She’d asked it expecting little response, or a brush-off like her own. Instead, Gilda ducked her head. “Not at Swanage.” She jumped up. “I’ve left my embroidery at the garage – I’ll just get it and catch up with you!” She ran out before Violet could question her further. For all her chatter, Gilda could be remarkably opaque.
The broderers’ room in Church House was standing-room full, the women chattering excitedly and showing off their summer work to each other. With a full three months away, they’d had plenty of time to make more substantial pieces. Violet was dismayed to spy over a dozen completed kneelers around the room, taking the spotlight off her own. Indeed, her office mate Maureen had completed two, one of them using stitches Violet didn’t even recognise.
A few others had made history medallions, made up of larger wool stitches and smaller petit-point, demonstrating handiwork that made the pictures sing. Violet particularly admired a rectangular cushion top with a central medallion in delicately shaded petit-point, depicting a blue shield with three gold crowns on it, and behind it a sword famously stuck in a stone. The words “King Arthur” were picked out in brown cross-stitch. The surrounding design was similar to that of the Tree of Life cushion top: blue Celtic-style knots and clustered red flowers in a grid pattern on the familiar mustard yellow background Louisa Pesel had said there were complaints about. Violet was growing so used to these adventurous colours and patterns that they no longer surprised her; she loved their boldness. I must show Arthur this when it is made into a cushion, she thought.
She was surprised to discover that the maker of the King Arthur medallion was DJ, whom she had not seen since the day she had looked for her kneeler in the presbytery back in the spring. She was wearing her green coat with the big black buttons, and kept her hands in her pockets, modest while other broderers crowded round to study her work. Her hair was rumpled, her cheeks red, and her smile unfocused.
When Gilda appeared – out of breath and shouting hello – DJ started, and suddenly solidified, as if outlined by solid black. She did not stop smiling, but her eyes drifted towards a corner of the room as if to dodge any attention. Gilda too seemed out of sorts, looking everywhere but at DJ, and laughing a little too brightly as she removed her cloche. Violet saw one or two other broderers taking note of both women and their reactions, and revealing their own response – a tiny grimace, the twitch of an eyebrow. Maureen shivered. Mabel Way frowned at her clipboard, where she was writing down who had made what. All of this unrolled in the space of just a few seconds – a moment in which Violet discovered that there was something to discover, though she did not yet understand what it was.
Then the room shook itself and recovered. Gilda walked over to DJ, tapped the King Arthur medallion, and said, “Oh my days, Dorothy, you’ve smashed it! Once there are borders for it the cushion will be made up in no time.”
Dorothy gave a small smile and nod, then busied herself digging about in her bag as if searching for a lost needle or a hank of wool. Gilda turned to Violet. “Budge up, would you,” she ordered, indicating Violet’s chair. “I don’t think I can face standing all the while Biggins lectures us about the glory of doing our duty for the Cathedral. And don’t worry, there’ll soon be more space,” she added in a stage whisper, perching on a corner of the chair. “Everyone comes along to the first meeting keen as mustard, but you won’t see half of them by Christmas!” She was still a little brittle, and Violet wanted to put a hand on her arm to steady her the way you would a skittish horse.
Mrs Biggins arrived then, sending a current of anxious expectation through the room that swept aside any other drama. She took her place at the head of the table – the seat left empty for her – and, as Gilda had anticipated, made a short speech about working with diligence and pride for the Cathedral. She spent much longer on slackers and time-wasters and those who seemed to think embroidering a cushion for the Cathedral would give them a special place in the eyes of God or the Dean. “If you plan to waste my time, or Miss Pesel’s, then I suggest you leave now,” she finished. “You will make my life easier if you do.” No one left, but Violet wondered if such an off-putting welcome might tempt some to slip away at the break and never return. Mrs Biggins was the tedious sermon you had to sit through before you could explore a cathedral’s beautiful stained glass or wood carvings.
