Morag gazed wistfully at the cardboard boxes that contained her few remaining possessions. There was no anger in her now only sadness and defeat. Memories of happier times pierced her gloom only to be cut off by clouds of despair. At fifty-five years of age she had nothing, nothing to show for thirty-two years of marriage. Everything they had worked for had gone to pay debts. Their home, furniture and all of the little things that had made life worth living had been sold.

 

 She looked around at a bedroom empty but for boxes, twisting the reel of tape nervously in her hands as memories tore at her, threatening to break her calm. The door was open and she could hear her son-in-law downstairs talking to her daughter, his words muffled and far away, only the anger carrying clearly.
“Pipe-dreams, that’s all it is... If she thinks that I’d drag the kids all that way..."
If only she didn’t have to go, it was kind of them to take her in but all of her instincts were screaming in protest. Why didn’t she have the courage to take charge of her own life? Why was the idea of her living alone so unacceptable? There seemed to be only one person who didn’t think that she was verging on senility.

 

 The end of the tape seemed to have disappeared, she leaned on the cardboard box to keep it shut as she scraped the nail of a slim finger around the reel, vainly trying to find the missing end, her hand trembling. Suddenly, It was all too much, she wanted to scream and shout, stop it before it went too far, before the situation was irreversible, be her own woman. She put the tape down and came out of the room and started down the stairs her mind made up. She was halfway, slippered feet silent on the steps, when she heard Peter again, his voice clearer now.
“It’s that tutor of hers, filling her head with blasted nonsense. At least down there she’ll be able to contribute something. She hasn’t got a penny to her name, if you let her go to Scotland she won't last a month and you know it!"

 Her face burned as she rushed back up the stairs and shut the bedroom door behind her. She sat on the floor and put her head in her hands, feelings of guilt mixing with the anger that threatened to bubble uncontrollably to the surface. How dare he! How dare he speak of her like that, but for the fact that he was her daughter’s husband... She wasn’t a child, nor was she mentally or physically incapable. Her eyes started to sting but she fought against it, fought against the self-pity, drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them as she struggled for control.
 
 She lifted her head, numbness replacing the anger making her feel detached as though it were all happening to someone else. The room looked smaller now, small and pathetic. How she hated the idea of being dependent on others for a place to live, but with no money what choice had she? Her life from here on seemed destined to be one of constant worry over whether she was being a nuisance or not, and of trying to fit in with someone else’s timetable.

 

 A smile tugged at the corners of down-turned lips, as the memory of that time in the college refractory when, over coffee, she had told Tony about the cottage. She was as high as a kite that day - he must have thought her drunk - babbling like a lunatic. “It’s beautiful, Tony, it’s right at the foot of Beinn Dearg on Cape Wrath, the mountain shelters it from the wind and there’s a lovely little river nearby - I can just afford the rent. You should see it in the autumn when everything is purple and gold, but it’s beautiful in the winter too, it belongs to a friend..." The words had cascaded from her like water down a mountain. “It’s drafty of course, and I would have to do something with the doors, and put cling film on the windows to seal them, and everything would have to be painted in bright colours to banish the gloom. But, oh, Tony, it will be so cosy when the fire is lit and shadows dance around the room. To sit there on a winter’s evening and sketch by the light of Lamps and the glow from the fire - that’s a dream to die for."

 

 He had laughed with her, sharing her excitement, lost with her in the dream.
“I’ve wanted to go home to Scotland ever since David died."
His earnest face, sandwiched between a mop of unruly hair and the neck of a baggy sweater, had looked so serious as he answered her.
“I know you have Morag and I cannot see any reason why you shouldn’t, there’s nothing to stop you."
“My daughter says I’m crazy. She insists that I go to live with her and her family in Bristol... She is right, you know, it is too big a step, too far away, too remote..."
He had looked at her for a moment, his gaze intent, voice very quiet. "It will be an enormous shame if you stop painting now, and I fear that is what will happen if you go to Bristol. I’m your tutor but also, I hope, your friend and I can’t help but feel that you would be terribly unhappy if you do what they want."
She hadn’t been able to answer him and had just sat there dumbly staring at the Formica top, knowing that he was young and unattached and had no idea of the sort of pressure a family can exert.

 Leaning against the bedroom wall for leverage, she got up off the floor, her legs feeling weak and useless as she tried to stand. Why hadn’t David confided in her? Why hadn’t he told her about the mess they were in, told her the business was failing? She missed him but he was well out of it. He had taken the easy way out and the awful thing was that she almost envied him.
Her daughter’s voice drifted up from the hallway.
“Mum are you coming down? Peter and I will have to go now."
She shut her eyes and tried to empty her mind of the nagging resentment that seemed to be poisoning her, forcing her face into what she believed was a look of composure as she headed for the stairs.
“Just a second, I’m on my way."

 Catriona was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, the shadows combining with her black hair to make her look strangely fey.
“Are you okay mum? Will you be okay driving down on your own?" There were tears in her eyes as she searched her mother’s face, trying to discover what was hidden behind the almost deathly calm.
Morag cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. "I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me, I’m a big girl now, I can find my way to Bristol."
“I know it’s not what you want, mum, but it’s for the best."
“Yes sweetheart, I know, I’m just being silly."

