A Single Thread

by Tracy Chevalier

  The bellringers started up again, and under the noise he spoke. “There was a memorial service up here for one of the ringers who died in the War. The Russell boy, who contracted pneumonia at Salonika. We tolled the tenor, the thirty-one times, for the age he was when he died. It was mostly ringers who came along, but Jean insisted on coming up too. The next day, we had the letter confirming at last that Jimmy had died. He had been missing for over a year, you see. Jean got it into her head to connect the news in the letter with the Cathedral and the bells. She wouldn’t go back to the Cathedral after that, and asked if we could move. That’s why we live in Nether Wallop.”

  Violet was silent. There were no words that could express how awful she felt for him. She wanted to squeeze his hand, but instead they sat back and listened to the bells, and she listened for a pattern in the chaos.

  Chapter 14

  AFTER THE BELLRINGING, VIOLET visited the Cathedral often, but she did not run into Arthur, and so had no way of contacting him, unless she planted herself by the door of the stairs to the ringing chamber when she knew he would be going up for a service ring or to practise. This seemed both desperate and potentially awkward, for the other ringers would wonder. She could picture William Carver’s dark stare and frown. But it was hard to imagine the ringers talking about her. Did bellringers gossip? Did men generally? Her father and Tom never did, though perhaps they were different away from the company of women. When she overheard men at restaurants or hotels or on the train, they were talking about football or cricket, or the economic depression or the political tensions on the Continent – not about each other. The broderers, on the other hand, discussed other broderers – their work, their children, their clothes. Violet did not join in much, but listened, and wondered sometimes what they said about her behind her back. It was easy to talk to others and think you were somehow immune – but the spotlight fell on everyone at some time or another.

  One Sunday after attending an early morning service, she was passing down the central aisle of the nave when she saw the group of ringers by the little door below the Great West Window. Her heart pounded. Silly girl, she chided herself.

  But Arthur was not amongst them. She recognised William Carver and a few of the others, and Keith Bain. Before she could duck behind a pillar, he saw her, waved, and strode over.

  “You coming to watch another service ring?” he said, smiling.

  “No, no, I’ve just come from the early service. I’m going down to my mother’s for lunch.”

  To her dismay, Keith Bain seemed disappointed. “Och, well, it’s not so different from what you saw the other week.”

  “How is … Mr Knight?”

  “Arthur? He’s had to take some time off. His wife’s not well.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you know what’s the matter?”

  Keith Bain shrugged. “Not sure. She’s taken to her bed, is all I’ve heard.” He lowered his voice. “Carver has had to bring in another ringer to take his place. Makes you appreciate a good ringer once you’ve lost him.”

  So bellringers did gossip.

  “Erm, you don’t fancy a walk sometime, do you?” Keith Bain continued. “To St Catherine’s Hill, or even out to Farley Mount? Before it gets too cold?”

  Here it was. Violet had had a few moments with eligible men like this over the years. She had always said yes, even when she didn’t want to. There was nothing wrong with Keith Bain. He was a year or two younger than she, he had a Scottish tartness that made her smile, and he was uncomplicated. He was perhaps the most eligible possibility she’d had since Laurence.

  And yet, she was feeling something, even if it wasn’t the right thing or for the right person. And she did not want to ruin that feeling with an awkward encounter.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I think perhaps not.”

  Keith Bain looked at her, his ginger head cocked to one side.

  “I’m sorry, I must run or I’ll miss my train.” Violet hurried away before he could respond.

  The Presentation of Embroideries service took place the following Thursday afternoon, and Violet and Maureen got special permission from Mr Waterman to leave work and attend. They took seats along the south wall of the presbytery, next to the archway Mabel Way had guarded five months earlier when Violet stumbled across the last special service. Mabel was standing there again – Mabel who had shushed her, keeping out all but the appropriate people, as she was doing now. Violet smiled to herself. Now that she was an appropriate person, this scene did not seem so strange. She could understand why Mabel might bar all but those who had put in hours of stitching and earned their seat at this service. Nor did she find it funny that stacks of kneelers and lengths of cushion borders had been placed before the altar, hers amongst them. Instead it felt right, and right that she should be here. For Violet was finally part of a group. She was sitting between Maureen and Gilda, she was nodding at others, Mabel no longer hissed at her but had actually greeted her, and she even earned a smile from Louisa Pesel, as well as a frown from Mrs Biggins. For once she felt she truly had a place in the Cathedral.

