A Single Thread

by Tracy Chevalier

  Violet paused, her needle threaded through two canvas holes. Her mother had once used the word “deviant” to describe two women who lived together in the next street and who Violet now realised must have been a couple. What would Mrs Speedwell make of such deviance within her own home?

  After the broderers’ meeting, she went to the Cathedral to see the cushions, hurrying up the central aisle and mounting the stairs that led to the choir. She was not entirely surprised to see that Arthur was sitting in one of the choir stalls, an embroidered cushion on his lap. Violet had hoped he might be there waiting for her, yet when she saw him her feelings were mixed. Her heart dropped into her stomach at the sight of him, the sick, joyous feeling she knew was love. There was relief that she could sit with him and tell him of her days with her mother, and of how glad she was to be back where they could meet; and of her tumult at work, of wondering what she could do next. She wanted to lay all of this before him, to talk it over as one does with a husband; as she would have with Laurence if he’d lived. But Arthur was not her husband; he was someone else’s husband.

  She was also a bit disappointed that he had already seen the cushions. She had wanted to present them to him with a flourish – in particular the one he was holding: the King Arthur cushion Dorothy had made.

  Arthur set it to one side and stood up as she approached. “Violet.”

  “I am so glad you are here,” she said. She held out her hand, because she wanted to feel his touch, and he took it and shook it, as if they were being formally introduced. His hand was cold, and Violet noticed now that the Cathedral itself was icy, though it was the beginning of March and she’d thought the back of winter was broken. But it always took a huge stone building longer to heat up and to cool down.

  A peculiar mix of emotions crossed Arthur’s face. He was clearly pleased to see her, and relieved too. She had not been able to speak to him after that one brief and interrupted telephone call. Perhaps he had been waiting here every Wednesday to see if she would appear after embroidery. But there was something else there too: he was upset. Had she done something?

  “What is the matter?” she asked.

  Arthur waved away whatever was the matter. “How is your mother?” It was the question everyone asked, Violet had noticed. No one asked how she was.

  “Mother is recovering. One of the broderers is lodging there now and keeping an eye on her. Dorothy Jordan, whom you met at Midnight Mass.”

  “Ah, yes, the actress’ namesake. Good. Did your mother drive you a little mad?”

  “She did. But we – well, we reached a kind of understanding. And it was because of you, really.” Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Something you once said,” Violet explained, “about losing a child. How it changes a parent. That made it easier for me to see why she is the way she is. Thank you for that.”

  Arthur bowed. “Glad to be of service.”

  “So you have seen the cushions, then?”

  Arthur nodded. “I have.” His jaw tightened. It’s the cushions that are the problem, Violet thought, surprised. She couldn’t see why: they were very striking, and even though so far there was only a scattering of them in the choir stall seats, they lit up and lifted the dark wood. Beautifully and unusually designed, carefully made, without a stitch out of place – she couldn’t guess how they could upset anyone.

  Is his wife an embroiderer? she thought. Perhaps he is thinking that she should have been a part of the Cathedral cushions project. Violet thought back to the only glimpse she’d had of Jean Knight, sitting with long grey hair and her eyes closed in the garden in Nether Wallop, face gleaming in the sun. Was that the face of a broderer? She had no idea.

  She proceeded cautiously, focusing on the subject of the cushion rather than the embroidery. “I thought the King Arthur cushion would please you. But I have wondered how he is connected to Winchester.” Violet asked the question deliberately, knowing that, like many men, Arthur enjoyed explaining things to a willing audience.

  Indeed, he perked up. “Have you seen the Round Table hanging in the Great Hall – the only remains of Winchester Castle?”

  Violet nodded. She had taken Marjory and Edward to see it, with the requisite sword fight afterwards using reeds they plucked in the water meadows. It was enormous, twenty feet in diameter, and painted in twenty-four green and white segments, with the names of King Arthur’s knights labelled in each. A Tudor red and white rose was in the centre, and a portrait of the King in red, white and blue robes, holding a sword.

