A Single Thread

by Tracy Chevalier

  It was hardest to ring Arthur, the person she most wanted to talk to and the telephone call she least wanted her mother to hear. Mrs Speedwell did not seem to want to go to bed, insisting on sitting in the front room by the fire when Tom and Evelyn and Gladys visited – the older children deemed too robust a presence and being looked after by a neighbour. It had gone half nine before they left, and another half hour before Violet could convince Mrs Speedwell to get into bed. Once there she wanted her daughter to read more from The Diary of a Nobody. The book was beginning to feel like a pointed choice, about a parent whose child breaks away from their old-fashioned expectations, at the expense of the parent. But Mrs Speedwell did not seem to notice. When at last she fell asleep in the middle of the scene in which the son announces his sudden engagement to his surprised parents, it was half ten.

  Violet rang the Five Bells, certain Arthur would have gone home. When the taciturn publican answered, she could barely ask for him, she was so nervous. “I’m terribly sorry to ring so late,” she finally managed. “I don’t expect Arthur Knight is still there?”

  “He’s just left. Hang on a minute.”

  Violet waited, heart pulsing in her throat.

  “Violet?” her mother called from upstairs.

  Violet swore under her breath. “Just a moment, Mother!” she called, hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Violet?”

  “Arthur. How did you know it was me?”

  “Bob recognised your voice. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. But I’m afraid my mother has taken a bit of a turn. Apoplexy, the doctor thinks. So I am in Southampton, looking after her. It seems I won’t be able to see you tomorrow. I’m so sorry.” She swallowed a sob.

  “Violet!” Mrs Speedwell was at the top of the stairs.

  “Oh. I am sorry too.”

  His words were a rope she grasped.

  “I have to go now. But I’ll – I’ll—”

  “Violet, who are you talking to? Who is Arthur?”

  Violet hung up and glowered at her mother, wondering how she would react if she responded, “I’m talking to the only man I’ve loved since Laurence.” Instead she said, “Go back to bed, Mother. You’re standing in a draught and it’s not good for you.”

  “It is astonishing that my daughter should be chatting away on the telephone when her mother is so ill.”

  “It is astonishing that such an ill mother should get up from her sickbed to spy on her daughter’s telephone conversations. Perhaps she is not so ill after all.”

  Mrs Speedwell clutched at her dressing gown. “How dare you suggest such a thing! How horrid and ungrateful you are!” They glared at each other, brought once more to the familiar battleground of their relationship.

  Then her mother’s face crumpled. “Oh, how I miss your father,” she sighed, her eyes filling with tears.

  With that, the floor dropped right out of Violet’s anger. She sank onto a step. “I miss him too. And George. And Laurence.” She rarely said their names aloud in front of her mother. They gazed at each other, the staircase between them somehow making it easier to be honest. She has lost the love of her life, Violet thought. And the son she was meant to look after. Poor thing. “Get into bed, Mother,” she suggested in a gentler tone. “I’ll get you some fresh water.”

  Her mother nodded and shuffled back to her bedroom, missing the sight of Violet wiping away a tear.

  Mrs Speedwell improved rapidly, so that within a few days she was insisting on getting dressed and coming down to sit all day, though she took a short morning nap and a longer one in the afternoon – just like small children, Evelyn remarked when she visited. A nurse came twice a day to take her blood pressure and temperature and to make sure all was progressing as it should. Since their confrontation on the stairs, Violet and her mother were getting along better – or at least had tacitly agreed to a truce. Mrs Speedwell did not ask about Arthur, and Violet put up with her fussing. She fetched her cups of tea and shawls and spectacles and knitting that her mother held in her lap and never worked on. She sat and read to her – finishing The Diary of a Nobody and convincing her mother to try Somerset Maugham. She turned the wireless up or down or off. She tidied the rooms under Mrs Speedwell’s direction, and tried to conquer the musty smell, though it would require a proper airing of the house that she couldn’t do in February.