  The organist had been playing introductory music, but changed now to something more processional, and the Dean and vergers appeared up the steps from the nave and through the choir. As they passed, Violet saw Dorothy Jordan slip into a seat by the door. She felt Gilda stir. “I convinced Dorothy to come,” she whispered, “though she’s not normally one for services.”

  On her other side, Maureen rustled and tutted.

  Although Violet was glad to be there, the service itself was not particularly scintillating. Prayers, hymns, a sermon: it followed a familiar pattern. Even the Dean’s sermon sounded similar to the last time he addressed the special service. Violet found her eyes wandering along with her mind: she gazed at the screen behind the altar, the wood carving in the choir stalls, the mortuary chests on top of the stone parclose around the presbytery. Then she caught sight of crudely carved capital letters on a seemingly bare panelled stone wall across from her:

  HAREY · COPPAR · WAS ·

  SUORNE · BELLRYNGAR · IN ·

  THE · YER · OF · OUR · LORD · GOD

  · 1545 ·

  It was the bellringing graffiti Arthur had told her about.

  After the service ended and the broderers were standing about and chatting, she went over to study the graffiti more closely, steadying her hand against the wall as she gazed up at it. Harey Coppar was not the best speller but he had managed to make his presence felt at the Cathedral. Perhaps he had not wanted his contribution to be so ephemeral as the ringing of bells.

  Other men had also carved their names into the wall – John Rowse, William Stempe – though they did not label themselves as bellringers. Then she froze. Two names had been carved together: George Bathe and Thomas Bathe. Her brothers’ Christian names. Had the Bathe brothers both managed to survive to old age, or did something take one or both of them – war, or plague, or starvation? Violet swallowed the lump in her throat.

  Miss Pesel clapped her hands. “Ladies, there are so many kneelers to distribute that we could do with your help. Take one or two and place them on the seats, please.”

  Her suggestion was taken up with gusto. There was a rush to the altar, and as the broderers began looking for their particular kneelers, an unusual party-like atmosphere descended upon the presbytery. Violet joined them, glad to leave behind the Bathe brothers, and was lucky to find her kneeler amongst the others scattered about. She looked around. Most of the chairs now had new kneelers on them, but a seat under Harey Coppar’s graffiti was still empty. She placed her kneeler there, and touched her initials. VS. Her mark.

  Gilda appeared at her elbow, Dorothy Jordan with her. Dorothy nodded at Violet’s initials. “Dulcius ex asperis,” she murmured, nodding at the kneeler. “Sweetness after difficulties.”

  “Coming to Awdry’s with us?” Gilda asked.

  “I’m afraid I have to go back to work,” Violet explained. “We were lucky to get t
he time off.”

  Normally Gilda would have tried to persuade Violet that a cup of tea was essential. Now, however, she just nodded and took Dorothy’s arm. “Cheerio, then. Next week!”

  Maureen was frowning when Violet found her to walk back to the office together. But it was only when they’d crossed the Outer Close that she spoke. “Watch out for those two,” she warned. Gilda and Dorothy were ahead of them in the distance, Gilda’s hand still tucked in her friend’s elbow. “You don’t want to be tarred with the same brush.”

  Violet winced. Whatever her uncertainty over Gilda and Dorothy’s friendship, she was not having a junior tell her what she should and shouldn’t do. “You sound like Olive,” she remarked. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  They were silent the rest of the way back to the office.

