Alick Watson pushed through to relieve Εwan Tavendale, Ewan said he didn’t think more would come, the lot for the day, but the morn—well, there’d be a stamash, for the Union wasn’t supporting the strike and there’d be no strike pay unless they could raise it…. Then he said You look fearfully solemn, Alick, and smiled at a body that way he had, dark and kind, like a bit of a quean. Alick went a bit red and said Don’t haver. And then: That silly bitch, my sister, seemed awful concerned about you last night.

Ewan said Meg? Oh yes, I know her. Works at our house—she’s a nice leg, Meg. But you wouldn’t know, being only her brother. Bye, bye, I’m off to the committee rooms. Trease is to raise a fund for the strikers.

He came home soaked to the skin that night with tramping the rain and helping the Reds to raise an unofficial strikers’ fund. But Gowans had been killed stone-dead for the day, they hadn’t even got the furnaces going. He sat and told this to Chris in the kitchen, drinking hot cocoa, and then stretched and yawned: But you’re never bothered about such things, Chris. Wise woman. Goodness, I’m tired.

Chris told him he wanted a bath and his bed, and off he should get; but he turned at the door to ask what next was to happen to the house? Was Chris to carry on without Ma Cleghorn?

Chris said she supposed so as Ma was in heaven or at least in the kirkyard of Kirrieben. Ewan laughed and yawned in a breath, Yes, I know. But I meant—Chris said she didn’t know, she’d see, if he didn’t get tirred and into a bath she’d be carrying on without him, anyhow.

He nodded and came back and kissed her, kind, much slower and kinder than once he’d been, though his mind was far off with his strike, she supposed. Queer loon that he was, lovely loon, on even him change working its measure as sunlight on granite bringing out the gleams of gold and red through the cold grey glister. For a little while after he’d gone she stood still, thinking about him, tender, amused, in a puzzled fear: then sat by the table and thought of herself and the awful soss that Ma’s death had left.

Izey Urquhart had had a valuator in and valued Ma’s things and share of the house at a price that had made Chris gasp. And Izey had said that unless they were ta’en over, she’d sell the gear and the house-share as well, she had no fancy for the keeping of lodgings. If the lodgings could have spoken they might have answered up canty that they had no fancy for being kept by her, Chris had thought, but hadn’t said it, just nodded, and been given a week to decide.

A week. And when that was over—what?

She went on with washing the supper dishes, Meg she’d sent home that afternoon, the quean had looked queer and nearly fainted, she’d almost ta’en Ma’s place after her death and worked like a Trojan, too much for a girl of her size, Chris had thought—absently, noting Meg filling out a bit, pale still, but not that slat of a board with a dress tacked on it that once she’d been.