  Violet rang neighbours and friends and arranged short visits, putting out biscuits (“Not too many,” Mrs Speedwell insisted, “or they will stay all afternoon eating!”) and warming the teapot. She went to the shops and made simple meals from the purchases, of omelettes and leek and potato soup and boiled sole, using her mother’s money to treat them to tinned peach melba or pineapple chunks with cream.

  She became indispensable.

  She rang Gilda, who spoke to Miss Pesel and sent her the design and materials for more cushion borders. She rang Mr Waterman and asked for another week off, and before he could question or chide her, said her mother was calling for her and hung up. She rang Mrs Harvey, who asked first how her mother was, then if she would still be able to pay her rent. She considered asking her mother for money, but worried it would wreck the fragile equilibrium they had managed to achieve, and that Mrs Speedwell would simply say, “Move back to Southampton.”

  She did not ring the Five Bells.

  She also looked after Aunt Penelope when she came to visit for a few days – though she did not require much, for she was so used to others making demands on her that her own needs were set aside. Gentle and mild-mannered, Penelope chose to respond to her sister’s overbearing nature by giggling. It was like watching someone punch a pillow that is so soft their fists make no impact. Violet began to feel she was living in a Jane Austen novel, but at least her aunt’s brief presence gave her some respite.

  Once Aunt Penelope had gone back to her responsibilities in Horsham, and after a particularly exhausting day of running and fetching and being bossed about, she welcomed a visit one evening from Tom, who had taken to popping in after work before heading home to Evelyn and the children. Mrs Speedwell was asleep by the fire, having been read Maugham short stories for much of the afternoon. When he called out “Hello!” Violet hurried to shush him at the door. He held up a bottle of brandy. “Thought you might need this, to keep you going,” he whispered.

  Violet led him back to the kitchen, where the range kept it reasonably warm and they could shut the door and speak without their mother hearing. A mulligatawny soup was bubbling on the hob and giving the room a pleasant meaty fug.

  “How’s Mum today?” Tom asked as Violet got out two glasses.

  “All right. I managed to bore her to sleep with Somerset Maugham, though I rather enjoy him.”

  “I must say, old girl, you’re doing a splendid job looking after her. Much better than I’d expected. Sorry,” he added. “That sounded bad. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know what you meant.” Violet poured them each a brandy. “I myself didn’t think I would possibly manage for this long.” She raised her glass to him and they drank.

  “And now,” she added, “I want to go home.”

  Tom was silent for a moment. “Isn’t this your home? After all, you lived here for thirty-eight years, whereas you’ve been in Winchester for just over a year.”

  It was true that Violet knew every sharp corner and squeaky step and faded curtain in this house, to the point where such things were unconsciously imprinted on her brain. But that did not make it home.

  “And aren’t you of better use looking after Mum than typing forms for people you don’t know?” he continued. “What is Southern Counties Insurance to you, or you to it?”

  “That is not the only part of my Winchester life,” she countered. “There’s the broderers too.” She couldn’t add about the bellringing or Arthur, or about the sense she had that she was building a life for herself there – building herself there. He wouldn’t understand: he was already built.
/>   “Doesn’t Mum count for more than embroidery?”

  In his way her brother was using similar arguments to those of Mr Waterman. It pained her. “You said at Christmas that you were glad for me, that I seemed happy in Winchester.”

  “Yes, but Mum hadn’t taken ill then. That rather puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

  They were silent. Violet decided to ignore what Tom had just said. “I must go back to Winchester shortly to resume my life,” she declared. “I wanted to speak to you about what to do with Mother. She is much better, and though she may not believe it, I think she can be left alone.” Violet was not entirely sure she did think it. Two weeks was certainly not the four weeks’ bed rest the doctor had prescribed.

  Tom gulped his brandy. “Evie warned me you would say that.”

  Violet set down her glass. “And you thought I could be bought off with a bottle of brandy? Shame on you, Tom.”

