A Single Thread

by Tracy Chevalier

  Marjory nodded.

  “Which is your favourite stitch, then?”

  Marjory considered the question as if she’d been asked what she thought of the state of German politics. It was a subject to be taken seriously. “Rice,” she said at last in her most solemn voice.

  “Oh, that’s mine too!” Gilda’s face lit up with the lie – Violet knew she preferred long-armed cross. “Shall I take you to see some of the kneelers we’ve made?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Maybe we’ll find your auntie’s, too. And if you’re a very good girl, you may see more of her work tomorrow morning.” Gilda winked at Violet as she took Marjory’s hand. Despite Mrs Speedwell’s lukewarm response to her birthday gift, Violet had embroidered all of her Christmas presents to the family: a needle case for Marjory, slippers for her mother, a coin purse for Evelyn, a belt for Eddie, and a photo frame for Tom.

  “She’s sparky,” Tom remarked approvingly as he watched Gilda lead his daughter up the central aisle of the nave. “Not married, is she?”

  “No.”

  “Shame.” With a word he dismissed Gilda, and turned to her father and brother.

  Edward was squirming in his father’s lap. Violet stood. “Eddie, shall I take you to explore?” She helped her nephew up, with Evelyn giving Violet a grateful look. As they walked up the central aisle towards the altar, Edward took her hand. His was like a small sweaty animal burrowing into hers to find shelter, and Violet felt a deep, protective thrill. It was pleasing to walk with a child in front of others. There was Miss Pesel smiling at her and Eddie as he jumped on the grey and brown flagstones, trying to avoid the tombstones set into the floor. There was Mrs Biggins in a coat with a long fur collar, with her husband, staring at her. This was as close as Violet would ever get to showing off a son of her own, and it felt good, and also pathetic.

  They turned into the south aisle. “What’s that, Auntie Violet?” Edward pointed to a stone chapel built between two pillars, with tall, narrow windows and Gothic arches high above it all.

  “That is the Bishop of Wykeham’s chantry,” she explained. “Long ago he was a very important man at the Cathedral, and they built a splendid little house for him to be buried in.”

  “He’s in there? Can I see?”

  “Not tonight, dear. I’ll bring you back another day when it’s less crowded. Would you like that?”

  Eddie nodded.

  Violet led her nephew up the steps to the presbytery’s south entrance. Given how full the nave was, the presbytery was surprisingly empty and quiet: only Marjory was there, crouched on the floor to inspect a row of kneelers; and Gilda, who hovered nearby. She wasn’t alone, though; she was with Dorothy Jordan, and she was unwrapping something in tissue paper, and smiling at it. They were not talking, but the way they stood together, one angled to the other, was a kind of intimate communication that rattled Violet, as if she were seeing something she shouldn’t. When they became aware of an audience, they jumped apart. “Oh!” Gilda crumpled the tissue-wrapped present against her chest. She looked flushed and happy and slightly guilty. “I set out six kneelers and told Marjory to choose which she thought was yours.”

  Marjory held up Violet’s chequered acorns kneeler. “I got it right! Here are your initials: VS. Auntie Violet, I want to make a kneeler and keep it here.”

  “You’ll have to ask Mrs Biggins, dear. And I’m not sure she’ll say yes. First you must practise your stitches and get them perfect.”

  “Who’s Mrs Biggins?”

  Gilda pulled a face. “Old Biggins is a dragon who eats small children!” She jumped out with a roar, claws bared. Marjory and Edward squealed and fled the presbytery, Gilda in pursuit, leaving Violet and Dorothy alone.

  Violet turned red, and wished she hadn’t. But she had felt awkward around Dorothy ever since seeing her and Gilda together at the broderers’ service in October. Dorothy did not come to many embroidery sessions, but she often seemed to cross paths with Violet in town or at the Cathedral. They would nod, as they did now, but Violet would hurry on with a mime of being terribly busy or late for something. Now, the service was not due to start for a quarter of an hour, and Gilda was with the children somewhere – back in the retrochoir, Violet guessed from their delighted shrieks – and the two women could do little but stand together and wait.