  “It is a mediaeval replica of King Arthur’s Round Table, with later decoration by Henry VIII. It has been suggested that Winchester Castle might have been Camelot, although of course there is no historical evidence – indeed, no historical evidence of the existence of King Arthur himself. I expect the cushion is merely playing on those rumours.” After this brief flaring of interest, he subsided once more into a sort of gloom, as if talking of the cushion reminded him of something he didn’t like.

  He didn’t ask her any questions, and Violet felt she should fill the awkward silence. She picked up the cushion and ran a hand over it. “The design is very fine, isn’t it? Sybil Blunt has designed all of the history medallions. Dorothy Jordan stitched the petit-point. The landscape of rocks and trees behind the sword and shield is very skilfully shaded, don’t you think? And Miss Pesel designed the surround, which is a combination of larger canvas stitches mixed with petit-point, to give it a varied texture. Miss Pesel is clever that way. Another broderer stitched that. Then the petit-point medallion was spliced in, so carefully you wouldn’t know it was made by two different hands.” She gazed at the stitching. “See the little dots of yellow within the blue knots? And that little bit of green by the red flowers? And those light blue cross-stitches framing the medallion? All of these choices have been carefully considered by Miss Pesel, and bring the design to life.” She was aware that she was lecturing, but Arthur was making her nervous.

  “And who designed and stitched the long border?” Arthur turned the cushion so that they were looking at the inch-wide band along the sides that gave the cushion its depth.

  Violet smiled. He had picked out the surprise she had been saving. “Miss Pesel designed it, and – well, it was me. I stitched that border.” She was thrilled to have made even a small part of the cushion that bore his name.

  “You stitched it.” Arthur’s tight expression made Violet freeze. Something was wrong that she was not taking in. She looked closely at the border for uneven or dropped stitches, for the wrong colours used or an unpleasing aspect of the design. The border was made up of small blue squares outlined in yellow. In alternating squares were four-petal flowers shaded in red and pink with a yellow centre. The other squares were of four yellow lines cricked at right angles, looking a bit like spiders.

  “I – I suppose I could have made the red and pink stitches in the petals a little cleaner,” she confessed. “They are muddled here and there. Miss Pesel didn’t seem to mind, and she is quite the perfectionist. We have all had to unpick our work to meet her standards.”

  “Do you never question her designs?”

  “No. She gives us quite a bit of freedom when it comes to choosing colours, but she is very clear on the designs. She knows so much about embroidery, from all over the world, and I do think she knows best what works. I trust her judgement.”

  “So you did not question her decision to include swastikas in the design?”

  Violet stared at him. Arthur’s moustache was twitching, a tiny tic of stress. Then she looked at the border and her face grew hot. Of course the yellow lines made up swastikas. She had recognised them as such when she began stitching the border. But it had not occurred to her to define them in terms other than as a design by Louisa Pesel for a cushion border, an assignment Violet accepted without question. The swastikas were not turned on their points and depicted in stark black on a white and red background, as the Nazis had designed them. They were in benign, fuzzy yellow wool, stitched in long-arme
d cross, surrounded by blue, interspersed with flowers. There was nothing threatening or political about them. But, seen through Arthur’s eyes, she understood what a jolt they were.

  He was watching her; she could sense him registering every expression that crossed her face, looking for the answer that would appease him. Violet did not know what that answer was. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think about them that way when I was making the border. I –” she tried to make light of it – “I thought of them as little yellow running men.”

  “Little yellow running men,” Arthur repeated, and hearing it back, Violet knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

  She tried to repair the damage. “They were just part of the pattern. Part of the bigger picture. I didn’t associate them with the Nazis.”

  “No. You didn’t.” Arthur was silent for a moment, his disappointment in her palpable. Then he set down the King Arthur cushion on the seat next to him, carefully, as if it were porcelain. “I’m afraid I have to go and see one of the vergers now. Will you excuse me?” He nodded at Violet, then turned and left by the north aisle archway next to Harey Coppar’s graffiti.

