The oven was a bone of contention with Florrie. She kept it spotless herself, but the family upstairs, with whom they shared the kitchen, were less particular, and invariably Florrie had to clean it before she felt happy to use it. Personally she didn’t care about a bit of grease or mess, Rebecca thought now, as Florrie smiled back at her with an, ‘Oh you, you’re worse than a bairn the night,’ and carried on dishing up the meal. At home, and she still thought of the house she had lived in with Willie for the last four years as home, she had felt driven to remove even the merest speck of dust before it could settle. She’d felt that if she kept the house and all the furniture spotless, the uncleanness she felt in herself would get better. It hadn’t of course. How could it, when the perpetrator of that uncleanness had had free rein over her body and her mind? But she was free of that now . . . except in her head. ‘Pass them plates that are warming on the hob, lass.’ Florrie’s voice was quiet, her mind preoccupied.
