A man grew very ill. Each day became more difficult for him until it was clear to his family that he could no longer cope, alone. The family held a conference. 'I cannot possibly take care of him,' the eldest son decreed, 'I have a thriving business.' 'Nor I,' the first daughter born, declared, 'I have three children.' All had their own very good reason, very sound, very difficult to dispute; except one. The family decided that the youngest should move in with her father and nurse him till death, for dying, he clearly was.

Many months dragged by like a cripple whose crutch has been stolen by larking boys. The young woman grew thin, so thin that she must bunch and pin her clothes against her frame, to remain decent. She never complained. She grew hollow-eyed and dry of skin and started to go grey. The family - when they bothered to visit - would comment; 'How crone-like she has grown, she has let herself go, how she neglects her clothes.' Hearing them, the youngest smiled, sadly-sweet. She knew her youth was rushing past like a messenger on a mission but her father desperately needed her. He deserved gentle care. What could she do? She girded up her skirt and got on with her chores.

Then came a day when, in taking a break, the exhausted young woman dropped into a store, for her father could not settle without a shot of malt. A new display caught her quick eye, an eye that was starved of variety and colour, a glittering fantasy of ice floes and blue penguins. She stopped to admire. A salesperson who had come to know her, companionably commented; 'It's been lately added to our range, a very nice drop from Ukraine.' He paused to take in her defeated appearance, then added: 'Perhaps your father would like a change? It's particularly good with a twist of lemon.'

The young nurse bit bottom lip while thinking; she was picturing herself, first, with a wee glass and then, sound asleep in bed. She nodded. 'Yes,' though she hesitated, feeling pink rising in hollowed cheeks, 'I think a little change would be good... good for him... but I will take the whiskey, as well – just in case.' The weeks stumbled by like a shell-shocked veteran. Then, one day, Father finally breathed his last. 'Now, I am free,' his grieving daughter, sighed. She tenderly washed her dear Father's face, crossed his hands, laid him out, respectful, then went to wash her own. She would summon the family, very, very soon but first she would lay down, a little for she was near dead with exhaustion.

She woke two days later, panicked and aghast - what would the family think? 'How cold she is, colder than Father. And he's dead,' remarked her affectionate, affronted brother. 'How yellow she is, quite liverish and worn. I'd not have known her but for those fey eyes,' sister grouched. Where were the refreshments; why had the beds not been aired; what were the arrangements; why had they not been summoned? 'Mark my words,' a close cousin whispered, 'there's been neglect here, possibly, even criminal.' It was clear that things would need to be taken in hand.

One cleared out the crockery; another scooped up the silver; a third rooted for jewellery, a fourth took down paintings. All helped themselves with generous alacrity, peeling labels from items identifying intended recipient, till a snow storm lay drifted throughout the chilly home. Finally, when nothing remained to be filched, the family exited with loaded vehicles.

It was some time later when a distant cousin appeared, his shadow, elongated and striding before him. His face was unshaven, his socks unmatched, he had driven all day, to arrive, too late. 'There's nothing left,' a soft voice, unsubstantial as a moth issued from a cloth, draped over a face. 'It that you, Jenny?' Tom, shocked, replied. 'Goodness, my dear, you don't look at all well. Have you not been eating? You're barely half yourself,' and he sat in a chair and placed her hand in his own, consoling his heart, quieting his conscience, for his farmer's mind knew a goner when he saw it and he needed all his resources to help his cousin.

Later, much later, night having tiptoed over, draped dark cloak over ransacked home, in walking outside for the clarity of stars, Tom noted a twinkle, peculiar. Undisguised, yet, as if on show, stacked against back fence like ghostly corpses, a glinting chorus of blue-labelled bottles. As if enchanted he ran a hand in the troughs and peaks each bottle made, counted top row then stopped and spoke – 'How long would it take and how...' ...desperate was the word, he bit short.

Then he shivery-shuddered, for it suddenly seemed, very bloody cold.