  She peeked out through the choir to the buzzing nave. “I like it when the Cathedral is full of people,” she commented, to make conversation. “Then it is how I expect the founders imagined it would always be, a place much in use.”

  Dorothy cocked her head as if listening with great care. Her lips were bitten, and she wore no lipstick to smooth them, or powder to even out her dappled complexion. She was wearing a dark grey winter coat rather like a soldier’s overcoat, swamping even her tall frame. The black beret she wore not at an angle over one eye as most did, but pulled straight down over her ears, making it into an ad hoc cloche. She should look frumpy, yet she didn’t. It was perhaps being unconscious of how she looked that made her so appealing. Dorothy was the polar opposite of Olive Hill, with her carefully crafted hair and makeup and clothes. Violet could understand Gilda’s attraction to her – and felt unnerved by that feeling.

  “This was where our ancestors came for their dose of beauty,” Dorothy said, “to sustain them.”

  “Is that why you’ve come here – for the beauty?”

  “For that, and for other things.”

  They could hear Gilda’s approaching laughter on the other side of the parclose. Violet tried to think of something to say about Gilda but every thought seemed an intrusive one. “Will you be at your parents’ for Christmas?” she asked, and was immediately ashamed of the bland question and her obvious desperation to steer the conversation to a safer shore.

  Dorothy ignored her, and gazed at the Great Screen behind the altar. “How did the men who carved that stone feel when it was installed here, do you think? Did they just go to the pub afterwards and say ‘Job well done’ to each other?”

  “Perhaps they said, ‘Dulcius ex asperis.’”

  Dorothy clapped her hands. “Bravo! Top of the class.”

  At that moment, Gilda and the children appeared in the south archway, while at the same time Arthur Knight entered from the north. Violet’s heart surged and began to beat so hard her chest hurt.

  “Auntie Violet, there are stars and flowers on the floor back there!” Marjory cried.

  “Arthur!” Gilda called. “What are you doing here?”

  They stepped across and met in the middle next to Violet and Dorothy. “I was coming to have a look round before the service,” Arthur replied. “Have you kidnapped some children?”

  Gilda squeezed Marjory’s and Edward’s hands. “I have indeed. I took them to the retrochoir, but now I must deliver them back to their aunt.”

  Arthur turned to Violet. “Hello again, Miss Speedwell. It’s been some time since we last met.”

  “Yes. Hello, Mr Knight.” Violet shook his proffered hand, embarrassed by the formality of their greeting.

  “The mediaeval tiles you saw back there are rather splendid, aren’t they?” Arthur said to Marjory.

  She nodded.

  “I often go to see them when I visit. Would you like to see something else that is interesting?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He led them over and pointed to Harey Coppar was suorne bellryngar. “Can you read that?”

  As Marjory puzzled over the roughly scratched letters, Arthur murmured to Violet, “This is the graffiti I was telling you about.”

  “Yes, I found it. And I’ve seen some other graffiti too, back in the retrochoir.”

  “On Bishop Gardiner’s chantry?”

  “Yes – even on the statue of him! And elsewhere too. I’m starting to see graffiti everywhere.”

  Gilda was staring at them, astonished.

  “Miss Speedwell has taken an interest in bells,” Arthur explained.

  “She has?”
>
  “Yes, she came up to the ringing chamber.”

  “Did she, now?” Gilda’s expression was turning shrewd. “She never told me.”

  “Auntie Violet, can we see the bells too?” Marjory asked.

  “When you’re a little older, perhaps, dear. There are an awful lot of steps to climb to get to them.” Violet’s heart was still pounding.

  “I have always admired bells,” Dorothy said. “They bring a space to life.”

  Arthur smiled. “Indeed, Miss …”

  “Jordan,” Gilda filled in. “Miss Dorothy Jordan.”

  “Like the actress.”

  “Yes! I didn’t think you went to the cinema, Arthur.”

  Arthur looked puzzled. “I was thinking of William IV’s mistress. Late eighteenth century.”

  “Miss Jordan teaches Latin at the Winchester County School for Girls,” Gilda explained. “And she makes cushions and kneelers, like Violet and me.”

