A Single Thread

by Tracy Chevalier

  “Typing is like that for me. And embroidery, which is more satisfying, of course, because there is something beautiful at the end.”

  “At the end of fishing there is a fish to eat.”

  “Yes.”

  They were silent.

  “Arthur, I have your handkerchief from when we first met. I never returned it.”

  “I know. I like you having it.” He paused. “Violet, I had a word with Jack Wells. He came to the Five Bells one evening. I told him to leave you alone or he would be answering to me, and to the police.”

  Violet tried not to shudder. “How – how did he respond?”

  Arthur grimaced. “With threats.” At her look of alarm, he added, “Don’t worry. Bob – the publican – sent him packing, and has banned him. We won’t see him again.”

  “Thank you.” The feeling of knowing that someone was looking out for her and keeping her safe made her want to cry. She was also very aware that they were still firmly clasping hands, and wondered how this would end, and who would end it.

  It was the choir boys who did. They began to sing, reminding Violet that she was meant to be at Evensong. Without meaning to, she moved her hand a fraction, and Arthur let go.

  They stood, and it could have been awkward, yet it wasn’t. The touch of their hands had communicated something concrete that Violet would always feel and treasure, whatever happened. It was like being given a coin that you could hold in your hand and feel its metallic solidity; and, spend or not spend, you know its value.

  “Are you looking forward to ringing here again?” she asked as they left the Fishermen’s Chapel.

  “I am. I didn’t think I would miss it so much since I can still ring at Nether Wallop, but I will be glad to be back with more than five bells.”

  “Will William Carver still be angry? Will he put you on the worst bell?”

  Arthur smiled. “There is no worst bell, though some are more challenging than others. And William will have put it behind him. He will feel he has punished us and that will suffice. Keith is still smarting, though. I shall have to have a word with him beforehand, and keep an eye on him. Perhaps there is something after all in that saying about a redhead’s temper.”

  They reached the south transept aisle where they could hear the choir just finishing. “Are you coming to Evensong?” Violet whispered.

  Arthur shook his head. “I have some ringing business with William to sort out and am meeting him for an early supper.”

  “Will you come to the Presentation of Embroideries service on the sixteenth?” Violet didn’t want to leave without knowing when she would see him again.

  Arthur gave her a look. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  Violet had a vision of the service full of Winchester women, primed to take away the gossip that Arthur Knight had come to the broderers’ service. “I expect you’re right. But I wanted to show you the work we’ve done.”

  A verger standing at the top of the stairs to monitor the service was frowning at them, just as Mabel had at Violet months before.

  “And you will,” Arthur whispered, taking her elbow and walking her partway along the aisle towards the nave. “Shall we meet in two weeks? You can show me the cushions and we can have supper after, before ringing.”

  “All right. I would like that.” It was not a date; it was something more than that.

  They looked at each other. “Thank you,” he said.

  “There is nothing to thank. It is I who should thank you.”

  “There is. You listened to me talk about Hitler, and you changed the subject to Izaak Walton. To what really matters. Quite right, too. I am indebted to you, Violet Speedwell.”

  Chapter 21

  WITH ONLY A WEEK to go before the broderers’ service, one of the stitchers fell ill, and Violet was given her alms bag to finish because it was in the same pattern as the one she’d just made. She began staying up late in the front room after the other lodgers had gone to bed, even outsitting Mrs Harvey, persuading her that she would remember to bank the fire and switch off the lights. Mrs Harvey’s admiration for the broderers’ work for the Cathedral outshone her suspicion of Violet and Gilda’s doings, though she still muttered about how Nell Hill would be horrified to hear of the rumours spreading about her daughter. Then she looked meaningfully at Violet, as if expecting her to deliver up confirmation or clarification. But Violet simply changed the subject.

  She enjoyed sitting by the fire with only the wireless for company, at least until it signed off at midnight with “God Save the King”. The silence and her concentration on the stitches cleared her mind of Gilda and Dorothy, and even of Arthur – though she allowed herself a smile at the thought of meeting him for supper soon.

