She lays out the wool in evenly spaced bundles and polishes each button until it reflects her asphalt-grey iris. It’s a careful equation. Knit one, purl one. Soft wool yielding to hard needles. One tiny cardigan for the baby unit, one good deed to balance a bad one.
A wholesome baking smell fills the room as she clicks the needles in a steady rhythm. This is Margaret’s favourite time of day, the sun just beginning to filter through the curtains. This is when hope shines brightest, when the rest of the world is still asleep and her to-do list is already half-done. Reverend James will collect the cakes later, his soothing voice an antidote to the harsh one in her head. ‘Saint’ will drown out ‘Sinner’ for a few hours. ‘Thank you’ will banish ‘How could you?’ at least until darkness falls.
Ruby doesn’t usually stir until mid-day. Now she lies on the sofa beneath the yellow blanket Margaret knitted. In retrospect, the colour was a mistake. She’d hoped it would brighten Ruby’s pallor, but it only highlights the purple bruises on her neck. They glow accusingly in the morning light, shadowy reminders of a day when Margaret was far from good. When she turned a blind eye. Now she must never look away. Not from anything, ever.
The doorbell rings, and with a sigh, Margaret sets her knitting aside. It’s the people from Women’s Aid, she can tell from their angelic stillness through the frosted glass. She picks up the charity box and paints on a smile.
Alice and Esther beam expectantly on the doorstep. They don’t speak. They don’t need to fill the silence.
‘I have more to collect,’ Margaret says, thrusting the box towards them. ‘I completed the sponsored walk, despite the bad hip. Three hundred pounds so far!’
‘Wonderfully kind,’ Esther says.
And then they are gone, flying off to do more good deeds. Margaret stands empty-handed and empty-hearted in the doorway.
When she returns to the lounge, Ruby is sitting bolt upright. She stares through Margaret with stony eyes. ‘Why didn’t you help? I should be a mother by now, with a daughter called Lila who likes dancing and Taylor Swift.’
Margaret sinks to her knees and reaches for her, but it’s too late by twenty years. She can still see her, running panic-stricken through the crowd, sunlight playing on her hair, a man in pursuit. Margaret had looked and then continued walking. No harm could befall a woman in a public place. Someone would intervene. Someone stronger and less busy than her. Wouldn’t they?
And while Margaret was checking apples for bruises before putting them in her basket, Ruby was lying on the concrete.
Now there’s only the yellow blanket, rough on Margaret’s cheek, and her muffled cries of ‘Sorry.’ Ruby is always gone before she says it. If she can just say it earlier tomorrow, maybe Ruby will finally disappear. But Margaret owes it to both of them to never let her go.
