The Button Under Her Ear

The button was exactly where Mila wanted to put her head. She turned the pillow over. Now it was on the other side, still under her ear.

She sat up and tugged at the pillowcase. One little white button stuck out from the row holding the opening shut. At home, their pillowcases had a flap you tucked underneath. This was one of Grandma's, and Grandma had just told her everything was ready.

Out on the landing, Mum was talking about a spare key. Mila heard it clink onto a saucer.

‘See you on Monday, then. Two o’clock at the old house?’

‘It’s on the calendar,’ said Grandma.

‘Ring if you need anything.’

‘Eva, there’s always something. Right now, I can’t find my colander.’

Mila swung her legs off the bed. The yellow carpet felt warmer than the tiles in Grandma’s old spare room. Here, you could sit on the windowsill without your feet dangling. Her bag fitted exactly between the bed and a little cupboard. She had liked the room when she first came in. She just didn’t know where anything was yet.

‘Bye, Mum!’ she called.

Mum appeared in the doorway again and looked at the pillow on Mila’s lap.

‘Going to bed already?’

‘I’m just trying something.’

‘Leave your grandma something to do.’ She kissed Mila’s head, next to the spot where the button had been. ‘Enjoy the puppet show. Send me a picture if that flower’s still alive.’

‘It’s made of paper.’

‘Paper flowers can die too. In your bag, for instance.’

Mila pushed the bag further under the bed with her foot. The flower had been on the fisherman’s boot for a whole week. Nothing could happen to it there.

Downstairs, the front door slammed. The sound travelled up the stairwell, much louder than Mila expected. At the old house, you used the back door. Grandma would hear your bike on the gravel and call out not to lean it against her herbs. Here, Mum had pressed a bell, and a little voice in the wall had told her the door was open.

Grandma came in carrying an empty washing basket.

‘What are you fiddling with?’

Mila pointed to the button.

‘Oh, that. Your mum used to have arguments with those too.’

‘Why have you still got them, then?’

‘Because there’s nothing wrong with the rest of the pillowcase.’ Grandma put the basket down. ‘There are others in the linen cupboard. Top shelf, on the left. Help yourself.’

She went out again. Mila heard one drawer open, then another. She left the pillowcase and went into the living room. On the little table were scissors, two elastic bands and a shallow box full of lids. No colander.

‘Where’s your worktable?’ she asked.

Grandma looked up from a kitchen cupboard. ‘Still at the old house.’

‘Is it coming here?’

‘That thing’s nearly as long as this kitchen.’

Mila studied the space between the fridge and the door. Perhaps if they took the little table away. They could stack the chairs. There was that empty corner by the window, too.

‘You could put it at an angle.’

‘Then I’d have to cook at an angle.’ Grandma shut the cupboard. ‘For now, this is where I eat. I’ll find somewhere else to work. Go and get your pillowcase, or we’ll be late.’

The linen cupboard in the hall stood half open. At least it still smelt the same: soap and wood, and beneath that the cool smell of sheets folded away for a long time. Mila pulled a stack of pillowcases towards her. The top one had flowers on it. Underneath was a white one edged with lace.

There was light behind the stack.

She stood still, holding the flowered pillowcase. Perhaps the cupboard had a little lamp inside. In the new kitchen, lights came on by themselves when you lifted the flap above the cooker.

Mila pushed the pillowcases aside. A bundle tied with blue ribbon lay behind them. A thin line shone between two folds. She held her ear close. No buzzing. No little fan. The bundle felt soft and slightly cool.

She gently pulled the bow undone.

The cloth unfolded over her wrists. It was about the size of a tea towel. At first it looked grey. Then Mila lifted it, and a pale light spread across her fingers. She could see every line on her hand, even the little crescent where she had pressed a pencil into her skin that afternoon.

She lowered the cloth. The light moved with it.

A cardboard label hung from the hem. Grandma had written on it in small, sloping letters.

Borrowed moonlight. Keep in one piece. Before morning, unfold outside with the shining side towards the sky.

Mila read it again. Then she turned the cloth over. The back was ordinary grey, like a dishcloth no one had used yet. She checked the edge for a wire leading to a plug.

Grandma appeared with one shoe in her hand.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘There it is.’

‘What is this?’

‘It says on the label.’

‘I mean really.’

Grandma glanced towards the spare-room window. ‘Hold it up over there.’

Mila went into the room. Outside, the moon hung above the chimneys. In the glass, she could see her own face and the shining cloth beneath her chin. The threads leaned ever so slightly towards the window, like grass bending as a bicycle went past.

She moved it away from the window. The movement grew fainter.

‘How are you doing that?’

Grandma sat on the edge of the bed and put her shoe on. ‘I’m not doing anything. My mother could weave light. Enough to thread a needle by if the lamp stopped working. She made this.’

Mila examined the hem. No switches. No buttons. Just the label.

‘Where was it before?’

‘This evening? On the balcony. I let it borrow some moonlight. Then I fetched a clean pillowcase and put it in the cupboard for a moment.’

Grandma bent to put on her other shoe. Her long coat hung on the door. The room had grown so dark that its sleeves looked like arms.

‘Can I have it tonight?’ Mila asked.

‘Until bedtime. We’ll give the light back first. It all has to be gone before the sun comes up, or the cloth will never shine again.’

‘Could you make a new piece?’

‘I couldn’t.’

Mila stroked the edge. ‘What about cutting off a tiny corner? For beside my bed?’

Grandma shook her head. ‘A cut piece goes dark straight away. The weave has to stay whole.’

The radiator gave a loud click. Mila looked round. Another click, much softer. The coat hadn’t moved.

‘Take it to the show,’ said Grandma. ‘In your pocket. The label and ribbon too. Don’t leave them lying about.’

Mila folded the cloth carefully. The bundle fitted into her coat’s wide pocket. She left the flowered pillowcase on the bed for now and put her shoes on.

‘Mila?’

She stopped in the doorway.

Grandma was holding something above her head. The colander.

‘On top of the fridge,’ she said. ‘I’d never have thought of looking there.’

Mila felt through her coat to check the light was still there. Then she did up the zip.