“Girls, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I made such a scene! Accused all of you!”
“Where is my blanket?! Where is it?!” Margaret’s voice echoed through the flat, making the old wallpaper in the hallway shudder. “Eleanor! Eleanor Whitaker! Give me back my blanket this instant!”
“What blanket are you on about, Margaret?” Eleanor peered out from the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Have you lost your mind? What blanket?”
“Don’t play dumb! My wool blanket, the one my late mother left me! I know you took it!”
Eleanor sighed loudly and stepped into the corridor, where the other residents of the shared flat had already gathered. Old Harold peeked out from his room in his slippers, while young Emily, holding her baby in her arms, froze by her door, rocking the child gently.
“Margaret, calm down!” Harold tried to reason with her. “What a fuss you’re making! The baby’s crying now!”
“I couldn’t care less 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 calm down!” Eleanor snapped. “What’s all this hysterics? What blanket? I’ve never even seen your blanket!”
“You’re lying! Last night I washed it and hung it in the bathroom to dry. This morning, it’s gone! Vanished! Who else could have taken it but you? You’re the most house-proud one here!”
Emily quietly slipped back into her room, unwilling to be part of the argument. The baby had indeed started whimpering from the loud voices. Harold shook his head and retreated behind his door.
“Margaret,” Eleanor took a deep breath, “I understand you’re upset. But accusing me of stealing… That’s too much!”
“Then who else?” Margaret planted her hands on her hips. “Harold? A seventy-five-year-old man hardly needs a blanket! Emily and her baby? She’s got enough of her own things! That leaves you!”
“Go on with your accusations!” Eleanor snapped. “I’ve had enough of this! First, your sugar goes missing, then someone drinks your milk, now a blanket! Maybe you misplaced it yourself?”
“How dare you!” Margaret’s face turned scarlet. “Am I crazy? Steal my own blanket?”
“How should I know!” Eleanor waved a hand dismissively. “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 is perfect! And I know exactly where I left that blanket!”
Eleanor sank tiredly onto a chair in the hallway. Living with Margaret was becoming unbearable. She used to be just a grumpy neighbour, but now she’d turned into a proper domestic tyrant.
“Margaret,” she said quietly, “let’s talk this through calmly. Describe your blanket. What does it look like?”
“Wool,” Margaret said, lowering her voice slightly. “Grey checkered, with fringe at the edges. My mum knitted it when she was young. I’ve treasured it like the apple of my eye.”
“And when did you last see it?”
“Last night, after I washed it. Gently, by hand, with baby detergent. Then I hung it on the clothesline in the bathroom. This morning, I went to fetch it—gone!”
Eleanor frowned. Someone could have taken it, but why? They’d all lived together for years. Harold was as honest as they come, a former soldier. Emily was a young mother with no time for other people’s things. That left her—but why would she want someone else’s old blanket?
“Maybe it fell?” Eleanor suggested. “The line snapped?”
“I already checked!” Margaret waved her off. “Looked everywhere—bathroom, hallway, washing machine. Gone!”
“Strange,” Eleanor muttered. “Very strange.”
A hissing sound came from the kitchen—something was boiling over. Eleanor leapt up.
“Oh, the potatoes!” She dashed off to save dinner.
Margaret was left alone in the corridor. She slowly searched the flat again, checking every corner. The blanket had vanished into thin air. And it wasn’t just any old thing—when her mother passed, Margaret had taken very little from her childhood home: a few photos, her mum’s glasses, and this blanket. The rest had been divided among relatives.
The blanket smelled of her mother’s bedroom, her perfume, and that particular warmth only childhood could hold. Margaret wrapped herself in it when she was ill, when she was sad, when she needed to feel her mother’s presence.
“Harold!” She knocked on his door. “Harold, may I come in?”
The door opened. Harold stood there in an old jumper, newspaper in hand.
“Come in, Margaret. Just keep your voice down, please.”
“I’m sorry for shouting,” she said sheepishly. “But the blanket really is gone. Have you seen anything?”
“Sit down,” he gestured to a chair. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Harold put the kettle on and fetched biscuits from the cupboard. His room was quiet and cosy. Military photos hung on the walls, and books lay stacked on the table.
“Tell me about the blanket again,” he asked. “In detail.”
Margaret did. Harold listened carefully, nodding occasionally.
“Thing is,” he said finally, “we’ve all known each other for years here. No one would steal. Especially not a blanket. It’s not money, not jewellery.”
“Then where is it?”
“Could you have moved it without thinking? Maybe meant to dry it somewhere else?”
“No!” Margaret nearly jumped from her seat. “I’m not senile! I remember where I put things!”
Harold poured the tea and pushed a cup toward her.
“Margaret, when did you last wash it?”
“Couple of months ago. Why?”
“Just wondering. Maybe it got tucked away somewhere? Behind a wardrobe, under the bed?”
“I’ve looked everywhere!” Margaret sniffled. “Mum’s blanket! The only thing I have left of her!”
“Don’t take on so. It’ll turn up. Things don’t just disappear.”
Margaret drank her tea and returned to her room. She searched every cupboard again, peered under the bed, checked the balcony. The blanket had vanished without a trace.
That evening, she stepped back into the corridor. Emily was feeding her baby in the kitchen, while Eleanor washed dishes.
“Ellie,” Margaret said cautiously, “I’m sorry about this morning. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Never mind,” Eleanor grumbled, not turning around. “Used to it by now.”
“But the blanket really is missing.”
“Well, missing is missing. It’ll turn up.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Buy a new one.”
“A new one?” Margaret nearly burst into tears. “You can’t just replace my mother’s blanket!”
Eleanor turned. Margaret’s face was so wretched that Eleanor softened in spite of herself.
“Don’t be so daft!” she said. “We’ll find your blanket. Tomorrow we’ll have another proper look.”
“You’ll really help?”
“Course I will. Just stop crying about it.”
True to her word, Eleanor helped the next morning. They combed every inch of the flat, checked every corner, scoured the bathroom. Nothing.
“Maybe someone from another flat took it?” Eleanor suggested. “We don’t lock the bathroom door.”
“Who’d want that old thing?” Margaret said wearily. “Faded and worn.”
“You said yourself it was lovely.”
“Lovely to me! To anyone else, just an old rag.”
They sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Emily was putting her baby down for a nap, and Harold was reading in his room.
“Margaret,” Eleanor said suddenly, “are you sure you didn’t take it yourself last night? Maybe got up in your sleep?”
“Absolutely not! I sleep like the dead!”
“Well, you never know,” Eleanor shrugged. “Might’ve dreamt it.”
Margaret frowned. Lately, she’d been sleeping poorly, dreaming of her mother—young, alive. In those dreams, she wandered her childhood home, talking to her.
“I don’t remember,” she admitted. “But I don’t think I got up.”
“Let’s ask Emily,” Eleanor suggested. “She’s up half the night with the baby. Might’ve seen something.”
Emily returned to the kitchen just then.
“What’s all this about?” she asked.
“Margaret’s blanket’s gone missing,” Eleanor explained. “Did you hear anything last night? See anyone in the bathroom?”
Emily frowned.
“When was this?”
“The night before last,” Margaret said.
“Oh!” Emily’s eyes widened. “I did see it! That night! It wasn’t hanging up—it was on the floor!”
“On the floor?” Margaret repeated.
“Yes! I thought it was odd, but figured you’d left it to dry. I picked it up and hung it back.”
“You hung it back?” Margaret stood up.
