scurrying into the moors, looking for roots and special leaves, and then I had to clean them just so and steep them in boiling water over the fire and strain decoctions for Ma to drink. And there were meals to be cooked, the house kept spotless, the clothes washed, and all that had to be done to get Granda away to sea. Good riddance was what I said under my breath, an’ don’t come back—soundless words that shamed me, for it was a terrible thing to wish of a fisher whose life was always at the mercy of the sea. I didn’t mean it, not really, I told God. I will be better, an’ not complain. I will talk to Granda if I must.

Ma regained a little strength. The racking cough eased to a dry scratching. But there was no question of her taking up the creel again, not for a good while to come.

We need neeps, quinie, neeps an’ eggs, an’ ye’re ready now, aye?

How impressed I was, impressed with myself, to be given the responsibility of taking on Ma’s rounds, even though it meant more time from school.

Ma suggested a short tramp. Just to the near farms, quinie. Two days is all.

~

The creel Ma gave me was smaller than hers by far and my weight of fish only a portion of what she carried on her rounds, but the load on my back, the drag of the straps on my shoulders, my blistered feet—aye, it was a sore experience. However did Ma manage?