  “No! No, not at all, old girl. I do understand. But we can’t just leave Mum on her own. She’s better because you’re here. Left alone – even if nurses visit every day and we rehire the char – she would wilt, and have a fall, or stop eating. Evie is worried – we both are – that we’ll end up having to take her in. It’s hard work with three kiddies. Taking on another person, especially one as difficult as Mum – well, we dread it, to be honest. Surely you can see that.”

  She could see it. She wondered if they also “dreaded” the possibility of Violet herself coming to live with them one day. They had never discussed it – the few times she’d brought it up, Tom had ducked out of the conversation by saying, “Oh, no need to worry about that just yet. We’ve a long way to go before we have to think about it.”

  But now, unless she took a stand – and what others would see as a selfish stand – she would be backed into her old bedroom and a life of looking after her mother. “Tell me,” she said, “what if I were married with children? Would we be having this conversation?”

  “But you don’t have a husband and children,” Tom replied. “I’m sorry you don’t, but there it is.”

  “So what would we be saying if I did have a family? What would our options be then? Why can’t we discuss those options?”

  Tom frowned. “Well … I suppose we would be considering having someone live in. Not necessarily a nurse, but a companion. Someone who would cook for Mum and sit with her – not all day, but read to her and such. Instead of rent. Someone who would be in situ if there were a problem, and she could call us or the doctor.”

  “In situ,” Violet repeated.

  “Yes, in situ. You know what that means, don’t you? It’s Latin for—”

  “I know what it means,” Violet interrupted. “Latin.”

  “What is it?”

  “I am thinking of a solution.”

  Chapter 22

  VIOLET HAD NEVER THOUGHT she would be so pleased to walk back into the chilly Southern Counties office and see her tan cardigan draped over her chair back; nor to have Maureen stop dead in the doorway, a cup of tea in hand, and her dour face break into a smile.

  “Oh my days, I’m glad you’re back!” she cried. “I thought I was going to drown in paper.” She hurried in, sloshing tea on the floor in her haste, and indicated the massive pile of forms by her typewriter. “Not to mention how terribly boring it’s been sitting here alone all day.”

  Violet smiled – Maureen was making it sound as if they were the closest chums, conveniently forgetting about the frostiness that had recently descended. But Violet was willing to forget that too. “Did Mr Waterman not tell you I was returning today?”

  “Mr Waterman tells me nothing, only that you were away until further notice and that I must cope as best I could, and only to use one heater for myself.” She pointed at the new Belling Violet had managed to purchase. “Now we can have both on again! Here, have this, I’ll make another.” Maureen thrust her tea at Violet, then knelt to flip on the switch. “I had to find out about your mother from Olive. How is she?”

  “Much better, thanks.”

  “Who is looking after her now?”

  “She’s got a lodger who cooks for her and keeps her company.” Violet did not mention that the lodger was Dorothy Jordan.

  She set down the cup and saucer along with her handbag and looked around. She had only been away for two weeks, but the room seemed different: small, drab, uninspiring. Though pleased to be resuming her life after the hiatus in Southampton, Violet realised now that she could not stay here forever. She would need to move on and find some other way to live.

  That sudden understanding was why her subsequent meeting with Mr Waterman did not trouble her as much as it might. He called her to his office to welcome her back, asking after her mother and even commenting on Maureen’s efficiency in handling her increased workload. “Of course I am concerned that our typing pool is made up entirely of girls I cannot completely rely upon,” he added, turning a glass paperweight on his desk.

  Violet felt her spine stiffen. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Maureen is likely to go the way of Olive, isn’t she? She’ll marry and leave, as will most girls we hire. Spinsters are more reliable –” he did not notice Violet grimace – “but they are likely to be off looking after their Aged Ps, aren’t they?”

  Violet looked at him. Not even referencing Dickens softened that blow. “What would you have us do, Mr Waterman? Put our jobs before our families?”

  “Of course not, of course not. That indeed is why girls leave when they marry – to focus on family.”

