A Single Thread

by Tracy Chevalier

  Mrs Speedwell, who had seemed to be asleep in her chair, opened her eyes as Marjory reached for the case. “Don’t take other people’s things, young lady. Only badly brought-up children do that.”

  Marjory jerked her hand back as if she’d touched ice. It made Violet’s heart contract. “I asked her to, Mother. Surely you don’t mind if she looks at it? She’s far more interested in it than you.”

  Her mother sighed. “On one day of the year – just one day – I hope to feel a little special, a little looked after for once, rather than doing the looking after. But it is a mother’s lot to be forever hurt by her children.” She sighed again. “What would Geoffrey think?”

  Violet gritted her teeth, reached over and picked up the case. Mrs Speedwell closed her eyes again.

  Marjory was now looking at it fearfully, as if it might bite her. No, Violet thought. I will not let Mother ruin embroidery too. “It’s all right, dear,” she murmured. “Granny’s angry at me, not you. Now, which bit do you like best?”

  “The zigzag.”

  “That’s called a Florentine stitch. Nice and bold, isn’t it? It looks complicated but it’s awfully easy to do.”

  “What’s that one called?”

  “Hungarian diamonds.”

  “And that?”

  “Rice.”

  “Rice,” Marjory repeated thoughtfully. “Like food?”

  “Yes.”

  “It doesn’t look like rice. It looks like exes.”

  “You’re right, it does. Would you like me to teach you to embroider like this?”

  She was not at all sure her niece could manage the stitches, but it was worth the suggestion just to see Marjory’s face light up in a way Violet wished happened more often. “Oh, yes!”

  “No call to teach her old maid’s tricks before she needs them,” Mrs Speedwell declared, her eyes still shut.

  If Marjory hadn’t been gripping her aunt’s arm, delighted at the idea of learning to embroider, Violet would have walked out. But she would not let her mother spoil this breakthrough with her earnest niece. “I’ll bring the things we need next time I come to visit.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise, darling. Perhaps we can do it on our summer holiday.”

  Marjory clapped her hands. “Yes, please!” Her niece was never keen on the long walks along the coastal path that Tom insisted on, much as his father had. Perhaps embroidery could replace them, at least on the rainy days.

  “Yes, please, what?” Evelyn set down a tray with a fresh pot of tea and cups.

  “Auntie Violet is going to teach me to make this on the Isle of Wight!” Marjory waved the spectacles case at her mother.

  Evelyn paused for a moment with her hands on the tray handles – the pause so brief only Violet would have noticed. Her sister-in-law rarely gave away what she was thinking, so Violet had learned to analyse the tiniest gestures. As Evelyn called to Tom to join them and sent Marjory off to play with her brother, Violet guessed what was coming.

  Tom sat down. “Yes. So.” He gazed helplessly at his wife. They all knew she was better equipped for the hard lifting this conversation required.

  “The fact is, we have been invited to accompany my sister and her family to Cornwall for our summer holidays,” Evelyn explained. “We won’t be going to the Isle of Wight. It will be good for Marjory and Edward to play with their cousins, and go somewhere new. But there is only room for us, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.” She had the grace at least to look straight at Violet and appear genuinely sorry. Tom could not meet her eye, but stared miserably into his cup of tea.

  Violet had been expecting this announcement for some time. Since Mr Speedwell’s death, the last two holidays to the Isle of Wight hadn’t been as successful as in the previous years. Tom had tried and failed to fill his father’s role as chief spirit raiser. The children became crabby, Mrs Speedwell’s complaints increased, Evelyn’s smile became ever more fixed, and a desultory feeling settled over the holiday like dust. It was only a matter of time before something had to change.

  Violet’s mother was leaning back in her chair, her eyes closed, not reacting to the news. She already knows, Violet thought, else she would be shrieking and fanning herself and moaning about honouring Geoffrey’s memory. She’s probably already done all of that and got it out of her system.

  “You might have told me earlier,” she muttered. You told Mother, she added silently.

  “We only just finalised the plans,” Evelyn defended herself, then stopped, perhaps realising how that sounded. They’d made their plans without consulting Violet.

