In Loving Memory Read Free

thought. Then coming to her senses, she smoothed back her wayward hair into its steel-pinned prison of a tight bun.
    On the point of tackling again her most hated chore of darning, Maggie suddenly heard a tapping noise at the front door of the cottage. This sound caused her to frown and mumble to herself.
    “Hmph! Only one person that can be! Everybody else here-abouts just lifts the latch, yoo-hoos, ‘It’s only me’, and walks straight in.”
    When Maggie opened the door, as she had mentally predicted, she found herself staring into the eyes of her next-door neighbour. Jess Johnson was a young woman of medium height and build with jet-black hair and sad grey eyes. She was roughly the same age as Maggie. But whereas Maggie, wed the same length of time as her neighbour, had produced to date a child for every year of her fruitful marriage, poor Jess remained barren.
    Strangely enough, although the subject was never discussed in so many words, the contrast in this important aspect of their lifestyles caused jealousy on the one hand, while on the other, there was the occasional shaft of longing for an uncluttered home, free of wailing, hungry and demanding children.
    With the unspoken yet almost tangible barrier between them, nevertheless the two women kept up the appearance of a friendship which fooled nobody, least of all themselves.
    With being such close neighbours it would have been well-nigh impossible to avoid each other anyway. Not only that, but Jess almost as if to punish herself for her infertility, kept coming back again and again on the slightest pretext, but really to gaze in adoration on Maggie’s lovely brood.
    Maggie’s lips pressed into a thin line as the thought crossed her mind, Yes! She thinks they’re all little angels. And here comes Madam Johnson for another session of worshipping my lot. Angels! If only she knew! Anyway, I’ll have to take care or the stupid woman will be spoiling them rotten with all her nonsense.
    Almost as an admittance ticket, Jess held out a wooden platter of scones.
    “These are just off the griddle. They’ll be nice for eatin’ the morro-morn at breakfast-time. Ah know that yer weans love ma treacle-scones.”
    Thanking her, Maggie waved her neighbour to the one and only easy chair, normally reserved for Fergus, the lord and master of the house. To break the uneasy silence which settled between them, Maggie hastened to say:
    “If you were hoping to see the bairns, Jess, I’m afraid you’re much too late – they’re all fast asleep.”
    The other woman waved aside her words.
    “Uch, fine weel ye ken Ah love tae hae a bit keek at the wee darlins when they’re in the land o’ nod. They look jist like God’s heavenly angels then.”
    For some reason just then Maggie found that she could not stomach the other woman’s cloying sentimentality.
    “For heaven’s sake, Jess, believe me, they’re far short of being angels. More like little devils, if truth were told.”
    One look at her neighbour’s face and at once Maggie knew that she had offended her. So as soon as she decently could, Jess departed in a rare old huff and with her mumper-face firmly set.
    Again alone with only her sleeping children for company, Maggie once more set-to with as much enthusiasm as she could  muster to tackle the Ben Nevis of holed socks still awaiting her attention. No sooner had she lifted the bodkin than she heard the sound of the door-sneck being raised.
    But it was not after all her Fergus who entered the room.
    With a ‘Yoo-hoo, it’s only me’ there came into the cottage Mistress Weir, the middle-aged wife of a neighbouring weaver.
    Maggie’s face changed colour at the sight of the known tale-carrier and inveterate bearer of bad tidings.
    With an inward groan, Maggie laid down her bodkin and rose to greet this latest visitor with the words of welcome normal in their social circle.
    “Oh! And it’s yourself, Mistress Weir”
    A sour expression which normally passed for a