Coralie

The rain had let up. Coralie was on her way to Dolina’s Fiber Emporium to match an almost depleted skein of mauve embroidery floss. Where the gravel walk met the lane, a large grate sat at an angle, not settled nicely in the cement rectangle frame like usual. There was a gaping hole one of the smaller children could fall into. The storms of the last three days had washed leaves, mud, and other debris to the drain, and the grate was half buried in dross.

All of it would be covered in germs, she was sure.

Coralie hesitated to touch it without protective gloves. But if she asked the gardener Cormag to place it back, he’d laugh at her for not wanting to get her hands dirty. And say Scottish things she couldn’t understand.

It was true she hated getting her hands dirty.

It was true she hated when he laughed at her.

It was also true she hated not understanding. Two months in this tiny village too far from Glasgow and she still couldn’t follow what folks said. She’d thought it wouldn’t be much different than London. If she didn’t catch on before school started, well ... she just had to catch on.

She crossed her arms. Her features took on the deep stubborn look familiar to her parents and siblings. Glaring at the grate wouldn’t make it move, but it was something to do while she thought.

Coralie tried to push the grate with her boot. It shifted a little and she almost fell backward. Maybe she could push the grate back in place with a rake or shovel. But she’d have to go round back to find tools, and now that she’d found this hole she felt she couldn’t leave it unattended. She looked around and saw many branches on the ground under a nearby tree.

She ambled through the wet grass until she found a branch stout enough to do the job and short enough for her to carry.

Back at the grate, she set the thickest end of the branch against the edge and pushed as hard as she could.

The grate did a small hop forward, the branch slipped. Coralie lost her footing in the wet leaves, almost caught herself, but landed on her hip, one hand in a puddle. The skein of embroidery floss fell from her jacket pocket and quickly became muddy pewter instead of mauve.

But the hole was reduced to something too small for anyone to fall through.

The bit of satisfaction she might have enjoyed was overshadowed by cold water seeping through her jeans and the muck on her hand.

She saw Cormag strolling down the walk toward her.

“You’re looking a bit peely-wally, sitting there like a stookie.” He reached out a hand to help her up. “What come over ye, lassie?”

She offered her clean hand. He pulled her to her feet in one smooth motion.

“Scotland,” she said.