  “You could go to Ventnor anyway!” Tom’s tone was too bright. “You and Mum. Stay at the same place, and report back on the comings and goings – who’s there this year, what new fossils have been found, which tea shops are doing the best rock cakes.” The Speedwells used to argue over the quality of Isle of Wight rock cakes.

  “I shall be going with Penelope to Hastings,” Mrs Speedwell announced without opening her eyes.

  An unexpected relief washed over Violet. She would not have to go on holiday with her mother alone. She would rather not have a holiday at all than be subjected to that ordeal. Poor Aunt Penelope, she thought. Her aunt, mild-mannered and also widowed, was an expert at deferring to her older sister. Violet would be sure to thank her for her sacrifice.

  Tom’s guilt over the change in holiday plans extended to offering Violet a lift back to Winchester. Evelyn agreed, overly solicitous. “You two go and enjoy the afternoon. I’ll look after your mother.”

  They said nothing until they’d reached the countryside surrounding Southampton, as if needing to put the city between them and the rest of the family, with their announcements and their demands. Even then Violet was silent. She would let her brother speak first; she wasn’t going to help him.

  “Look, old girl, I’m sorry about all that!” Tom shouted over the noise of the engine as they turned onto the road to Winchester. “The Isle of Wight and what-not. Really I am. If it were only up to me I’d be happy to go back there. It’s just – well, I’m not meant to tell anyone yet, because it’s early days, but Evie’s expecting again. Don’t say anything!” he added as Violet began to shout her congratulations. “It’s better not – oh, blast!” He pulled into a lay-by and switched off the engine. As it grew quiet Violet could hear sheep baa-ing in the field next to the road, hidden by a hedgerow.

  “That’s better,” Tom said. He lit two cigarettes and passed one to her. “Look, I feel awfully bad about not telling you, but we really only just found out yesterday that Cornwall was definitely on. Evelyn – well, you’re not to say a word, but we’ve lost a few since Eddie.”

  It took a moment for Violet to understand what he meant. “Ah.”

  “Evie’s always wanted three, but that third has been … elusive. So we don’t say anything now when she – you know. She wants this one to – to take. And she thought it would be better for her to be with her sister, in case there are problems. And it’s – well, easier.”

  “Less stressful for her, you mean,” Violet filled in.

  “Yes.”

  “Because of me or because of Mother?” She felt a little childish asking, but wanted reassurance.

  Tom was happy to provide it. “Oh, Mum, of course! You’re fine! The kiddies love you, and Evie does too.”

  Violet doubted that but was willing to let it pass. “When did you tell Mother about Cornwall?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “And did she make a fuss?”

  “A bit, though less than you might think. Oh, she complained that we were betraying Dad and George’s memory, and that the family was falling apart, and all that. But once she got that out of the way, she fixed on the idea of going to Hastings with Aunt Penelope, so much so that she even used our telephone to ring her and begin planning straight off.”

  They stubbed out their cigarettes. “Do you think you’ll go to Ventnor?” Tom asked. “We haven’t cancelled the rooms yet, so the
re’s still a room for you there if you want. There’ll be a surcharge for it being a single, but we’ll pay for that, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  They were silent for a time. Violet gazed at the puffy clouds on the horizon, trying not to cry. She took a deep breath, breathing in the comforting smell of leather.

  “Or perhaps you could go on one of those rambles for single girls, where you all walk and stay at guest houses along the way,” Tom suggested. “They’re popular, aren’t they?”

  “They are – so popular they’ll be booked out by now.” Violet had seen the posters of smiling, red-cheeked women striding along in shorts and berets as they went on their organised rambles. Though she could not bear to wear such a costume, a walk did appeal. And his suggestion gave her an idea. “Do you remember the Wallops? With Father? Over, Middle and Nether Wallop?”

  “Of course. George and I took the word literally, and spent the afternoon walloping each other. And Dad let George have shandy at the pub. I was so jealous.”

  “You were seven!”

  “I know. But we were competitive, even if he was six years older than me. I also remember George and me trying to climb one of the stones at Stonehenge and getting told off by the stewards. That was a good holiday.”

  “What was the name of the pub at Nether Wallop?”

  “The Five Bells. Why?”