  Chapter 15

  MRS HARVEY’S FRONT ROOM had not had such a crowd for months. Gathered round the fire were Marjory and Edward, Tom and Evelyn, drinking eggnog and eating gingerbread Violet had made for the occasion. The children swung between hysterical delight at being allowed to stay up so late and exhaustion. “They’ll sleep in tomorrow, thank goodness,” Evelyn declared, sitting in a chair farther from the fire and fanning herself with one of Mrs Harvey’s magazines. “No rising early to see what Father Christmas has put in their stockings.” Her pregnancy was like having a heater strapped to her, and her widening hips and belly made her fit snug into the chair, like a cork. She stretched out her legs and sighed; her ankles were swollen and she had dark rings under her eyes. Evelyn prided herself on being unflappable, and had managed to keep herself tidy and contained during her first two pregnancies. This one, however, seemed to burgeon beyond her, and Violet caught her looking wild-eyed and bewildered, a queen whose subjects are unruly for no reason. Though she liked her sister-in-law, secretly Violet was amused by this loss of control. The children also sensed their mother’s distraction, and took advantage. Edward had become shouty, and Marjory was developing a calculated sideways glance that made Violet want to snort.

  “Only four weeks to go, is that right?” she said as she offered more gingerbread. Normally Evelyn would always say no to second helpings, citing her figure. Now, however, she took some gladly. “More eggnog?”

  “I’d best not, or I’ll fall asleep at the service.”

  “Mummy snores!” Edward cried.

  “She does,” Marjory confirmed, fingering the cage where the budgies were flitting back and forth.

  “Now, now, let your mother be,” Tom intervened, a little wearily.

  Violet’s landlady popped her head round the door. “Watch your fingers, young lady,” she said to Marjory. “Those birds can peck.” Marjory snatched her hand back. “Everyone settled?”

  “Yes, Mrs Harvey,” Violet replied.

  “More coal for the fire?”

  “No, thanks, we’ll be heading to the Cathedral shortly.” Violet had already paid extra for coal to make it warmer.

  “Best not leave it too late. Midnight Mass is always popular. More so than Christmas morning. People like to get it done with and out of the way.”

  “Will you be going?”

  “Me? No!” Mrs Harvey looked almost indignant. “I never set foot outside after nine o’clock. It’s not decent. Oh, it’s all right for you lot – going to church, after all. But a lady out at night on her own – that wouldn’t do.”

  Violet thought back to the times she’d been out after nine that year – to Gilda’s for tea, to a concert at the Cathedral, to the cinema. She’d refrained from sherry men since moving to Winchester – it was too small a place to be anonymous, and her landlady was doubtless keeping more of an eye on her movements than even her mother had.

  “You’re welcome to join us if you like,” she offered reluctantly. Tom nodded.

  “No, no, you run along. I’ve got presents to wrap for the little ones.” Mrs Harvey was going to her daughter’s for Christmas Day.

  It was cold and rainy, and as they hurried down the hill and across the Itchen, Violet was glad that Mrs Speedwell was not with them to complain about the weather, the walk to the Cathedral, the nosiness of Mrs Harvey, the children’s behaviour, the spiciness of the gingerbread or the thickness of the eggnog. She would get enough of that the next day, for she was going back to Southampton with her brother and family after Midnight Mass to spend Christmas with them. Mrs Speedwell had handed Christmas festivities over to Tom and Evelyn, and had not decorated the house – no holly or candles or Christmas tree or baubles. That autumn she had also begun alternating Sunday lunch with Evelyn, and more than once cancelled at the last minute, blaming colds, headaches, nerves.

  “Is Mother all right?” she asked as they walked up the High Street. She had a hand hooked through Tom’s elbow; Evelyn held the other. Their shoes clopped on the wet pavement like horse hooves. The children were running along ahead of them, zigzagging from one shop window to another to look at the Christmas decorations.

  Tom hesitated. Normally he dismissed concerns about their mother, laughing off her ailments and declaring she was as robust as an ox. “I expect she’s a bit low,” he replied. “Holidays do that. All alone in that house. It’s too big for her, isn’t it? I was there the other day and had to get something from George’s and my old room. Have you been upstairs recently?” Violet had not. She avoided her old bedroom and its years of accumulated spinsterhood. “It’s awfully dusty up there. Grubby, even. I said something to Mum – gently, of course – and she said she’d told the char not to clean up there any longer. And Mum isn’t – well, she smells a little musty, shall we say.”