  Violet managed to hold out until he was safely out of earshot before she began to cry.

  That was how Louisa Pesel found her, sobbing as she dug in her bag for a handkerchief. “My dear, what is it?” her teacher murmured, dropping into the seat next to her. “What has happened?”

  “Oh! Nothing, it’s—” Violet pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. It was Arthur’s, the one she had never returned. “I just – oh.” She could not speak; it would make her well up again.

  Miss Pesel seemed to understand this, and waited.

  Violet sighed. “It’s the King Arthur cushion.”

  “Yes?”

  “I showed it to someone and he asked me about the – the swastikas, and I didn’t know what to say.” Her mouth began to wobble.

  “Ah.” Louisa Pesel looked around. “Is your friend still here?”

  “He went to see the vergers about something. That’s what he said, at least. Perhaps he’s gone.”

  “And what is his name?”

  “Arthur. Arthur Knight.”

  “All right.” Miss Pesel patted her hand. “You wait here. I’ll be back directly.” She stood and stepped out to the north transept, her court shoes clicking crisply. Violet found the sound comforting. Louisa Pesel was definite, and would have an answer, unlike her own muddled thinking.

  Soon she was back, Arthur trailing behind her, a dubious look on his face. Violet stuffed his handkerchief back in her bag before he spotted it.

  “It turns out Mr Knight and I have met before,” Miss Pesel announced. “I thought I recognised his name. We were both at the St Swithun’s service last year, he representing the bellringers and I the broderers. Now, Miss Speedwell tells me you have a question about the design of the King Arthur cushion, is that right?” Her tone was as firm as a headmistress’, and had the effect of making him stand straighter, and Violet want to giggle like a schoolgirl, despite the seriousness of the moment.

  “I do. I wonder why you have chosen to include swastikas in the border, given their association with the Nazi Party.”

  Louisa Pesel nodded. “That is an understandable concern, but it is inaccurate. They are not swastikas. They’re fylfots.”

  “Fylfots,” Arthur repeated.

  “Yes. An old Anglo-Saxon word. It is an ancient symbol that has been used for thousands of years, in many cultures and religions, from India to Scandinavia, and particularly used in Hinduism and Buddhism. A symbol of light and life and good fortune. I have seen it myself in Greek architecture, on old Greek vases, even in Egypt when I visited. The Coptics used it there.”

  If Arthur was impressed by her travels, he did not show it.

  “Where do you think the Nazi Party took it from?” she added. “They did not make it up themselves.”

  “The ancient symbol runs anti-clockwise, whereas the Nazi emblem has it running clockwise,” Arthur retorted. “Like the symbols on this cushion.” He picked it up and held it out to her, though Violet could have told him that Louisa Pesel knew every inch of every design, indeed could have described it in details he would not even understand – the stitches used, the wool colours and, apparently, the background of each symbol. She wanted to wince, for there was something petty about his tone and gesture. But she was in no position to judge: she had not questioned the swastikas when she should have.

  Louisa Pesel waved a hand at the cushion, dismissing it. “The direction the symbol runs in is neither here nor there. It has been used both ways for centuries. I will show you.” She turned and to Violet’s surprise stepped out through the southern archway towards the south transept and the nave. “Bring the cushion!” she called over her shoulder.

  Violet and Arthur glanced at each other as they followed Miss Pesel. She led them along the south aisle past the south transept and stopped in front of the chantry of the Bishop of Edington, one of seven chantries built for the Cathedral’s most powerful and influential bishops. It had been designed in the Gothic style, and had a wood door painted blue that kept out visitors except when prayers were said at the chantry for the bishop. But it was possible to get a good view of his tomb through the rows of narrow windows with scalloped arches that made up the four walls, making the edifice as much air as stone.

  “There. Look inside at Edington’s tomb,” Louisa Pesel commanded. “Apart from it being some of the finest mediaeval sculpture you’ll find anywhere, what do you see?”

