The stone threshold catches my left prosthetic and I pitch forward, catching myself on the doorframe before I can measure my length across the cottage floor.
“Bloody hell!”
The curse escapes through gritted teeth as I readjust my weight, gripping the weathered wood until my knuckles whiten. Three seconds to regain balance. Three seconds too long.
I force myself through the narrow doorway, ducking beneath the low lintel that would’ve been no trouble before—before Afghanistan, before the IED, before everything went to hell in Helmand Province. The cottage smells of damp stone and decades of peat smoke; Highland scents that should comfort but instead remind me how far I’ve come from the medical sterility of Headley Court.
My cases wait in the hired car. They can bloody wait a little longer.
I scan the interior with tactical efficiency. Kitchen to the right—narrow galley style with a step up that’ll be a bastard to navigate. Living area dead ahead with an open fireplace I’ll need to manage somehow. Stairs to the left, steep as a ladder and about as welcoming as a Taliban stronghold.
Temporary, I remind myself. The word tastes bitter. Everything’s temporary now—this cottage, this arrangement, this pretence at starting over.
I won’t be ringing Finn for help. Made that clear enough when he offered, didn’t I? His new life with that photographer doesn’t need the weight of his broken squadmate dragging him down. Man deserves his happiness without my shadows darkening his door.
The first trip to the car takes fifteen minutes. Should take three. My gait’s improving—the physios would be pleased—but the uneven gravel path between cottage and road might as well be an obstacle course. Each stone shifts beneath my prosthetics, threatening to send me sprawling. By the time I’ve hauled my kitbag inside, sweat soaks through my shirt despite the March chill.
“Right then.” I steady myself against the wall, surveying my new domain. “Time to make this work.”
The kitchen step defeats me twice before I develop a technique: grip the counter, swing the right leg up, follow with the left. Like mounting a bloody vehicle under fire, except the only enemy here is architecture designed for folk with all their original parts.
I’m unpacking my minimal gear when tyres crunch on the gravel outside. Early. I specifically told the property manager tomorrow for any maintenance visits. My hands still automatically, body tensing the way it does when variables change unexpectedly.
The knock comes quick and confident. Three sharp raps that expect an answer.
I navigate back through the obstacle course of furniture—whoever arranged this place had no concept of clear movement paths—and wrench open the door.
A woman stands on the threshold, all practical competence and confidence. Red hair pulled back in a work-ready plait, tool belt slung round her hips like she was born wearing it. Beautiful despite the stained dungarees and oversized plaid shirt that hide her figure. She’s studying the doorframe with the focus of a sapper examining an IED.
“You’ll be Neil Morrison.” Not a question. Her voice carries the soft burr of the Western Highlands, educated but not posh. “Rhona MacLeod. I’m here about the modifications.”
“Tomorrow.” The word comes out harder than intended. “I said tomorrow.”
Her green eyes flick to mine, assessing. “Aye, for the installation. Today’s for measuring and planning. Can’t build solutions without understanding problems.”
She moves to step inside and I don’t budge. We stand there, locked in silent standoff, her muddy work boots inches from my trainers.
“I don’t need—”
“With respect, Mr Morrison, this cottage needs work regardless of what you think you need.” She pulls a tablet from her jacket, already swiping to blueprints. “The access report’s clear. Three different levels, no grab rails, that death trap of a staircase, and a bathroom that violates every accessibility guideline written.”
“I’ll manage.”
The look she gives me could strip paint. “Managing’s not living. And Hamish MacTavish doesn’t craft custom modifications for folk who’re content to just manage.”
Hamish. Of course. Finn’s mentioned him—the master craftsman who built half the furniture in Glencoe. Another connection I don’t want, another thread tying me to this place when I should stay free to leave.
“Listen, Miss—”
“MacLeod. And it’s Ms.” She taps her tablet against her thigh, impatience bleeding through her professional veneer. “I’ve got seventeen other sites to assess this week, Mr Morrison. You can let me in now to do my job, or we can stand here whilst your heat escapes and my schedule goes to hell. Your choice.”
I step aside. Not surrender—tactical withdrawal.
She moves past me with economical grace, already cataloguing issues. Her gaze tracks the worn carpet, the uneven floorboards beneath, the narrow passages that force me to turn sideways.
“Right.” She pulls a laser measure from her belt, movements smooth as any drill sergeant. “Let’s start with the obvious problems.”
“There are no problems.” The lie tastes sour. “I said I’ll manage.”
She pauses in her measurement of the kitchen step, glancing back. “You’ve been here what, an hour? And you’re already favouring your left side from overcompensating on that loose threshold. Your kit’s still in the car because the path’s treacherous. And unless I’m mistaken, you’ve not attempted the stairs yet because you’re not daft enough to try without a spotter.”
Heat floods my face. “You don’t know—”
“I know buildings, Mr Morrison. I know how they work with bodies and against them. And I know pride when it’s standing between a person and the help they need.”
The word ‘help’ hits like shrapnel. Help means weakness. Help means inability. Help means admitting that the man I was—the soldier who could tab twenty miles with full kit—is gone forever.
“I didn’t ask for modifications.”
“No, the property owner did. Highland Council requires it for veteran placements.” She turns back to her measurements, dismissing my objection with professional indifference. “Hamish’ll need three weeks for the woodwork. Grab rails in Baltic pine to match the existing fixtures, reinforced banister on the stairs, possible platform lift if you’re not precious about period features. I don’t think this place is listed despite the age.”
“I don’t want a bloody lift.”
“Then we’ll focus on the stairs. Depth extension on each tread, proper rails both sides, non-slip surfaces.” She’s already sketching on her tablet, lost in the logistics. “The bathroom’ll need a complete refit. Roll-in shower, adjustable fixtures, proper clearances.”
Each modification feels like another mark of failure, another admission that I’m not the man who shipped out to Afghanistan. That man could run up mountains. This one can’t manage cottage stairs. And needs a roll-in shower. I want to slam the door in her face for that.
“The kitchen step’s easy enough—ramped transition, hardly noticeable once it’s done proper.” She crouches, running her hand along the worn wood. “Good bones in this place. Just needs adapting to work with you instead of against you.”
“Nothing works with me anymore.” The words escape before I can recall them, raw truth in the quiet cottage.
She stands slowly, studying me with those unsettling green eyes. For a moment I think she’ll offer sympathy, platitudes about recovery and resilience. Instead, she snorts.
“Bollocks. You made it here from wherever you started this morning. You’re standing on your own feet—different feet than you were born with, aye, but yours nonetheless. This cottage’ll work with you fine once we’re done with it.”
“I don’t want—”
“What you want and what you need aren’t always aligned, Mr Morrison.” She pulls a card from her pocket, sets it on the counter with decisive finality. “I’ll have the full report ready by week’s end. Hamish’ll want to meet you before he starts crafting—he’s particular about understanding who’ll use his work.”
She heads for the door, pausing at the threshold that caught me earlier. With one work boot, she nudges the lifted board. “This needs fixing regardless. Health and safety violation even for folk with all original parts.”
Then she’s gone, leaving only the faint scent of sawdust and the echo of competence in her wake.
I stand in my empty cottage, her card mocking me from the counter.
RHONA MACLEOD
Adaptive Architecture Specialist
Building Bridges Between Life and Living.
Bloody poetry. As if life’s that simple. As if a few grab rails and ramps could bridge the chasm between who I was and what remains.