  “Are you telling me this because you want me to move back?” Violet had to speak carefully so that her voice didn’t crack.

  “No! No.” Tom stopped to emphasise his point. Marjory and Edward kept going, jumping over puddles, and Evelyn pulled his arm so that they would keep up with the children. “I’m only mentioning it because we should keep an eye on her. There may come a time when something needs to be done, that’s all. But of course you must stay. Your life is here now. Frankly, old girl, it’s been a pleasure watching your transformation. You seem … happy. Winchester suits you.”

  “Well …” Violet wasn’t sure she would describe herself as happy, exactly. But she did feel more independent, more self-defined. These days she could even feel a little sorry for her mother, especially hearing her called musty. It was an awful word. “But what can be done?”

  “I suppose she could sell up and move …”

  “Move where?” Violet sensed Evelyn stiffening on Tom’s other side, and suddenly understood. Poor Evelyn, she thought. “Perhaps she could move to Aunt Penelope’s,” she suggested, to assuage them, though she knew it was not really an option. Her aunt was already looking after an ancient mother-in-law, as well as helping with several grandchildren. She was the sort who collected people to rely on her, but there were only so many she could cope with.

  “It’s not definite, of course.”

  “Of course,” Violet repeated.

  “But I wanted to mention it so you can keep it in mind as we go forward, in case it comes up with Mum tomorrow.”

  “All right.” Now it had been laid out before her, without anyone saying it: Mrs Speedwell would eventually move in with Tom and Evelyn, and they – and the children too – would be made miserable. They would not be if Violet hadn’t gone to Winchester; only Violet would be. The price of her happiness – no, not happiness; the price of her freedom – was the misery of at least four people. It was a very high price indeed, and Violet resented having to calculate it in this way. A man never did.

  “Hello, Violet!” Mabel Way called from across the street.

  Violet waved.

  Marjory turned round to stare. “Who’s that, Auntie Violet?”

  “One of the women I make cushions and kneelers with.”

  “Oh! Like what you showed me earlier?” Violet had got out the latest border she was working on, and Marjory had sat petting it
like a cat until the gingerbread was brought out.

  “Yes. You may see some of the kneelers tonight.”

  As they were crossing the Outer Close they ran into Maureen and her family, and then Gilda, who delighted the children by jumping directly into a puddle and splashing it everywhere. “Are you on your own?” Violet asked. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Thanks, but Joe and Dad are inside, saving seats. You can sit with us if you like. It may be a squash but we’ll manage.”

  “Is Olive here? I suppose not, with the new baby.”

  Gilda made a face. “What a fusser! You’d think awful Olive was the first person ever to have a baby. Still, I do get to be Auntie Gilda now, so that’s some consolation. Gilda the giddy aunt. Here we are!” They had reached the Cathedral entrance, where a dull roar greeted them. Violet had never before heard so much noise there – a buzzing anticipation, like the sociable sound in a pub, rather than the usual religious hush.

  Inside it was warm and bright with people and lights. As they walked up the central aisle of the nave, where the service would take place, it was gratifying to see Tom and Evelyn look up in awe at the vaulted ceiling high above them. “So beautiful,” Evelyn breathed. Violet smiled. She had walked above that ceiling. She was at home here now, and others’ pleasure in the building felt like being complimented on how you had decorated your front room or planted the borders of your garden. She wished she could show them some of her favourite bits: the bosses on the presbytery ceiling carved with lions and swans and deer, the Green Man with his moustache made of leaves in the choir stalls, the mediaeval tiles on the retrochoir floor.

  The nave was as crowded as Mrs Harvey had warned it would be, but there was space for them with her family, three-quarters of the way back, if Edward sat on Tom’s lap. “Well, now, your auntie has told me she’s teaching you to embroider,” Gilda said to Marjory as they were removing their wet coats. The fug of damp wool enveloped them.