  “Ah, the cushions and kneelers. I should like to have a closer look at the cushions. I have seen some of the kneelers.”

  “It’s just kneelers at the moment. Once enough cushions are ready, they’ll add them all at once, to make more of an impact. Probably in February. One of them is Dorothy’s.”

  “Have you seen Auntie Violet’s kneeler?” Marjory picked it up and held it out to him. Violet could have kissed her.

  “I have not.” Arthur took the kneeler and studied it, smiling. “I do like the acorns.” He tapped a chequered cap.

  “Look at the boys!” Edward cried. The choir stall benches were starting to fill with black-robed young choristers from Winchester College. Marjory and Edward stared at them, especially the younger ones who could not be much older than Violet’s niece.

  “We’d best get back,” she said to the children, and led them down the south steps and back into the nave, the others following. Several rows ahead of their seats she saw William Carver, Keith Bain, and several other bellringers. Keith Bain nodded at her.

  “We rang after the eight o’clock service,” Arthur explained. “Most of us thought we would stay on for Midnight Mass. It is a particularly lovely service.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t hear the bells. We were indoors then.”

  He nodded. “The rain muffles them as well.”

  As they spoke Violet’s heart began to pound again. She willed it to slow down. “When do you next ring?”

  “The band is ringing tomorrow at nine forty-five, but I will be at Nether Wallop then. I’ll come up to ring in the New Year.”

  “You have to cycle all the way back tonight? In the rain?”

  “I’m used to it. It clears my head.”

  Violet didn’t dare ask more, as there was a whole nave full of Winchester burghers and bellringers witnessing their conversation.

  “Happy Christmas,” he said as he turned to slip into the bellringers’ row.

  “And to you.”

  “Who was that?” Tom asked as she took her place next to him. He sounded suspicious.

  “Arthur Knight. He’s a bellringer. I’ve been up to see the bells here.”

  “With him?”

  “Him and others. The band of ringers.” To escape Tom’s tone, she turned to Gilda, who had settled in next to her. “Is Dorothy joining us?”

  “Dorothy isn’t the joining type,” Gilda replied. “She only barely comes to the broderers. A big Cathedral service is not for her.”

  “Why did she come, then?”

  Gilda laid one bottle green leather glove on top of the other so that they matched, then stroked them. “To see me.”

  Those are from Dorothy, Violet thought. A Christmas present. She did not know what to say. To her relief, the congregation began getting to their feet as the Dean and vergers processed up the aisle. Violet fumbled with the Order of Service sheet, gazing blankly at the carols they were to sing: “Adeste Fideles”, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, “O Little Town of Bethlehem”.

  As they began to sing, “O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant,” she glanced at her friend. Gilda was holding the gloves tight as she sang loudly and slightly off-key.

  Chapter 16

  VIOLET HAD NOT HAD a memorable New Year’s Eve for years. As a girl she had loved staying up and drinking Horlicks by the bonfire her father made in the back garden, even when it was raining or snowing. With Laurence she had gone dancing till her feet hurt. During the War there had been no celebrations, and afterwards they had been quieter. She tried going to dance halls with friends but found the high spirits forced, the memories it brought up too painful. She preferred to stay at home, sitting with her father by the bonfire he still made – drinking brandy now. Latterly she had looked after the children for Tom and Evelyn so that they could go out. She had not yet celebrated in Winchester.

  When Gilda invited her to join her and some others at a pub for the evening, Violet hesitated at first. “Just before midnight we all go out to the Guildhall,” Gilda explained, “and join hands around King Alfred’s statue in a long circle up the High Street, and sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Sometimes there’s dancing if a band turns up. It’s great fun.”

  “Will anyone I know be there?”

  “My father and brother. And Dorothy.”

  The thought of spending the evening with Gilda and Dorothy gave Violet pause, Maureen’s warning of being associated with them flicking through her mind. But she was not needed for babysitting this year: Evelyn’s pregnancy tired her and she wanted to stay in. Violet did not want to sit at home with Mrs Harvey and the other lodgers, shaking hands formally at midnight and drinking cheap sherry. Or going to bed early with her hot water bottle.

