“Girls, forgive me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What a scene I made! I accused you all!”
“Where is my blanket?! Where is it?!” Margaret’s voice echoed through the flat, rattling the old wallpaper in the narrow hall. “Eleanor! Eleanor Whitaker! Give me back my blanket this instant!”
“What blanket, Margaret?” Eleanor stepped out from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “Have you lost your mind? What are you on about?”
“Don’t play dumb! My wool blanket, the one my late mother left me! I know you took it!”
Eleanor let out a weary sigh and walked into the corridor, where the other tenants of the shared flat had gathered. Elderly Reginald peeked out from his room in slippers, while young Emily stood frozen by her door, bouncing her baby in her arms.
“Margaret, calm yourself!” Reginald tried to reason. “What a fuss you’re making! The poor child’s crying now!”
“I couldn’t care less about the baby!” Margaret shrieked, flailing her arms. “My blanket’s been stolen! My mother’s blanket! The last thing I have of hers!”
“For heaven’s sake, stop this!” Eleanor snapped. “What’s gotten into you? What blanket? I’ve never even seen it!”
“Liar! Last night I washed it and hung it in the bathroom to dry. This morning—gone! Vanished! Who else could’ve taken it but you? You’re the meddler around here!”
Emily quietly slipped back into her room, unwilling to be drawn into the drama. The baby’s whimpers had turned into full cries. Reginald shook his head and retreated behind his door.
“Margaret,” Eleanor took a deep breath, “I understand you’re upset. But accusing me of theft? That’s beyond the pale!”
“Then who?” Margaret planted her hands on her hips. “Reginald? A seventy-five-year-old man doesn’t need a blanket! Emily with her baby? She’s drowning in nappies! That leaves you!”
“Oh, stuff it with your accusations!” Eleanor threw her hands up. “First the sugar goes missing, then the milk, now this! Maybe you misplaced it yourself?”
“How dare you!” Margaret’s face turned crimson. “Do I look mad to you? Stealing my own blanket?”
“How should I know?” Eleanor scoffed. “Maybe you forgot where you put it. We’re none of us as sharp as we used to be.”
“Don’t you dare mock my memory!” Margaret slammed her fist against the wall. “My mind’s as clear as day! That blanket was in the bathroom!”
Exhausted, Eleanor sank onto the hallway chair. Living with Margaret had become unbearable. Once just a grumpy neighbour, she’d turned into a full-blown tyrant.
“Margaret,” she said quietly, “let’s be sensible. Describe the blanket.”
“Wool,” Margaret muttered, slightly deflated. “Grey checkered, with fringe. My mother knitted it when she was young. I’ve treasured it like gold.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Washed it last night—by hand, with gentle soap. Hung it in the bathroom. This morning—poof! Gone!”
Eleanor frowned. Someone could’ve taken it—but why? They’d all lived together for years. Reginald was an honest man, a veteran. Emily was too busy with her baby. That left her—but why would she want an old blanket?
“Maybe it fell?” she offered. “The line snapped?”
“I checked everywhere!” Margaret waved her off. “Behind the washer, under the sink—nothing!”
A hiss came from the kitchen—something boiling over. Eleanor jumped up.
“Blast, the potatoes!” She dashed off to salvage dinner.
Left alone, Margaret wandered the flat, peering into every corner. The blanket had disappeared like smoke. Yet it wasn’t just fabric—it was her last tie to her mother. After the funeral, she’d taken little: a few photos, her mum’s reading glasses, and this blanket. The rest had been divided among relatives.
It still carried the scent of her mother’s bedroom—rosewater and the faint trace of lavender from her childhood. She’d wrapped herself in it through fevers, heartaches, lonely nights.
“Reginald?” She knocked softly. “May I come in?”
The door opened. Reginald stood in a worn jumper, newspaper in hand.
“Come in, Margaret. Just keep it down, eh?”
“I’m sorry for shouting,” she mumbled. “But the blanket’s truly gone. Have you seen anything?”
“Sit,” he gestured to a chair. “Tea?”
“Please.”
He filled the kettle, fetched biscuits. His room was snug, lined with military photos and well-thumbed books.
“Tell me about the blanket,” he said. “Properly.”
She did. He listened, nodding occasionally.
“See,” he finally said, “we’ve all lived here long enough to know each other. No one would nick a blanket. It’s not exactly jewellery, is it?”
“Then where is it?”
“Could you’ve moved it? Maybe hung it elsewhere to dry?”
“No!” Margaret nearly leapt up. “I’m not senile! I know where I left it!”
Reginald poured the tea, slid a cup toward her.
“Margaret, when did you last wash it?”
“Two months back. Why?”
“Just wondering. Might it be tucked away somewhere? Behind a cupboard, under the bed?”
“I’ve turned the place upside down!” Her voice cracked. “It’s all I have left of her!”
“Don’t fret. It’ll turn up. Things don’t just vanish.”
Margaret drank her tea and returned to her room. She searched again—wardrobes, under the bed, the balcony. Nothing.
That evening, she ventured back out. Emily was feeding her baby in the kitchen; Eleanor scrubbed dishes.
“Eleanor,” Margaret began hesitantly, “I’m sorry about this morning. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Oh, never mind,” Eleanor muttered, not turning around. “Used to it by now.”
“But the blanket really is missing.”
“Missing, then. It’ll show up.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Buy a new one.”
“A new one?” Margaret’s eyes welled up. “You can’t replace my mother’s blanket!”
Eleanor turned. Margaret’s face was so stricken that she softened despite herself.
“Oh, don’t carry on so,” she sighed. “We’ll find it. Tomorrow, we’ll look properly.”
“You’ll help?”
“Yes, yes. Just dry your eyes.”
True to her word, Eleanor helped search the next morning. They combed every inch—bathroom, cupboards, even the dusty space behind the boiler. Nothing.
“Maybe a neighbour took it?” Eleanor suggested. “The bathroom door’s never locked.”
“Who’d want an old blanket?” Margaret slumped. “Faded, worn…”
“You said it was lovely.”
“To me it is! To anyone else? Just a rag.”
They sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea. Emily rocked her baby to sleep; Reginald read in his room.
“Margaret,” Eleanor suddenly said, “could you have taken it in the night? Sleepwalking, perhaps?”
“Don’t be absurd! I sleep like the dead!”
“Well, you never know,” Eleanor shrugged. “Dreams do odd things.”
Margaret paused. Lately, her sleep had been restless. Vivid dreams of her mother—young, alive—talking in their old house.
“I don’t remember,” she admitted. “But I don’t think so.”
“Let’s ask Emily,” Eleanor suggested. “Up all hours with the baby—maybe she saw something.”
Emily returned to the kitchen.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“Margaret’s blanket’s gone missing,” Eleanor explained. “Did you notice anything last night? Anyone in the bathroom?”
Emily frowned. “When?”
“Night before last,” Margaret said.
“Oh!” Emily’s eyes widened. “I did see something! Not in the bathroom—on the floor!”
“The floor?” Margaret gasped.
“Yes! I thought it odd, but assumed you’d left it to dry. I hung it back up.”
“Hung it? But it wasn’t there in the morning!”
“I swear I did,” Emily said, bewildered.
Eleanor and Margaret exchanged glances.
“To the bathroom,” Eleanor declared.
The three women searched again—every shelf, every corner.
“Wait,” Emily said suddenly. “What’s that?”
She pointed to the narrow gap between the tub and the wall. Eleanor crouched, peering in.
“There’s something there!” she exclaimed. “Can’t reach it—the space is too tight.”
“Let me,” Emily said. “My hands are smaller.”
She carefully slid her arm in, fingers brushing fabric.