  On the Monday night before the Thursday service, Violet had just snipped the last strand of white wool and was admiring her finished side – the next day Miss Pesel would quickly stitch it together with the other side, then line the bag with kidskin – when the telephone rang in the hall. She started and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece: 11:45. No one rang at that time of night unless there was an emergency. Of course it could be connected with Mrs Harvey – she had grandchildren who might fall ill, and a son-in-law who apparently drove too fast. But ever since Gilda had appeared at the door, Violet expected whatever emergencies came to the house to be for her.

  She did not want her problems to wake everyone, and so after a moment’s hesitation she hurried to the telephone, picked it up and announced, “Winchester 438,” trying for the confidence of her landlady.

  “Violet.” Tom’s voice was so clear it was as if he were standing beside her, speaking in her ear. “I’m sorry to ring so late, but it’s about Mum.”

  Violet was so unprepared for this news that she almost laughed, smothering it just in time. “What has happened?”

  “She’s had a seizure of some sort. Apoplexy, they think. It’s not major, but she’s had to go to the Borough. That’s where I’m ringing from.” The Borough Hospital was where Tom had been born, where George had had a broken arm placed in a splint, where Violet’s father had died after a heart attack. “It’s not major,” they’d said then too.

  “Oh, dear.” She knew she should say more but she felt nothing; she was frozen. “Is Evelyn with you?” It was best to stick with the facts.

  “No, she’s with the kiddies. It’s just me and Mum. The doctors think she’s out of danger, but it would still be best if you came down. I would come and get you if I could, but I can’t leave Mum. Do you know of anyone who might run you down? Else you could get the first train in the morning.”

  Mrs Harvey had appeared on the stairs in a light blue winceyette dressing gown. She somehow managed to raise her eyebrows and frown at the same time.

  “I’ll find a way to get to the hospital as soon as I can,” Violet declared, emphasising hospital for her landlady’s benefit. Mrs Harvey replaced her frown with a sympathetic moue.

  “Thanks, old girl. I appreciate it.” For all his bluffness, Tom sounded young and scared. Where parents were concerned it was hard to maintain an adult maturity. When Violet’s father died, she had cried and fought with her mother and brother as if she were a little girl again.

  When she hung up Mrs Harvey came the rest of the way down the stairs. “What is it, dear?”

  “My mother has had an apoplexy.” Saying the words aloud, Violet fought off a sob. “I – I need to find a way to get to Southampton.”

  “I’ll just put the kettle on.”

  As with the crisis concerning Dorothy, what Violet most wanted to do was to pick up the telephone and ring Arthur. It was a completely impractical impulse: he had no telephone, he was fourteen miles away, and he had no car. But she found it hard to think beyond his hand in hers.

  It was Mrs Harvey who came up with a solution over their cups of tea. She had switched into professional landlady mode. “Get Gilda Hill’s brother to run you down. He’s got motors to spare at his garage, and from what I hear, hi
s sister owes you a favour or two.”

  Any other time Violet would have worried over what Mrs Harvey knew and was implying. Now, however, she just nodded and went to pack an overnight bag in case it was needed.

  Mrs Harvey insisted on walking her through the crisp cold night to Gilda’s house, breaking her nine o’clock rule. She clearly enjoyed the drama and wanted to play her small part to the full. She even dealt with an astounded Olive who opened the door, a crying baby draped over her shoulder. “Wake your husband if he’s asleep, Olive Hill,” she ordered. “And get that baby out of the draught – he’ll catch his death.” If Violet hadn’t been so numbed by her mother’s drama, she would have been amused by Olive’s stunned face.

  Mrs Speedwell looked both tiny and rotund in the hospital bed, like a little barrel covered with a blanket. Her eyes were closed. Tom was asleep in a chair next to her, and Violet did not wake him, but stood and studied her mother. She seemed to be in a suspended state, neither asleep nor awake nor dead.

  Then her eyes opened, and she stared at Violet, her lips moving but making no noise. Well, Mother, Violet thought, you are quiet at last. She felt guilty for thinking it.

  She cleared her throat and Tom woke. “Thanks for coming, old girl,” he said, jumping up and kissing her cheek. He looked weary. “How did you get here?”