She sat back when Mrs Biggins announced she would now look over the summer’s work: there was no need to rush towards the inevitable scolding she sensed coming her way when it was discovered that she had made a kneeler without permission. Besides, if she waited long enough, Louisa Pesel might arrive and save her from Mrs Biggins’ wrath.
“Where is Miss Pesel?” she asked Gilda, who was unpacking her own summer offering of part of a blue, yellow, green and red background that a history medallion would be spliced into.
“Still on holiday. Weymouth, I think. Right, here I go. It’s like jumping into a cold bath. Wish me luck!” Gilda gathered her embroidery and stepped into the queue waiting for Mrs Biggins, just behind Dorothy with her King Arthur piece. Dorothy turned slightly so that her side opened to Gilda. There was something around them that made them seem closer than others, though they were not actually standing closer or even looking at each other. It was like an invisible fence, penning them in together.
“That’s what can happen when you’re a spinster.”
It was said quietly, behind Violet, one woman to another. There was sarcasm in the words, and a harshness, and something like fear. Violet didn’t turn to see who had spoken, though she recognised Maureen’s low chuckle in response. She felt her stomach sour, as if she had drunk milk that was on the turn.
Her confusion was interrupted by Mrs Biggins, who held the King Arthur embroidery aloft. “This, ladies, is what we are striving for,” she declared. “This is what can be achieved with a few humble stitches done in the name of our Lord. Well done, Miss—” She frowned at Dorothy, who kept her eyes fixed on the ground.
“Jordan,” Gilda supplied. “Miss Dorothy Jordan. Yes, well done, Dorothy. It’s a stunner.” She beamed at her friend. There was a muffled hiss behind Violet.
Rather than face that snake, Violet gathered her kneeler and borders and joined the queue. To her surprise, Mrs Biggins did not shout at her for making a kneeler without her permission. She had seen so much work that morning that she seemed to have run out of things to say. “They’ll do,” she said of the long strips of border, and nodded at the kneeler top. “Now make it into a kneeler proper. The next Presentation of Embroideries service is October twentieth, so it shall have to be ready by then.”
“How do I do that?”
“Find someone who has finished theirs to show you – I haven’t the time. Move along, now, there are more waiting their turn.”
Violet looked around. Everyone seemed busy, sewing or getting new materials. Gilda was searching through a stack of designs. Maureen was helping Mabel Way write down what each broderer had finished and would be starting.
“I’ll show you.” Dorothy Jordan’s soft voice still penetrated the clamour of a roomful of women talking at once. She was standing by the cupboard, an embroidery frame in hand.
“That would be kind of you, thanks.” Violet could feel eyes on them from around the room and shuddered involuntarily.
Dorothy ran a hand over her frizzy hair. She seemed unaware of being watched. “There is a kit for finishing kneelers, already made up.” She reached into the cupboard and pulled out a rectangular packet. Pulling off the brown paper, she revealed a hard cushion, four strips of heavy blue cloth, and a piece of brown canvas. She took Violet’s embroidery – with a brief smile at the familiar acorn pattern – and placed it face down on the table. “You must first sew a strip along each side. Then take the cushion and place it on the embroidery, like this, with this bit of canvas on top.” She showed Violet how to fold over the blue strips and sew them onto the canvas, using strong blue thread to make a tight fit.
“Before you do any of thi
s, though, you must make your mark. Use blue wool to embroider your initials on one of the long strips, and the year on the other, such as you will have seen on the kneelers already in use in the Cathedral. Do that before any of the other sewing.”
Violet nodded.
“It is important to make one’s mark. It may be the only mark we make. Sic parvis magna.”
Violet raised her eyebrows. This was not a Latin phrase she had learned.
“From small things, greatness.”
Violet nodded. They were silent, gazing at the makings of the kneeler. Violet listened for more hissing, but heard only Gilda saying to someone, “I could murder a cup of tea. Truly I could.”
Five minutes later, both women had gone, though they left separately.
That night Violet embroidered VS and 1932, and sewed the strips onto her kneeler.