  “If you didn’t have your wife to look after your Aged Ps – as I suspect she does –” a glance at Mr Waterman’s surprised face confirmed she had guessed right – “then what would you do if they needed you?”

  Mr Waterman sat up. “There, now, Miss Speedwell, there is no need to get personal. No need at all.”

  “Except that you just have with me.”

  “Yes, but it is my job as supervisor to look after the best interests of my employees, as well as of Southern Counties Insurance. I am sorry if you do not see it that way.”

  “Perhaps you would be better off hiring older widows who don’t plan to remarry,” Violet remarked, only half-joking. “Or men.”

  “Well, now, men are unlikely to want to type all day, are they? It is a – a feminine occupation, I should think, even now when jobs are scarce. But a widow …” He gave the paperweight another half-turn, looking thoughtful.

  I shall have to give him a headache soon by handing in my notice, Violet thought, aware now that the moment she was back, she was ready to leave again.

  Returning to the broderers was more successful. All seemed genuinely pleased to see her – even Mrs Biggins, who highly approved of Violet working on cushion borders in her spare time at her mother’s. “Loyalty and hard work, that is what I like to see in a broderer,” she declared. “For Cathedral and family.”

  Mabel Way nodded at her and said, “Come to me for more materials when you are ready.”

  Gilda hugged her and whispered, “Thanks so much for finding Dorothy a place to live – you are a true friend!” She then sat with her and as promised described the broderers’ service Violet had missed. “You must go and see the cushions in place,” she finished. “There are a dozen of them out, and they look splendid, like little bits of stained glass all over the seats. Now you can see what the effect will be when we finish the project and there are many more. And apparently the new alms bags were used on Sunday and they got a third again the usual donations! Of course the vergers complained because the collection took twice as long since everyone wanted to inspect the bags, and that rather threw out the timing of the service. Just think, Violet: your stitches passing hand to hand for years to come!”

  They sat together and chatted easily while they worked on their pieces. There was less tension in the room surrounding Gilda now than there had been in January when things had come to a head with Dorothy. The other broderers were no longer throwing h
er looks or whispering to each other, and had gone back to listening to and laughing at Gilda’s stories. Dorothy was not there, and that made it easier to ignore the fact of them as a couple.

  “Dorothy told me she has settled in well in Southampton.” Gilda spoke in a lower voice.

  “Yes, she has.” Violet matched her tone. “It took me quite by surprise, as Mother is not the easiest of people to satisfy. I did warn her.”

  Indeed, from the start Dorothy was unrattled by Mrs Speedwell. While grateful for a free place to live, she was, in her floating way, clear about maintaining her own time to embroider Mr and Mrs Waterman’s cushions or to take the train to Winchester to tutor children in Latin. She did not play the victim, and did not allow Mrs Speedwell to, either. She did not grovel or concede to her barrage of demands and complaints. On her first morning, while Violet was still there to smooth the transition, Dorothy’s response to Mrs Speedwell’s order for another cup of tea was: “Later, we’ll all have a cup for our elevenses.” Violet’s mother was so startled that she did not renew her demand. When she complained that her lodger’s vegetable soup was not salty enough, Dorothy passed her the salt cellar. “You are very welcome to make the soup if you prefer,” she suggested. “That would be fine with me.” She refused to read the Mail or the Express aloud, but handed them back to Mrs Speedwell, saying, “I do not care for these papers and their opinions, so you will have to read them yourself.” She also rejected the books Mrs Speedwell wanted her to read aloud, instead insisting on Latin classics. As Violet was leaving she was reading from Virgil’s Aeneid, first a page in Latin, then the English translation. Mrs Speedwell was fast asleep. She was clearly in the process of being tamed.

  “Do you see Dorothy at all?” Violet asked now.

  “A little here and there, when she comes to tutor.” Gilda frowned. “It’s not like before, when we had all the time in the world. But it’s better than nothing. We shall have to find a way. Maybe I’ll move in with your mother too!”