  Violet and Arthur peeked through adjacent windows. A full-length alabaster statue of the Bishop of Edington lay on the tomb, wearing his vestments and a crown, his head on a stone pillow, hands folded on his chest, hidden by the elaborate draped sleeves of his cassock. The carved alabaster was delicate and shiny and pearly grey. Violet started in astonishment, for she immediately spied what Louisa Pesel had brought them there to see. She had looked at this chantry and statue before, but somehow had not managed to notice the prominent row of swastikas decorating the bishop’s stole – the long narrow strip of cloth he wore around his neck that descended over his sleeves. There were also swastikas on his collar, and even on the cloth draped over his feet.

  Not only that: what surprised her almost as much was that interspersed between the swastikas were four-petal flowers exactly like those she had embroidered on the cushion border. They were even divided into squares by ridges of alabaster. Miss Pesel had copied exactly that pattern on the border. Violet wanted to laugh aloud, and that was what Arthur did: not a full-bellied laugh, but more than a chuckle. It was a sound of surprise, of bemusement, of concession.

  “Those are fylfots,” Louisa Pesel declared. “Fourteenth-century swastikas, if you like. And you’ll notice they are turning clockwise, long before any Nazi designer chose to make them so.”

  They studied them in silence. Louisa Pesel must have felt she did not have to say more – the fylfots spoke for themselves.

  At last Arthur stepped back from his window. Violet followed suit. “That is truly remarkable,” he said. “I have been coming to this Cathedral for forty years, and have looked at this tomb dozens of time, and never noticed the swastikas. The fylfots,” he corrected himself. “And I thought I was an observant man.”

  “In my designs for the Cathedral cushions and kneelers I have referred to many patterns and symbols,” Miss Pesel said. “Some of the central knots in the kneelers come from Elizabethan samplers or a sixteenth-century embroidery pattern book by a printer called Peter Quentel. But I do like to tie in designs to those already existing in the Cathedral. So a few came from the mediaeval tiles in the retrochoir, and also from the wood and stone bosses on the vaulted ceilings of the nave and presbytery. Have you seen them?”

  Violet and Arthur nodded. Violet sometimes studied them in the presbytery during Evensong. Though they were high above her and hard to make out, she sensed the bosses depicted patterns and symbols that resonate
d from the past.

  “I believe they are mainly heraldic emblems,” Arthur suggested, his tone less certain and more deferential to the more knowledgeable Louisa Pesel.

  “Yes, and thirteenth century, but some a little newer. There are several coats of arms of wealthy Winchester families, but also decorative designs of leaves and animals. I believe there is even a lion with a pig in its mouth. I spotted it with binoculars. The craftsmanship is remarkable, especially when you consider the makers knew that once in place no one would ever see the details up close. It was truly a labour of love for the Cathedral that the carvers should make something so fine when no one would see it. I expect they didn’t ever imagine the invention of binoculars! But you understand that feeling, don’t you, Violet? Of wanting to make your stitching the very best it can be, regardless of whether anyone will notice?”

  Violet nodded.

  “Like bellringing too,” Arthur added. “We ring as best we can, though no one may notice it – the mistakes or the perfect peals. Unlike the carving or the embroidery, though, ringing doesn’t last.”

  “Except in the memory,” Louisa Pesel declared. “And that can be very strong indeed.”

  “Indeed.”

  “It was clever of you to base the border of the cushion on the design on the bishop’s stole,” Violet said. “It lends itself to a border.”

  Arthur held up the cushion so that they could compare the border with the statue.

  Louisa Pesel nodded. “It does. Oh, the sculptor was a clever chap. The four petals of the flowers echo the four arms of the fylfot, but provide a still punctuation between the symbol’s movement. That is what is very clever about the fylfot – it looks as if it’s moving. So the design is not static. I couldn’t resist using it.”

  Arthur lowered the cushion. “I am curious, though. Surely you were aware when you designed them of the growing controversial nature of the swastika as a symbol. One could easily make the mistake of assuming that the designer, or the maker –” he nodded at Violet – “supported the Nazi Party.”