  What she really wanted was to have a drink with Arthur and watch him ring the Cathedral bells. But she could not do that.

  “All right. Yes, I should like that.” Violet was not at all sure she would like it, but felt she must make an effort to show she was accepting the state of things between Gilda and Dorothy. She did not know what words to use to describe their relationship other than “the state of things”. She couldn’t bring herself to think of it as a love affair.

  She wore her copper lamé dress and made up her face with care. When she arrived at the Suffolk Arms halfway up the High Street at ten o’clock, the pub was already crowded, with women as well as men. Someone was playing “High Society Blues” on a piano, and Gilda and Dorothy were sitting with a group in the corner, leaning against each other and singing. When she saw her Gilda waved and beckoned.

  Violet pushed her way through the scrum to them. Gilda had done her hair in a tight wave and was wearing a silver dress with a dropped waist and layers of fringe at the bottom; she looked like a slightly out-of-date flapper. Dorothy wore a plain black dress, with a paste butterfly clasp in her unkempt hair – simple and dowdily elegant, if such a thing were possible.

  Gilda’s brother Joe jumped up, gave Violet his seat next to Gilda, and offered to get her a drink. She looked around: most women were drinking either sherry or port and lemon. “I’ll have half a mild, please.”

  “What, a shandy?”

  “No, just a mild.”

  Her order of a drink that was not sweetened must have surprised him, but he nodded.

  “Have you left Olive at home, then?”

  Joe looked sheepish. “Just for an hour or two. The little blighter’s been keeping her up. He’s a bit of a squaller.”

  Violet remembered that as a baby Marjory had been too, giving Evelyn a shattered expression that no amount of powder and lipstick could mask. For a moment she felt pity for awful Olive.

  Gilda introduced her to a number of people of various ages, most of them neighbours of the Hills. Violet promptly forgot their names, but found it didn’t matter. With a drink in front of her and a seat that gave her a view of most of the room, she sat back and watched the goings-on without taking an active part. Gilda and Joe did so for her, joining in with the joking and shouting and singing all around them. The room grew more and more cr
owded and smoky, packed with people desperate to have a good time. Violet tried not to wince at the shrieks of laughter. She glanced at Dorothy: she had her eyes closed, but she was smiling.

  After a second half of mild, bought for her by Gilda’s father, Violet began to relax enough that when the pianist – a bald man with a red face and a substantial belly – played “Let’s Do It”, she joined in with the singing. Gilda and Dorothy were swaying side to side in their seats, and Gilda put her arm around Violet and made her move in time too as they all sang along.

  Once the pianist played faster songs, people began to dance. Gilda’s father pulled Violet up and danced with her to “If I Had You”. There was little space and they ended up swaying and smiling at each other. Though a little awkward, it made her feel a part of the celebrations.

  Gilda and Dorothy were dancing too, which was not so unusual. Since the War and the lack of men, women had taken to dancing together without anyone being surprised or upset. Normally they would dance either fast or very formally, with backs straight and hands carefully placed. Gilda and Dorothy did neither. It was impossible to dance vigorously in the crowd, but they did not keep straight and prim. Instead they clasped each other’s hands palm to palm, their fingers entwined, and rocked back and forth, the fringe on Gilda’s dress shimmering, singing at each other about snow-capped mountains and mighty oceans and burning deserts being no obstacle to true love. Dorothy’s butterfly hairpin had come undone and was hanging precariously from the tangle of her hair. Violet was tempted to step over and rescue the butterfly from being crushed underfoot by eager dancers, but it was crowded and she did not want to draw attention to herself, so she stayed in her seat and tried not to stare.

  There was something sweet and childlike about the two women. No one but Violet seemed to notice how intimate their dancing was, and at one point Gilda waved a hand at her, as if both acknowledging her and admonishing her for watching.

  This is what love looks like, Violet thought, and did not know whether she was appalled or pleased. She knew about women like them. She’d heard comments about unwholesome friendships that were believed to be a result of the lack of men, of grasping at an alternative to spinsterhood. When Gilda and Dorothy were with each other, however, she did not sense any of that. They looked as if they belonged together.