Chapter 13
IT WAS ONLY WHEN she was not expecting it – one Saturday afternoon in late September, on the High Street to buy marzipan for the Bakewell tart she had promised to bring to her mother’s the next day – that Violet walked straight into Arthur Knight as he stepped out of the chemist’s.
“Oh!” she cried, stepping back and laughing nervously. She was pleased to see him smile with delight, then cover it up with formality.
“Miss – Violet.” He raised his trilby. “What a pleasure to run into you at last.”
“Yes.” Over the past few weeks Violet had spent more time at the Cathedral, ostensibly studying embroidery, but hoping she might see Arthur there. “How have you been?”
“Very well, thanks. I’ve been wondering how the rest of your holiday was. Do you have time for a cup of tea? I’ll just get my bicycle.”
They sat in the Old Market Restaurant on the High Street, which Violet had never been to because it was fancier than she could afford, with linen tablecloths and big plate glass windows that made her feel exposed. Arthur seemed to know the middle-aged waitress, who gave her a sideways look as she took their order. “Miss Speedwell has taken an interest in the bells,” he explained when she brought their tea and a plate of toasted teacakes.
“I’m sure she has,” the waitress replied, setting out the pitcher of milk and second pot of hot water. “How’s your wife, Arthur?”
“She’s getting on. We have hopes.”
“Give her my regards.” The waitress dropped the bill on their table and turned away.
As they ate, Violet told him about her adventures in Salisbury and on the Isle of Wight. She made it sound jollier than it had been, but admitted she’d come back early because of the rain.
“And no trouble along the way? No strange men?”
“No, none of that.”
“I was glad to get your message at the pub that night. I was worried.”
“No need, but thank you. And thank you for walking with me, and for the crib. I enjoyed that very much.” Violet did not add that it had been the highlight of her trip: it would have sounded too pathetic.
They were silent for a moment, Violet relishing the unexpected treat of a generously buttered teacake. “What brings you to Winchester today? I thought you only came for bellringing.”
“I had to pick up something from the chemist.” Arthur patted his jacket pocket.
“Is everything—” Violet stopped. She didn’t know him well enough to ask such personal questions.
“It’s not for me.”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.” Violet took a breath and forged into difficult territory. “Is your wife poorly?”
Arthur pushed the plate with the last teacake on it towards her. “Have another.” He was acting as if he had not heard her.
“It’s yours.”
“You have it. You’re hungry.”
Violet flushed: she had too obviously gobbled hers down. But she took it – as he’d pointed out, she was hungry. “Thank you.”
She waited to see if he would take up the topic of his wife. He wiped his fingers on his serviette. “Jean is – she suffers with her nerves.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well. Everyone has something.”
Violet nodded, and wondered if he would say more. But perhaps that was enough.
“Are you cycling all the way here again tomorrow?” she asked. “For the bells?”
“Yes.”
“That is a great deal of cycling.”
“I had a motor car until last year when I retired. I’m used to cycling now. It keeps me fit.” He paused. “Would you like to come up to the tower to see the bells? I’ll be service ringing tomorrow afternoon for Evensong.”
“Oh yes, please.”
“If we met at a quarter to two, I could show you then.”
“I – yes. I’d like that.”
“I’ll meet you under the Great West Window. There’s a door to the left.”
“I know it.”
“Good. Now, I must be getting back.” Arthur patted his pocket again, and picked up the bill.
When she got home, Violet braced herself and borrowed her landlady’s telephone.
“Southampton 225.” Her mother’s imperious tone made it clear that no telephone call was worth disturbing her.
“Hello, Mother, it’s me.”
“Violet, have you made the Bakewell tart yet? Because the Leightons may come to tea, so be sure to make one big enough to include them. If need be, family holds back. You won’t want a slice anyway, will you, not with your figure.” Clearly her mother had not noticed Violet’s weight loss since she’d moved from Southampton.
“I’m afraid I’m not—”
“Don’t tell me you’re not making it. Must I do everything myself? And I won’t have Evelyn make it: such a disaster in the kitchen, even for something as simple as a Bakewell tart.”
