Page 2 of Basket Case

“For what?”

“It’s a basket, Kathleen. You’re a university-educated woman. I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

I looked towards the pantry. “Can I put it in the shed?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Her voice was firm. “The damp will ruin it.”

“It looks older than the cottage.”

“All the more reason to take care of it. Are you going to the opening night of the festival tonight?”

I glanced at the orange flyer she’d left on the fridge. The words Samhain Celebration, 30-31 October curled above a drawing of a bonfire. In other places, they celebrated Halloween and went trick-or-treating. In this village, they still followed the old tradition of celebrating Samhain and going guising. I didn't feel in the mood for standing around a bonfire with strangers.

“I’ve just driven three hours through the rain.”

Gran chuckled. “You’ll survive.”

“I don’t know anyone.”

“They know you. Moira from across the road is coming to collect you at six.”

I checked the clock. “That’s in twenty minutes.”

“You’d better get changed.”

“Gran!”

This was so typical. She organised the lives of others and regularly forgot to tell us about it until it was almost too late. I’d planned to read a book tonight, curled up under a blanket, avoiding the rain at all costs. Instead, I’d have to take part in village life.

“I have to go. Douglas has accused me of cheating at darts.”

“Did you?”

“Of course. I’m eighty-two. I need every advantage I can get.”

She hung up.

That was so very like Gran that I couldn't suppress a soppy smile.

Six o'clock on the dot, Moira knocked on the door. She hugged me before I could offer a hand and pushed a metal cup of whisky into my fingers. I dimly remembered her from previous visits, but she treated me like a long-lost niece.

Half an hour later, I was standing beside a bonfire at the edge of the village while rain hissed against the flames. Turnip lanterns glowed along the stone wall, their carved faces far more threatening than a pumpkin could ever be.

Children in costumes chased one another through the mud, and a fiddle player had set up beneath a canvas shelter.

Everyone knew who I was.

They remembered me visiting Gran during school holidays and the time I’d fallen into the burn. One woman remembered changing my nappy, information she shared before asking whether I had a husband.

And this was why I lived in a city where I could hide in anonymity and nobody could tell me about my childhood nappy rash.

By my second whisky, the village knew I was single and trying out village life for the first time. But only for a week, which they all found hilarious.

By my third, I had agreed to pull up a vegetable in search of a man. Go figure that one out.