  “A friend’s brother brought me. Joe Hill – you met him at Midnight Mass.” Joe had been surprisingly sanguine about driving Violet to Southampton, having the sense to obey Mrs Harvey and ignore his wife’s scowls. His only dilemma seemed to be which motor car needed to stretch its legs the most. He didn’t say a word as they drove, except to wish her mother better when he dropped her at the hospital.

  “Good man,” Tom said. “I’ll buy him a pint or two when this is all over.”

  Violet nodded towards the bed. “Mother’s awake.”

  “So she is! Mum,” he called loudly, “you’ve had a bit of a turn, so we’ve brought you to the Borough. Doctor’s not worried, though – says you’ll be right as rain soon.”

  Mrs Speedwell’s pale blue eyes rested on Tom’s, expressionless.

  “Are you sure she’s all right?” Violet whispered. “She isn’t … showing anything.”

  “She’s disorientated. She’ll come around.” Her brother yawned.

  “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?” Violet suggested. “I’ll sit with Mother.”

  Tom looked relieved. “Thanks, old, girl, I will. Just for a few hours.”

  “Best ring Aunt Penelope in the morning so she knows.”

  “Of course. And you ring if there’s any change.”

  It became fifteen hours of sitting alone with her mother. Nurses came in and out, to check blood pressure and temperature, to bring a meal left untouched, to empty a bedpan. Violet admired their cheerful efficiency. At one time she had considered a career in nursing, but it required a devotion to others that she did not feel selfless enough to commit to.

  Mrs Speedwell remained silent throughout these ministrations even as the nurses kept up a stream of comments and questions that went unanswered. The patient slept occasionally, during which time Violet could slip out and get a bun or a cup of tea. Whenever she returned, however, her mother was again awake, her eyes reproachful.

  Violet had not thought to bring any embroidery – though she had none to do for the broderers, since she had left her finished alms bag for Gilda to hand in. Nor had she remembered to pack a book. She managed to scrounge a newspaper from the waiting room, but otherwise simply had to sit. It gave her plenty of time to think about her mother, when she wasn’t thinking about Arthur.

  It was easier to consider Mrs Speedwell when she couldn’t talk: when there were no “woe is me” comments, or digs at Violet, or complaints about what Evelyn was or wasn’t doing with the children, or how Tom wasn’t paying her enough attention. The blessed turning off of that running tap of commentary gave Violet the silent space at last to be sympathetic. She found herself remembering what Arthur had said in Nether Wallop: that there was nothing worse for a parent than the loss of a child, and that her mother was having to carry the burden of that grief for the rest of her life.

  She can never be really happy again, Violet thought as she watched her sleeping. Most people looked peaceful, with all the daily cares drained from their features. But Mrs Speedwell wore a frown even in sleep. Violet was tempted to reach over and smooth out her mother’s brow.

  The doctor arrived by mid-morning, as old as Mrs Speedwell and almost as cantankerous. “Where is your brother?” he demanded of Violet, picking up the clipboard that hung at the end of the bed. “I must speak to the head of the house.”

  “The head is there.” Violet nodded at her mother, who had opened her eyes when the doctor spoke.

  “Don’t be silly,” the doctor chided. “I mean the next of kin.” He glanced at the clipboard. “Thomas Speedwell. That’s who I want.”

  “My brother is at home, sleeping. I’m his sister. Surely you can speak to me?”

  The doctor looked disgusted at the prospect.

  “Talk to my daughter.”

  Violet and the doctor both started. “Mother!” Violet took her hand, unexpectedly moved to hear her voice.

  “So, Mrs Speedwell, you have decided to grace us with your presence,” the doctor declared. “How are you feeling?”

  “I want to go home. Take me home, Violet. I can’t bear another nurse or doctor poking and prodding at me.” Her words were a little slurred, but decipherable.

  Violet turned to the doctor. “Can she go home?”

