“Girls, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. “I made such a scene! I accused you all!”
“Where is my blanket?! Where is it?!” Margaret Harrington’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 on earth are you on about, Margaret?” Eleanor appeared from the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Have you lost your mind? What blanket?”
“Don’t play innocent! My woolen blanket, the one my late mother left me! I know you took it!”
Eleanor sighed loudly and stepped into the corridor, where the other tenants of the shared flat had gathered. Old Albert Cunningham peered out from his room in slippers, while young Emily, balancing a baby in her arms, froze by her door, gently rocking the child.
“Margaret, calm yourself!” Albert tried to reason. “What a fuss you’re making! You’ve upset the baby!”
“I don’t care about the baby!” Margaret shrieked, flailing her arms. “My blanket’s been stolen! My mother’s blanket! The only thing I have left of her!”
“Will you stop this nonsense?” Eleanor snapped. “What’s gotten into you? What blanket? I’ve never even seen it!”
“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’ve taken it but you? You’re the one always fussing over everything!”
Emily slipped quietly into her room, avoiding the argument. The baby had indeed begun whimpering from the raised voices. Albert 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. “Albert? He’s seventy-five—what would he want with a blanket? Emily and her baby? She’s got enough rags of her own! That leaves you!”
“Oh, sod off with your accusations!” Eleanor snapped. “I’ve had enough! First it’s sugar gone missing, then milk drunk, now a blanket! Maybe you misplaced it yourself?”
“How dare you!” Margaret’s face turned crimson. “Do I look mad to you? Steal my own blanket?”
“How should I know?” Eleanor waved a hand dismissively. “Maybe you forgot where you put it. We’re none of us getting any younger.”
“Don’t you dare insult my memory!” Margaret pounded her fist against the wall. “My memory is sharp as a tack! I remember exactly where I left that blanket!”
Eleanor sank wearily onto the hallway chair. Living with Margaret was becoming unbearable. Once just a grumbling neighbor, she’d turned into a proper tyrant.
“Margaret,” she said quietly, “let’s sort this calmly. Describe the blanket. What’s it like?”
“Wool,” Margaret’s voice softened slightly. “Grey, with a tartan pattern, fringed at the edges. My mother knitted it when she was young. I’ve treasured it like the crown jewels.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Last night, after I washed it. Carefully, by hand, with baby detergent. Hung it in the bathroom to dry. This morning—gone!”
Eleanor frowned. Someone could’ve taken it, but why? Everyone in the flat had known each other for years. Albert was as honest as they came, a retired serviceman. Emily, a young mother, had no time for other people’s things. That left her—but why would she want an old blanket?
“Could it have fallen?” Eleanor suggested. “Maybe the line snapped?”
“I checked everywhere!” Margaret waved her off. “The bathroom, the hallway, even the washing machine. Gone!”
“Strange,” Eleanor muttered. “Very strange.”
A hiss came from the kitchen—something boiling over. Eleanor sprang up.
“Blimey, the potatoes!” She dashed off to salvage lunch.
Margaret was left alone in the hallway. Slowly, she 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 very little from the family home—a few photos, her mother’s glasses, and this blanket. Everything else had been claimed by relatives.
The blanket smelled of her mother’s bedroom, her perfume, and the warmth of childhood. Margaret had wrapped herself in it when ill, when sad, when she needed to feel her mother’s presence.
“Albert,” she knocked on his door. “Albert, may I come in?”
The door opened. Albert stood in an old jumper, newspaper in hand.
“Come in, Margaret. Just keep the noise down, eh?”
“Sorry for shouting earlier,” she said sheepishly. “But the blanket really is missing. Have you seen anything?”
“Sit down,” he gestured to a chair. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
Albert put the kettle on, fetched biscuits from the cupboard. His room was quiet and cozy, military photos on the walls, books stacked neatly on the table.
“Tell me about the blanket again,” he said. “In detail.”
Margaret did. Albert listened intently, nodding occasionally.
“See,” he said finally, “we all know each other here. No one’s going to nick a blanket. It’s not money, not valuables.”
“Then where is it?”
“Could you have moved it? Maybe hung it somewhere else to dry?”
“No!” Margaret nearly leapt up. “I’m not daft! I know where I left it!”
Albert poured the tea, sliding a cup toward her.
“Margaret, when did you last wash it?”
“Two months ago. Why?”
“Just wondering. Maybe it got tucked away somewhere? Behind a cupboard, under the bed?”
“I’ve looked everywhere!” Margaret’s voice broke. “Mum’s blanket… The only thing I have left of her!”
“Don’t fret. It’ll turn up. Things don’t just disappear.”
Margaret sipped her tea and returned to her room. She ransacked every drawer, checked under the bed, even the balcony. The blanket was nowhere.
That evening, she stepped back into the hallway. Emily was feeding the baby in the kitchen; Eleanor was washing dishes.
“Eleanor,” Margaret said softly, “I’m sorry about this morning. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Forget it,” Eleanor muttered, not turning around. “Used to it by now.”
“But the blanket really is gone.”
“Gone is gone. It’ll turn up.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Buy a new one.”
“A new one?” Margaret’s eyes welled up. “You can’t just replace Mum’s blanket!”
Eleanor turned. Margaret’s face was so wretched that she softened.
“Don’t be so dramatic!” she said. “We’ll find it. Tomorrow, we’ll search properly.”
“You’ll really help?”
“Course I will. Just stop the waterworks.”
The next morning, Eleanor kept her word. They combed the flat, checked every inch, scoured the bathroom. Nothing.
“Maybe a neighbor took it?” Eleanor suggested. “The bathroom door’s never locked.”
“Who’d want an old blanket?” Margaret sighed. “Faded, worn out.”
“You said yourself it was lovely.”
“To me it is! To anyone else, it’s just a rag.”
They sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea. Emily put the baby down for a nap; Albert stayed in his room, reading.
“Margaret,” Eleanor said suddenly, “you didn’t take it yourself last night, did you? Sleepwalking, maybe?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I sleep like the dead!”
“Just a thought,” Eleanor shrugged. “Dreams do funny things.”
Margaret paused. Lately, her sleep had been restless. She kept dreaming of her mother—alive, young. They’d talk, wander their old house together.
“I don’t remember,” she admitted. “But I don’t think I got up.”
“Let’s ask Emily,” Eleanor suggested. “She’s up with the baby half the night. Might’ve seen something.”
Emily returned to the kitchen.
“What’s all this, then?” she asked.
“Margaret’s blanket’s gone missing,” Eleanor explained. “Did you hear or see anything last night? Anyone in the bathroom?”
Emily frowned.
“When was this?”
“Night before last,” Margaret said.
“Night before last?” Emily thought. “Yes, I was up. The baby was crying, so I took him to the bathroom to wash his face. But the blanket…” She hesitated. “What does it look like, your blanket?”
“Grey tartan, with fringe.”
“Oh!” Emily gasped. “I did see it! It wasn’t hanging up—it was on the floor!”
“On the floor?” Margaret echoed.
“Yes! I thought it odd, but figured you’d left it to dry. I picked it up and hung it back.”
“You hung it? But it
