Lang Willie

Aye, lang may the willie keep us warm, Morag, Arthur says.

Are you taking the mickey, Arthur?

Morag and Arthur are sitting on two worn faux-leather arm chairs in front of a two-bar electric heater. They hold their stocking-soled feet out to catch the warmth. They both have a blanket around their shoulders. His is moss green, hers is a red and yellow tartan.

Morag is wearing a black woollen hat with a scarlet pompom and a matching coat. She has not unbuttoned the coat. A soft grey scarf in a silky material sits up around her chin, hiding her neck. Arthur is wearing a pale brown v-neck sweater over a shirt of a similar colour. His trousers have a neat pressed line down the centre of each leg. One of his socks is black, the other navy blue.

The net curtain over the one small window shivers. It is dark out, four in the afternoon in the far north of the country. The radio on the sideboard is almost inaudible. It’s probably cricket commentary. It was always cricket commentary. Behind the pair, stretched along the bottom of the front door, is a black velour lang willie, its pink eye fixed on Morag.

Just making conversation, Arthur says.

Aye, Morag replies. She fiddles in the leather tote bag on her lap, takes out a toffee, unwraps it and rolls it into her mouth. She sucks on the sweet and wriggles her toes. Her left cheek bulges. She looks at the faded floral wallpaper, the chipped table legs, the sideboard with nothing on it but the radio and a white candle in a beer bottle.

Fifty years, Morag, he says. To the day. He pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders. Looks into the heater. Not even a postcard, he says. Not even.

I was never big on postcards, she says. She takes the toffee out of her mouth, wraps it in a tissue and puts in her bag. Pulls her scarf higher up her neck.

I thought you were, you know… Arthur shifts in the chair, crosses his legs, uncrosses them.

What’s that, Arthur?

Dead. I thought you were dead.

Why would I be dead? Morag’s tone is neutral. She looks at Arthur for the first time since they’ve sat down. Outside, the rain starts and the wind picks up. The light in the small room flickers, fades and resets.

Arthur takes a moment to reply. That’s what the papers said, he says. And the postmaster.

That Eric wouldn’t know nothing, Morag says. Her voice has risen an octave.

He was your boss, love.

Love? You’ve picked up an odd way of speaking, Arthur.

Arthur crosses his legs again. His eyes fix on the upper bar in the heater. The heater gives their faces the faintest of orange glows.

Morag looks at Arthur’s hands. The ring is still there. The flat wide gold band. Her lips tremble. She reaches for the toffee.

Arthur pushes his hands under his blanket. Strokes his knees. Morag wonders whether there’s a cat under there. Or worse.

Where did you get that lang willie, Arthur?

Mrs Hawthorne made it for me. After the double pneumonia.

Pneumonia you say? That’ll be the smoking.

I’d given up, he says. The night you went. Promised myself. Promised you.

Oh, she says. They that dance must pay the fiddler.

Arthur coughs, pushes his blanket off and gets up from the chair. He walks to the window. Stands there with his back to her.

And who is Mrs Hawthorne, anyway? Morag continues.

Arthur pulls aside the net curtain and looks out into the glen. Watches the rain filling the potholes in the gravel track. Watches the rain sliding over Morag’s small red Mini.

What are you doing here, Morag? he says to the window.

I don’t know, love, she says. I don’t know.