“Forgive me, girls,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “What a dreadful scene I caused! Accusing you like that!”
“Where is my blanket? Where is it?” Edith Hawthorne’s shrill voice echoed through the flat, making the old wallpaper in the hallway shudder. “Margaret! Margaret Whitmore! Give me back my blanket at once!”
“Good heavens, Edith, what blanket?” Margaret appeared from the kitchen, wiping her damp hands on her apron. “Have you lost your senses? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me! My woolen blanket—the one my late mother left me! I know you’ve taken it!”
Margaret sighed heavily and stepped into the corridor, where the other tenants of their shared London flat had already gathered. Old Arthur Caldwell peered out from his room in slippers, while young Emily, clutching her newborn, stood frozen by her door, gently rocking the baby.
“Edith, do calm yourself!” Arthur tried to reason. “What a commotion you’ve made! The poor child is crying now!”
“I couldn’t care less about the child!” Edith shrieked, flailing her arms. “My blanket’s been stolen! My mother’s blanket! The only thing I have left of her!”
“For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together!” Margaret snapped. “What’s all this fuss? What blanket? I’ve never even seen the wretched thing!”
“Liar! Last evening I washed it and hung it in the bathroom to dry. This morning—gone! Vanished! Who else could have taken it but you? You’re always meddling about!”
Emily slipped quietly into her room, eager to avoid the row. The baby had indeed begun to whimper at the raised voices. Arthur shook his head and retreated behind his door.
“Edith,” Margaret took a deep breath, “I understand you’re upset. But accusing me of theft—that’s beyond the pale!”
“Then who? Arthur? At seventy-five, he hardly needs a blanket! Emily with her baby? She’s got nappies enough to drown in! That leaves only you!”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” Margaret threw up her hands. “I’ve had enough of your accusations! First it’s sugar gone missing, then milk drunk, now a blanket! Perhaps you’ve mislaid it yourself!”
“How dare you!” Edith’s face flushed crimson. “Am I some madwoman, stealing my own blanket?”
“How should I know?” Margaret scoffed. “You might’ve forgotten where you left it. None of us are as sharp as we once were.”
“Don’t you mock my memory!” Edith banged her fist against the wall. “My memory is perfectly sound! I know exactly where I left that blanket!”
Margaret sank wearily onto the hallway chair. Living with Edith grew more trying by the day. Once merely a grumbling neighbor, she’d become a proper tyrant.
“Edith,” she said softly, “let’s sort this calmly. Describe your blanket.”
“Wool,” Edith muttered, lowering her voice. “Grey, with a tartan pattern and fringe along the edges. My mother knitted it in her youth. I’ve treasured it like the crown jewels.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Last night, after washing it—by hand, with gentle soap. Hung it in the bathroom. This morning—gone!”
Margaret frowned. The blanket might’ve been taken, but why? They’d all lived together for years. Arthur was an honorable man, a retired soldier. Emily was a young mother, far too busy for petty theft. That left her—but why would she want an old blanket?
“Perhaps it fell?” she suggested. “The line snapped?”
“I’ve looked everywhere!” Edith waved her off. “The bathroom, the hall, the washing machine—nowhere to be found!”
“Odd,” Margaret murmured. “Very odd.”
A hiss came from the kitchen—something boiling over. Margaret jumped up.
“Blast, the potatoes!” She dashed off to salvage supper.
Edith stood alone in the corridor. She wandered the flat, searching every nook. The blanket had vanished into thin air. Yet it wasn’t just a thing to her. When her mother passed, Edith had taken little from the family home—a few photographs, her mother’s spectacles, and this blanket. The rest had been claimed by relatives.
The blanket smelled of her mother’s bedroom, of lavender and the warmth only childhood remembers. Edith had wrapped herself in it through fevers, sorrows, and lonely nights when she longed for her mother’s presence.
“Arthur?” She tapped at his door. “Might I come in?”
The door opened. Arthur stood in a worn jumper, a newspaper in hand.
“Come in, Edith. Only do keep your voice down.”
“Forgive my outburst,” she said, abashed. “But the blanket’s truly missing. Have you seen anything?”
“Sit,” he gestured to a chair. “Tea?”
“Thank you.”
Arthur set the kettle on and fetched biscuits. His room was quiet and snug, with military photos on the walls and books on the table.
“Tell me again about the blanket,” he urged. “In detail.”
Edith recounted the tale. Arthur listened, nodding now and then.
“You see,” he said at last, “we all know each other here. No one would steal, least of all a blanket. It’s not as though it’s money or jewels.”
“Then where is it?”
“Could you have moved it? Perhaps hung it elsewhere to dry?”
“Certainly not!” Edith bristled. “I’m not senile! I know where I left it!”
Arthur poured the tea and slid a cup her way.
“Edith, 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 looked everywhere!” Edith’s voice quivered. “My mother’s blanket—the only piece of her I have left!”
“Now, now, don’t fret. It’ll turn up. Things don’t just disappear.”
Edith drank her tea and returned to her room. She ransacked every drawer, peered under the bed, checked the balcony. The blanket had vanished without trace.
That evening, she ventured back into the hall. Emily was feeding her baby in the kitchen; Margaret washed dishes.
“Margaret,” Edith began timidly, “I do apologize for this morning. I never meant to offend you.”
“Oh, never mind,” Margaret muttered, not turning. “I’m used to it.”
“But the blanket really is gone.”
“Well, gone it may be. It’ll turn up.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Buy a new one.”
“A new one?” Edith nearly wept. “You can’t replace my mother’s blanket with some shop-bought thing!”
Margaret turned. Edith’s face was so woebegone that she softened despite herself.
“Don’t carry on so!” she chided. “We’ll find your blanket. Tomorrow we’ll search properly.”
“You’ll really help?”
“Of course. Only dry those eyes.”
True to her word, Margaret helped the next morning. They combed the flat, inspected every corner, scoured the bathroom. The blanket remained missing.
“Perhaps a neighbor took it?” Margaret suggested. “The bathroom door’s never locked.”
“Who’d want an old blanket?” Edith sighed. “Faded and worn.”
“You called it lovely yourself.”
“Lovely to me! To others, just a rag.”
They sat in the kitchen with tea. Emily put her baby down; Arthur read in his room.
“Edith,” Margaret said suddenly, “could you have taken it last night? Sleepwalking, perhaps?”
“Ridiculous! I sleep like the dead!”
“Stranger things have happened,” Margaret shrugged. “Might’ve been dreaming.”
Edith paused. Lately, she’d slept fitfully, dreaming of her mother—young, alive. In those dreams, she wandered the old house, talking to her.
“I don’t recall,” she admitted. “But I doubt I’d have risen.”
“Let’s ask Emily,” Margaret said. “She’s up nights with the baby. Might’ve seen something.”
Emily returned to the kitchen.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“Edith’s blanket went missing,” Margaret explained. “Did you hear anything last night? See anyone in the bathroom?”
Emily frowned.
“When was this?”
“Night before last.”
“Oh!” Emily’s hands flew up. “I did see it! Not hanging—it was on the floor!”
“On the floor?” Edith echoed.
“Yes! I thought it odd, but assumed you’d left it to dry. I picked it up and hung it back.”
“Hung it? But it wasn’t there in the morning!”
“I don’t know,” Emily said, flustered. “I’m certain I hung it.”
Margaret and Edith exchanged glances.
“To the bathroom,” Margaret said. “One more look.”
The three women searched meticulously. They checked behind the washing machine, on every shelf.
“Wait,” Emily said suddenly. “What’s that