  “Oh, just a thought.” But it cheered her – enough so that back in Winchester she pored over her landlady’s local Ordnance Survey maps.

  The next day she rang the Christian Alliance of Women and Girls to check if there were any spaces left for their singles holidays to Wales and the Lake District, and was told, as she’d expected, that they were long booked up.

  Part of Violet was relieved not to have to go on holiday with strangers, making polite conversation and trying to be jolly together. But now she had two choices if she did not want to end up staying in Winchester, sleeping in and reading and going for desultory walks as she waited for the holiday to end. She could ask to join her mother and aunt in Hastings, where she would be made an object of pity and exasperation by Mrs Speedwell while Aunt Penelope tried to placate both. Or she could go somewhere on her own. Before she could talk herself out of it, she rang Tom and asked for help to pay for a walking holiday for herself. “Of course, old girl,” he replied, chuckling. “Can’t have my sister going hungry. What would Dad think?” After a pause he added, “Didn’t you get a pay rise recently?”

  Violet did not sweeten her reply. “I did. Now I can just about afford to eat a hot dinner most days.”

  “Yes, I see.” Tom hastily changed the subject, perhaps taken aback that his joke about food was taken seriously. “Where will you go, then? Not to Hastings?”

  “I am going to walk. First from Winchester to Salisbury, and then down through the New Forest to Lymington. From there I’ll take the ferry to the Isle of Wight and stay a few days in Ventnor.”

  “Gosh, I wish I could go with you!” He lowered his voice. “Cornwall will be fine, of course, but it’s different being with Evie’s family – and all the kiddies. Going walking would be like old times.”

  “At least neither of us has to cope with Mother!”

  She had a month to prepare: to plot out her route, write to pubs or bed and breakfasts to reserve rooms, get her walking boots resoled and buy a new straw hat, borrow a rucksack from the Hills and a compass and pen knife from Tom, pack and repack to lighten the load. She had never before had to do the planning – it had always been her father or Tom who sorted out the logistics. But Violet found she rather enjoyed studying Mrs Harvey’s maps, gauging how far she would walk in a day, looking for points of interest to aim for and shortcuts she could take, guessing which villages would have places where she could stay.

  She saw her brother and his family only once before the holidays, but she was ready for Marjory, bringing with her canvas, wool in four colours, a needle, and a model she’d made of stitches, much as Miss Pesel made for the Cathedral Broderers. Marjory was thrilled, and was an attentive pupil, sitting close to Violet at the table in the garden, and carefully watching her demonstrate how to thread a needle, count squares, make a stitch, tuck an end of the wool behind stitches. When it came time for her to make her own stitches, she took her time, but she got them right, and bit by bit she grew faster and more confident. Violet chided herself for having underestimated Marjory’s ability.

  As they worked together, focused and absorbed, the rest of the family ranged around them, weeding, drinking tea, reading the paper, tossing a ball in the air. Occasionally one would glance over at aunt and niece. Mrs Speedwell was also visiting, and took a particular dislike to their industry. “I can’t think why you’re working with wool in such heat,” she declared, even though she was wearing her blue wool dress. “That can’t be good for a child. See how flushed she looks.”

  “Marjory is fine, Mrs Speedwell,” Evelyn said, glancing up from the Southern Daily Echo. Since Violet had accepted her exclusion from the Cornwall holiday, Evelyn had gone out of her way to be positive and supportive.

  “It’s a very peculiar interest, if you ask me. What is the use of such stitching?”

  Marjory looked up from her Florentine zigzag with a disarming gaze at her grandmother. “You can make pretty things.”

  “Tut, child, it’s very rude to answer back.”

  Marjory’s eyes widened. “But you asked a question, Granny. And I answered it.”

  “Now, Marjory,” Evelyn interjected. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to be rude to Granny. Perhaps you’ll make something pretty for her with your stitches.”

  Marjory looked at Violet. “Of course,” Violet agreed. “You could make Granny a little purse for her coins, or a pair of slippers, or a belt. How about that?”

  “I can’t see that I’d make use of any of those things,” Mrs Speedwell declared.

  “Well, then, you can make something for your mother. I’m sure she would love a purse for her pennies. You practise your stitches over the summer, and when you have mastered them I’ll help you with a purse.” Violet wasn’t entirely sure how she would design a purse, but Miss Pesel might be able to help.