“Now that’s not fair, Mother. Evelyn is a good steady cook.” Violet could not think of a bad meal Evelyn had ever served – though she did not make memorably delicious meals either. Mrs Speedwell must still be hurt at being left out of the summer holiday. Given the opportunity, she would bear this grudge for years.
“Anyway,” Violet continued, determined not to be deterred from her message, “I’m sorry to say that I’m coming down with a cold, and won’t be able to come tomorrow.”
“Nonsense, there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“How do you know what’s wrong with me? As it happens, I have a scratchy throat and my nose is running. And I feel a headache coming on. So I’m terribly sorry, Mother, but you’ll just have to manage without me tomorrow. Please give my apologies to the Leightons and tell them I’ll make a tart for them another time. Now, my landlady needs the line. Bye!” Violet put down the phone before Mrs Speedwell could reply. She would pay for it next week, but for now she was free.
“Poor you – there’s nothing worse than a cold,” Mrs Harvey announced, bustling past her in the hall. “It seems so wrong to be ill when it’s still lovely out. Shall I make you a toddy? I won’t charge you for it, this time.”
“No, thanks, Mrs Harvey. I expect it’s nothing.” Violet shrugged at her landlady’s interference.
The next day Mrs Harvey was by turns solicitous and critical, especially when she caught Violet heading out. “You’ll come down with pneumonia if you’re not careful!” she cried. “A cold is nothing to be sneezed at.” When Violet chuckled, Mrs Harvey frowned, failing to see the joke.
However, she managed to escape, and hurried to the Cathedral. The Outer Close was full of families with children and couples out for a hand-in-hand stroll in the early autumn sun. She was a little early, but instead of going to her usual place amongst the kneelers in the presbytery, Violet wandered up the north aisle to stop at Jane Austen’s grave, a simple stone slab in the floor that did not mention her writing. It had been left to others later to put up a memorial brass plaque near the grave, indicating her fame as an author. Austen had not been a Winchester resident, but had been sent there to see doctors when she was ill, and had never gone home again. Her family
had paid a little extra for her to be buried inside the Cathedral. She died aged forty-one with no husband or children, only a devoted sister. Violet didn’t even have that, and she certainly didn’t have several novels to her name. She had just three years to catch up with Miss Austen in terms of accomplishments.
Don’t wallow, she scolded herself. Jane Austen would never have wallowed. A very kind man is about to show you the bells of this great cathedral, which most people will never see. Jane would have been thrilled to go up to the bell tower.
When Violet got to the small wooden door below the Great West Window, Arthur was waiting for her, holding keys and a torch. Accompanying him was the wiry Scotsman she’d seen with Arthur back in the spring. “Hello, Violet. Do you remember Keith Bain? You met once before.”
“Of course.” Violet and Keith Bain nodded at each other, Violet doing her best to hide her disappointment.
“Keith took my old surveyor’s job two years ago,” Arthur explained. “We had some overlap and he expressed an interest in bellringing. They don’t do it where he lived in Scotland, and he was curious to try. And he’s not half bad for a beginner. He regularly takes the tenor.”
“Is it normal to learn to ring on Cathedral bells?”
“Ring the best, if you’re going to ring at all.” Keith Bain spoke with a rougher edge than Arthur.
“Let’s head up now. Mind how you go. I’ll lead, and Keith will bring up the rear.” Arthur unlocked the wooden door, ushered them in, and locked the door behind them. “Remind me not to leave the key upstairs,” he said to Keith Bain. “I’ve done that before and had to go all the way back up.”
“We should hide a spare key as we do at the other entrance,” Keith Bain remarked.
“The Tower Captain is concerned a visitor to the Cathedral might find it and breach the ramparts.” The men chuckled.
They began climbing a spiral stone staircase, lit by occasional small lead-paned windows. “You won’t have a problem with all the stairs, will you?” Arthur called over his shoulder. “Not after a walking holiday.”
A Single Thread Page 14