Not a day went by that she didn’t spend some time gazing out the window, inhaling the scent of the ocean, listening to its melancholy lullaby, relishing the feel of the wind, rain and whatever else the sky chose to unload. Since Hogmanay, she’d taken to trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue, just as she used to when she was a bairn running over the braes with her friends, plunging into snowdrifts, making angels with her arms and legs or scooping up chunks and casting them down upon the unsuspecting fishwives and men working in the shelter of the rocks at the base of the cliffs. She and her friends would erupt with merriment and scoot away into the wind-blasted heather followed by curses and shouts. Her favourite thing to do now she had the opportunity was watching people, people she’d known her whole life — and a few she’d never seen before — strolling up and down the street, or racing between shops and residences, clecking away, going about their business and trying to escape the weather. Unaware of her scrutiny, they’d argue betwixt themselves, or carry on lost in thought, despondent, enraged, day-dreaming, their lips moving even when there was no one to listen. From her vantage point, she could see who was at odds with whom, who was in favour, including one buxom young lass and a recently married fisherman who would appear upon the High Street around the same time. Chuckling, Janet recognised the looks they exchanged, the way their fingers would brush casually against each other, their shoulders bump.

Janet would try and imagine what the folk she spent hours viewing were thinking, saying, feeling. So many stories circled around in her head. Dogs would scamper past, some chasing rats or chickens. She even saw two piglets run squealing down the frosty cobbles, slipping and sliding, a young girl panting after them as if she were running the cutter. No doubt she’d get a beating for having let them escape. Seagulls would swoop upon unguarded creels, flapping towards the sky, their booty tight in their claws, cawing their triumph. Cats would slink into the shadows, chickens dance across the snow and corbies sit upon rooftops, their glossy black feathers stark against the white-blanketed tiles. Birds that saw her gazing out the window would eye her suspiciously, squawking a warning.

Aye, I’d be warning others too, thought Janet, if the likes of me was watching. If she was feeling generous, she’d break off bits of bannock and throw it to them. They never thanked her.

Rarely did a day pass that Sorcha, bless her, and Nettie along with Beatrix, and even Nicolas and Isobel would stand beneath the tavern shingle and wave to her. She’d heard about Thom White passing and thought Nettie looked rather peely-wally, not that you’d know it from the way she shouted.