 

 "Hurry up, Catriona, we have a long way to go and we have to be there before the kids get home from school.” Peter’s voice came from behind the pile of boxes he was carrying, the small moustache looking faintly ridiculous as he looked over the pile. "The trailer’s full now, Morag, you’ll have to bring the rest of the stuff with you in the Volvo. Don’t worry about the keys, I’ve given the estate agent two sets."
"Thank you Peter, that’s very kind of you."
Peter was dressed in his usual tee shirt, jogging bottoms and trainers, his manner supposedly informal and friendly, but Morag could sense the distance between him and herself and it added to her unease.
"Take care mum, won't you?" Catriona’s tone was almost pleading and Morag hugged her daughter to her, whispering little nonsense words to her as though she was still a child.
"I’m going to be fine, you take yourself off and get home to the children. I’ll be there later on tonight."

 

 She waved them off, went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. Then, standing with her back resting against the units, looked out of the window at the flower beds and vegetable plots that she and David had been so proud of. She wrapped her hands tightly around the warm cup, and for the first time since David’s death - began to cry. Softly at first, the hot tears trickling down her face. Then the weeping turned to sobs and she clutched at the worktop as her body was wracked by the pain of it all. She stood there and held on for what seemed like hours as her body jerked with the sobbing until the tears subsided, and she collapsed against the top, feeling weak and tired.

 

 She washed her face in cold water at the sink and started to pack the kettle, teapot and cups but it was becoming harder to carry out the tasks that she knew she must. As the time for her to leave drew ever closer she seemed to be slowing down, her reluctance making her movements slow and cumbersome, her mind on other things.

 

 "Do it." Tony had said. "Promise me that you will take the lease on the cottage - for goodness sake stand up for yourself."
She had played with her coffee cup and mumbled something about ‘asking the impossible’, had told him that he was being unfair and shouldn’t ask her to make promises that she couldn’t possibly keep. She had commitments, a family that needed her, a family that she needed. It would be selfish and foolish to just ‘up sticks’ at her age and move hundreds of miles away.
His reply had been short and to the point. 
 "Rubbish, you are still relatively young with probably another thirty years ahead of you, years that you will spend regretting not having had the courage to take charge of your own life."

 

 She felt as though she were being torn apart as she collected the boxes of personal things. All of her life she had tried to do the sensible thing, had always considered others before herself - and where had it got her? Now because she wanted to do something out of the ordinary, people treated her as though she were crazy.

 Having taped the last of the boxes from the bedroom, and stacked them in the hall ready to load into the back of the old estate car, Morag started to go from room to room. She lingered for the briefest of moments here and there, stopping to touch a door or brush a speck of dust from a radiator. Pausing for a second in the bathroom, she caught sight of her image in the mirror and was shocked to see the grey hair and the new lines and dark patches around her eyes.

 

 She set too then, eager to have it over with, a last look around and she began to load the car. The boxes were awkward and jammed on everything they touched, and it seemed to take ages before the task was completed. Finally with the house closed up, she slammed the tailgate shut and climbed into the driving seat. One last mental check to make sure that she had everything and, without looking around, she drove off the driveway and into the road.

 

 It seemed only minutes and she was on the main road leading to the motorway and the start of the long drive South to Bristol. Traffic lights stopped her and she pulled up with a truck labelled, ‘Morrison of Inverness’, on the inside lane to her left - but she felt nothing, no longing, no desire only emptiness. She just wished that the drive was over and she could go to bed and sleep.

  A few miles further on and the roundabout on the motorway was close now, a huge island in a sea of asphalt where vehicles rushed by at incredible speed. She approached it with her mind starting to drift to a lonely cottage with a river nearby. A cottage that called out for the warmth of human occupation, the glow of a peat fire, the smell of cooking...

 

 Her concentration gone she failed to indicate before starting to move to the left-hand lane to turn onto the slip road for the southbound carriageway. Suddenly she heard the blare of a horn and a squeal of brakes as the truck on the inside of her swerved.

 

 She swung the wheel hard to the right and fought for control, trying to brake and avoid the other traffic, the car weaving as she struggled to straighten up. She was past the turnoff by then, continuing around the roundabout, her face flushing with embarrassment as she noticed other drivers shaking their fists at her. The driver of the truck, still on the inside, mouthed an obscenity as he accelerated past and swung onto the slip road ahead.

 Offended and angry at his overreaction, knowing that he had been in the wrong lane, she found herself following him, her hands shaking on the wheel as she took in great gasps of air, the anger growing until she was fuming, mouthing oaths, determined to have it out with him.

 

  Then suddenly, in the space of a heartbeat, the anger was gone, melted away by a sheet of painted aluminium. She felt her body relax, felt strangely at peace for the first time in a long time, felt as though it had all been ordained, pre-planned by a higher power. It was there next to the hard shoulder and she glanced at it again as she accelerated along the motorway - the truck and its driver forgotten - a huge blue sign.