Little jobs

The Pykes have offered me an inside job. They have some painting work to do in their house and have asked me if I’d be willing to take it on. They know my situation – I’m part of that big marginalised section of Scots without a job, always on the scrounge for little jobs and dole money. The Pykes are old family friends – they knew my parents well, and saw me growing up. They also know of more recent events in my life, and sometimes look at me with sorry faces…I can almost hear them think “What a shame! She was really brilliant, and could have done so well for herself...” They’re right, in a sense. Common sense, I suppose. But my reason is another one entirely: I chose to come back here and to make do here and there. Paradoxically it’s a guarantee of liberty, even if I don’t get much material benefit from it. A piece of my soul finds its home there.My peony continues on its route, even though it has veered off after some bad weather and the lack of care on the part of the workmen, and despite the indignant injunctions of Mrs. Pyke. On this point, I am totally in agreement with her.