Ercol

She's learnt not to crave stuff the way her sister does.

Tabitha's house is a trove of the carefully restored or lovingly renovated, while Martha's sparse studio flat has the bare essentials: a wooden table, a single lamp, an Ercol sofa that she rescued from a skip.

Easier to let it be this way than to fall out, even though it means wincing every time Martha catches sight of her mother's teapot in Tabitha's kitchen, their old doll's house in Tabitha's kid's bedroom.

Martha tells herself, however, that Tabitha can't possibly want the blanket, for as the years went by and their aunt grew older, holes had appeared in the crochet.

"Can you put me up?" "Course." Do not mention the blanket, Martha thinks.

Do not mention the blanket.

"You took the blanket," she blurts the moment Tabitha opens the door to her flat, and then she spots it spread across her Ercol sofa, every square beautifully intact.

"I know how much it means to you," Tabitha says, "so I mended it.