  “Yes, at the end of the day.” He raised his voice and spoke slowly, as if to a child or a foreigner. “There is nothing wrong with you, Mrs Speedwell. We have checked, and the apoplexy was a minor cerebral insult. With a little rest, you should make a full recovery.” He turned to Violet. “Tell your brother that she must have bed rest for at least four weeks, with supervision. A nurse will visit twice a day, but she must be cared for by her family. Will you do that?”

  She didn’t know if he was asking her to relay the message to Tom or to do the caring, but she nodded, if only to send him away.

  When he was gone, Mrs Speedwell said, “Are you coming home?” Her eyes locked with her daughter’s. Violet could not bring herself to answer. She thought of all the pieces of Winchester she had gathered together over the past fifteen months – her room at Mrs Harvey’s, the office with Maureen, the broderers, Louisa Pesel, Gilda, Dorothy, the bellringers, Keith Bain and, most of all, Arthur. They were small and perhaps insignificant on their own, but placed together they made up a life of sorts. Now with one question they seemed to be dismantled.

  When Tom reappeared late that afternoon, rested, shaved, and guilt-ridden, Mrs Speedwell was dressed and sitting on her bed, ready. “Oh! Hello, Mum. Look at you, so much better! Sorry, old girl,” he said, turning to Violet. “I had a sleep, then Evie couldn’t settle Gladys, and the children needed collecting from school, and time rather got away from me.”

  “Mother’s been discharged and is ready to go,” Violet said.

  Tom looked a little confused. “Well, now, that’s splendid.” He lowered his voice. “Where is she going to go, though?” Clearly he was reluctant to bring her back to his house already stuffed with dependents.

  “Home,” Mrs Speedwell declared. “I’m going home, and Violet is coming with me.”

  A cup of tea. No, weaker than that. Another pillow for her head. No, a chair by the fire instead. Pish, the doctor doesn’t know what he’s talking about – bed rest would make her weaker. More coal on the fire. That’s too hot, it will scorch her dressing gown! Toast with marmalade. But not Evelyn’s marmalade; she never cuts the peel thin enough. Turn on the wireless. Oh no, not more talk about that Hitler, why do they go on about him so? Can’t they play music? A book instead, then – read it aloud. No, not Trollope, it puts her to sleep. Ditto Dickens. Wodehouse – too frivolous. Perhaps The Diary of a Nobody instead; that is a safe
bet.

  As Violet read out the daily doings of the hapless Mr Pooter, his long-suffering wife and his rebellious son, she marvelled that within only an hour Mrs Speedwell had driven her back to her usual desire to flee home. She tried to recall the feeling she’d had at the hospital for her mother, the pity and the love that Mrs Speedwell managed to dispense with so effectively as she recovered.

  The only change from her old self was that she slept more. During those naps Violet was able to make a few telephone calls. First to Mr Waterman to explain that she would have to take some time off to care for her mother. “Of course, of course,” he said. “It’s only proper a daughter should look after her mother. How much unpaid leave will you be taking?”

  Who is thinking about money now? Violet wanted to say. “A week,” she guessed.

  “Not more? In fact, Miss Speedwell, are you sure you are not considering looking after your mother on a permanent basis?”

  “I am not.”

  “This is the problem I have, you see, with lady typists. Always going off to get married or look after their parents. It does make me wonder why girls are so keen to work.”

  It was only because she did not want to lose her job that she did not retort, “Because I do not want to be a slave.”

  “It would be a great help if you told me, you see,” Mr Waterman added, “so that I can look for a replacement.”

  “I am not moving back to my mother’s,” Violet repeated firmly, though she tried to keep her voice low so Mrs Speedwell would not hear.

  “Well, you must do what you think best.” Mr Waterman’s tone implied she did not know what was best and he did.

  “I will ring with an update as soon as I can.” Violet hung up without saying goodbye. If pressed she could claim to have been upset rather than angry.

  Next she rang Mrs Harvey to inform her, and Gilda to tell her she wouldn’t make it to the Presentation of Embroideries service. Gilda was sympathetic and promised to describe it in full when they next met, and to give Violet’s apologies to Louisa Pesel and the other broderers. “But mothers come first,” she declared, “even over the Cathedral. Lucky you have one to look after!”