  Mrs Speedwell grunted. “Of course, it’s much more important to make something for your mother than for your grandmother.”

  Violet caught Evelyn’s eye. Her sister-in-law rolled hers skywards, and Violet started to laugh.

  “What are you laughing about?” Mrs Speedwell demanded, as Evelyn joined her. “There’s nothing funny!”

  Chapter 9

  IT WAS EASY ENOUGH to plan a solo trip, but much harder to take that first step out of the door. Violet stood in the hall early one August morning, before even her landlady was up, trying to quell her nerves and summon the courage to leave. Ostensibly she was ready: her rucksack was packed, she was dressed in an old brown linen dress and jacket, and she had laced up her stout boots.

  Until a few days before, friends and family had been sanguine about her going walking on her own. As the time drew near, however, her brother rang to ask if she was sure she still wanted to go. “We could probably find you lodgings somewhere near us in Cornwall,” Tom suggested in an offhand way, doubtless aware that at this late date everything would be booked, but wanting to make the offer to assuage his guilt.

  “Will you be all right out there on your own?” Gilda demanded more directly when they met at Awdry’s. “You can always change your plans, you know.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Violet replied robustly.

  Gilda did not dwell on the point. She was going with her family to Swanage for two weeks, with her new sister-in-law joining them. “Olive will parade her pregnancy as if that was the plan all along,” she grumbled, “and will demand as much attention as she can get. If Mum was alive she’d put her in her place. But Dad and Joe are soft on her.”

  “Then you shall have to be your mother,” Violet replied, only later realising she might h
ave invited Gilda to walk with her.

  Mrs Harvey began fretting the night before. “I don’t like to think of one of my girls stranded out there in the fields,” she declared, watching as Violet set her rucksack in the hall, ready for the morning. “What if you twist an ankle, or run out of water, or an adder bites you? Then what will you do?” She was voicing concerns Violet had had herself, which made her escape to bed early before her landlady could worry her even more.

  Now, Violet was hungry but did not want to linger. If I make some toast, she thought, Mrs Harvey will get up and start making a fuss again. She swung her rucksack onto her shoulders, tightened the straps, and set off without ceremony or breakfast.

  She walked briskly down the hill to the bridge crossing the Itchen. Ahead on a granite plinth was a massive statue of King Alfred, his back to her, facing the High Street and holding his sword blade with its hilt up as if he were blessing the town that lay before him. Violet passed the statue, looked around, then curtseyed to Alfred before she began her walk up through Winchester.

  She passed the mediaeval shop fronts that hung out over the street; passed the butcher and the chemist; passed Awdry’s, where for a moment she considered stopping for coffee, but instead pressed on; passed the Buttercross, an octagonal stone structure where women in the Middle Ages used to sell their butter; passed Warren’s where she bought office supplies. The shops were not yet open, so there were few people about: the odd bicyclist, a boy delivering papers, a window washer cleaning a dress shop front. They nodded at her, but no one stopped to chat or ask about her rucksack and where she was going. No one said, “Well done, Violet. That’s brave!” or “Are you sure you want to walk on your own?” or “Why don’t you come with us to the seaside instead?” She had only lived in Winchester for nine months, so was still a stranger no one was ready yet to invest in. She hadn’t thought it mattered, but now she wished there were someone to wave her off on her adventure.

  Towards the top of the town she walked through the stone arch of the mediaeval West Gate that marked her departure from the centre, and up to a bridge over the railway line, crossing it just as an early train to London steamed into the station some way to her right. Violet dodged the smuts blown back from the engine, then stood and watched while passengers got on, banging the doors and calling out to one another as they hoisted their suitcases on board. When the train pulled away with a distinctive huff, she wondered if she should have gone to London instead. She could barely afford a night there, though she might have squeezed more funds from her guilty brother so that she could go to a matinee, a concert, a tea dance. She could walk along the Thames and rummage in the bookshops along Charing Cross Road and systematically go through the rooms of the British Museum. She had done all of these things before, but always trailing her parents. Even aged thirty-eight it would be hard – terrifying, if she was honest – to do so alone.