I peered through the curtains. Not green velvet curtains like the set my namesake crafted into a dress. Ordinary beige curtains. My unruly long red locks were tied up haphazardly in an elastic band. I couldn’t work with my hair loose, dangling around my face and my shoulders. It was early in the morning, by normal people’s standards. I had been awake for three hours now, waking early every morning. The best part of the day, before anyone else was scurrying around. I still wasn’t used to living in town. I missed my farm.

“Move into town,” my friends had encouraged me. “You don’t want to live out there all by yourself. We can have cups of coffee together, and go for walks. We will have so much fun.” That was five months ago. For the first two weeks, I enjoyed catching up for a coffee with Florrie. Hettie and I would go for walks every morning at six. Gracie would come over and teach me crafts, while I taught her gardening. After a few weeks the novelty wore off. Flo, Gracie and Hettie started making excuses. They were busy. They had other terribly important things to do. Also they had been friends for over forty years. I was relatively new. A blow in.

“Go and join some groups. Craft groups, or maybe learn bridge.” My kids said. They meant well. They led terribly busy lives in the city. There was never any time for visiting. I knew they loved me and just wanted to make sure I was okay. We spoke on birthdays and other special occasions.

I knew I was fiery. I could come across as stubborn. I was independent. “You intimidate people Scarlett.” My Grandma used to whisper to me. She thought it was a blessing. “In a world where people can attack your weaknesses, your strength will be your saviour.”

She was right. But it was also a curse. Friends thought I didn’t want them or need them. Family members too didn’t understand that all I wanted was love, but not to be smothered.

In our street, out past the sanctuary of my curtains and the double glazed windows, people were getting into their cars. Time to drop the children off and get to work. I had moved into a neighbourhood close enough for me to walk to the local supermarket. “You will save money that way,” my sensible son said. He was right.

I longed for space and peace and quiet, just as much as I longed for connection. It was ironic. I didn’t understand people. I didn’t pick up on social cues that would show me what they wanted me to say. I had no idea how I was expected to act when around family or friends. Being myself didn’t seem to work. I wished I would wake up one day to find I was accepted for who I was.

Little Peter who lived across the road, smiled at me and waved as he crossed to my side of the street. He dropped some coins in the tin and took a bag of strawberries. One of the three packets I picked first thing this morning. The road side stall and honesty box was working well. The money I had collected from the fruits, vegetables and herbs I grew in the backyard was nearly enough.

Returning my gaze to the items stacked neatly inside my living area I smiled. Everything had a price tag. I was ready for the garage sale tomorrow. Anything that didn’t sell I was going to drop at the op shop in town. Downsizing from the farm that had been in my family for fifty years had been easier than I thought. That’s where I first learnt the art of the garage sale. I was initially surprised that people would pay me money for things I owned.

In the second bedroom my bag lay open on the bed. I folded the last pair of jeans that had been drying on the clotheshorse. I zipped the bag and locked it using the lock I had found in the tool box. I checked my smaller bag. It contained a book to read, a cardigan for the cooler weather at my destination, my passport and airline tickets. I smiled as I read the details.

No one knew about my trip, yet. My son and daughter would both receive their letters when I mailed them, after I arrived at my new home. My friends, if they called in to see me, would find the Fredericks renting my little cottage with the beige curtains. The call of my ancestors. Other solitary witches from centuries ago were calling me home. To the Scottish highlands. My highland home.