“Girls, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I caused such a scene! I accused all of you!”
“Where’s my blanket?! Where is it?!” Margaret’s voice echoed through the flat, making the old wallpaper in the hallway shudder. “Grace! Grace Whitmore! Give me back my blanket this instant!”
“What blanket are you on about, Margaret?” Grace peered out from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “Have you lost your mind? What blanket?”
“Don’t play innocent! My woollen blanket, the one my late mother left me! I know you took it!”
Grace sighed loudly and stepped into the hallway, where the other tenants of the shared flat had already gathered. Old Thomas peeked out from his room in his slippers, while young Emily, cradling her baby, froze by her door, gently rocking the child.
“Margaret, calm down!” Thomas tried to reason. “What a fuss you’re making! The baby’s crying now!”
“I don’t care about the baby!” Margaret shrieked, waving her arms. “My blanket’s been stolen! My mother’s blanket! The only thing I have left of her!”
“Will you just stop this nonsense?” Grace snapped. “What’s got into you? What blanket? I’ve never even seen it!”
“You’re lying! Last night I washed it and hung it to dry in the bathroom. This morning, it’s gone! Vanished! Who else could’ve taken it but you? You’re the most house-proud one here!”
Emily quietly slipped back into her room, avoiding the argument. The baby had indeed started whimpering at the raised voices. Thomas shook his head and retreated behind his door.
“Margaret,” Grace took a deep breath, “I know you’re upset. But accusing me of theft… That’s too much!”
“Then who else?” Margaret planted her hands on her hips. “Thomas? He’s seventy-five—what does he need a blanket for? Emily’s got her hands full with the baby! That leaves only you!”
“Oh, get lost with your accusations!” Grace snapped. “I’ve had enough! First, it’s sugar gone missing, then milk disappearing, now a blanket! Maybe you misplaced it yourself?”
“How dare you!” Margaret turned crimson. “Am I mad? Stealing my own blanket?”
“How should I know?” Grace waved her off. “Maybe you forgot where you put it. None of us are getting any younger.”
“Don’t you dare insult my memory!” Margaret banged her fist against the wall. “My memory’s sharp as a tack! I remember perfectly well—it was hanging in the bathroom!”
Grace slumped onto a chair in the hallway. Living with Margaret was becoming unbearable. She’d always been a grumbling neighbour, but now she’d turned into a proper tyrant.
“Margaret,” she said quietly, “let’s sort this out calmly. Describe your blanket. What does it look like?”
“Wool,” Margaret said, slightly calming. “Grey with checks, fringed edges. My mother knitted it when she was young. I’ve treasured it like gold.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Last night, after washing it—by hand, with baby detergent. I hung it on the line in the bathroom. This morning, I went to fetch it—gone!”
Grace frowned. Someone could’ve taken it, but why? They’d all lived together for years. Thomas was an honest man, an ex-serviceman. Emily was a young mother with no time for other people’s things. That left Grace—but why would she want a blanket?
“Maybe it fell?” Grace suggested. “The line snapped?”
“I checked already!” Margaret huffed. “Looked everywhere! The bathroom, the hallway, the washing machine. Nothing!”
“Odd,” Grace muttered. “Very odd.”
A hiss came from the kitchen—something was boiling over. Grace jumped up.
“Oh, the potatoes!” She dashed off to save dinner.
Margaret was left alone in the hallway. She slowly searched every corner of the flat. The blanket had vanished into thin air. But it wasn’t just a thing to her. When her mother died, Margaret had taken little from the family home—a few photos, her mother’s glasses, and this blanket. The rest had been divided among relatives.
The blanket smelled of her mother’s bedroom, her perfume, and the warmth of childhood. Margaret wrapped herself in it when she was ill, when she was sad, when she needed to feel her mother nearby.
“Thomas?” She knocked on his door. “Thomas, may I come in?”
He opened the door, standing in an old jumper, a newspaper in hand.
“Come in, Margaret. Just keep your voice down, please.”
“Sorry for shouting,” she said sheepishly. “But the blanket really is missing. Have you seen anything?”
“Sit down,” he gestured to a chair. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
Thomas put the kettle on and fetched biscuits. His room was cosy, with military photos on the walls and books stacked on the table.
“Tell me about the blanket again,” he said. “In detail.”
Margaret recounted the story. Thomas listened carefully, nodding now and then.
“You see,” he said finally, “we’ve all known each other for years here. No one would steal, least of all a blanket. It’s not money or jewellery.”
“Then where is it?”
“Could you have moved it? Maybe hung it somewhere else to dry?”
“No!” Margaret nearly leapt up. “I’m not senile! I know where I left it!”
Thomas poured the tea and slid a cup toward her.
“Margaret, when did you last wash it?”
“About two months ago. Why?”
“Just wondering. Maybe it’s tucked away somewhere? Behind a cupboard, under the bed?”
“I’ve looked everywhere!” Margaret sniffled. “Mum’s blanket! The only thing I have left of her!”
“Don’t fret,” Thomas said gently. “It’ll turn up. Things don’t just disappear.”
Margaret finished her tea and returned to her room. She searched every corner again—under the bed, the wardrobe, even the balcony. The blanket was nowhere.
That evening, she stepped back into the hallway. Emily was feeding her baby in the kitchen, Grace was washing up.
“Grace,” Margaret said carefully, “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Oh, never mind,” Grace muttered, not turning around. “I’m used to it.”
“But the blanket really is missing.”
“Well, missing is missing. It’ll turn up.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Buy a new one.”
“How can I?!” Margaret nearly sobbed. “Mum’s blanket isn’t something you just pick up in a shop!”
Grace turned around. Margaret looked so wretched that Grace softened despite herself.
“Oh, don’t be such a child!” she said. “We’ll find your blanket. Tomorrow, we’ll search properly.”
“You’ll really help?”
“Course I will. Just stop crying about it.”
The next morning, Grace kept her word. They scoured the flat together, checking every nook—even the bathroom. No blanket.
“Maybe a neighbour took it?” Grace suggested. “The bathroom door’s never locked.”
“Who’d want an old blanket?” Margaret sighed. “Faded and worn.”
“You said yourself it was lovely.”
“To me, yes! To anyone else, it’s just an old rag.”
They sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Emily was putting her baby down for a nap; Thomas was reading in his room.
“Margaret,” Grace said suddenly, “could you have taken it last night? Maybe you got up, went to the loo, and moved it without thinking?”
“Don’t be daft! I sleep like a log!”
“Well, you never know,” Grace shrugged. “Might’ve been sleepwalking.”
Margaret paused. Lately, she’d been dreaming of her mother—young, alive. In her dreams, they talked, wandered the old family home.
“I don’t remember,” she admitted. “But I don’t think so.”
“Let’s ask Emily,” Grace suggested. “She’s up with the baby at night. Might’ve seen something.”
Emily returned to the kitchen.
“What’s all this about?” she asked.
“Margaret’s blanket’s gone,” Grace explained. “Did you hear or see anything last night? Maybe someone in the bathroom?”
Emily frowned.
“When was this?”
“The night before last,” Margaret said.
“Oh!” Emily’s eyes widened. “I did see it! It wasn’t hanging—it was on the floor!”
“On the floor?” Margaret repeated.
“Yes! I thought it was odd, but I figured you’d left it to dry. I picked it up and hung it back.”
“Hung it back?” Margaret gasped. “But it wasn’t there in the morning!”
“I don’t know,” Emily said, flustered. “I definitely hung it. Same spot.”
Grace and Margaret exchanged glances.
“Let’s check the bathroom again,” Grace said.
The three of
