Red. It was a beautiful color, that’s for sure. Martha kept knitting but stared thoughtfully at the red wool. So much nicer than black. A few stitches into the next row she picked up the red ball of wool and began to knit a pattern into the black, but carefully, on the inside, down low where the man’s bottom would be if he put on the bathing suit. It wouldn’t have been too comfy when it got wet. The suit would have sagged down with the weight of the water, and stayed wet and cold in the sea breeze, and shriveled him up to nothing. But when he took it off, he would discover the little bit of red graffiti inside, like a reverse tattoo low on one cheek saying “Martha was here.”
Suddenly the matinee jacket with its problem pattern popped into Martha’s mind. It was there, in the nearly full third bag, parked in the corner under the big long zipper that was inclined to stick. She didn’t want to think about the jacket. She opened the rubbish chute at the back of her mind, shoved in the matinee jacket thought, and slammed down the lid.
KATE hardly recognized Sandra, weaving her way through the pub crowd on Friday night, loaded with shopping bags and wreathed in smiles.
“You look happy! Good day?”
“Excellent!”
“How come?”
“I don’t know.” Sandra could hardly explain it herself. “Found stuff I wanted, did a base draft for an article, and figured out how to link all the stuff in the exhibition.”
“Not bad for Friday!”
“Oh, it’s taken all week, of course. But I’m getting somewhere with this knitting thing. It’s been great, this little project. Different. And there’s quite a lot of interest from the university, which is a bonus. There’s so much interest! It seems to have tapped into something in the female academic psyche.”
“Because it’s not just academic, is it? There’s a more basic appeal—the necessity of clothing.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Don’t care, really.” Sandra leaned back and sighed with satisfaction. “It’s just been fun, and the interest is a bonus. Just goes to show, you should follow your heart.”
“How’s Martha doing?”
“Not sure. We had that trip to the mill and she was happy enough then. I’ve called in a couple of times, but I get leave-me-alone messages. Thought I’d give her some space for a couple of weeks.”
They must have been strong messages, thought Kate, for Sandra to notice.
“It’s not too pressured for her, is it? That was quite a list.”
“No, not for someone like her. You should see her place, Kate! She does this amazing free-form knitting. Wonderful stuff. She must knit all day every day.”
Kate shook her head.
“Not possible. Too hard on the body. I ache if I quilt all day, and there’s more movement in that than in knitting.”
“Perhaps she does some exercise routine to help her manage. She never complains.”
“Look after her, Sandra. You’ll be struggling if Martha dips out.”
“Yes, all right, I’ll call in soon.” Sandra opened the top of one of her glossy plastic bags.
“Look, Kate, I bought a new dress. First one for two years. Maybe I’ll wear it on opening night.”
MARTHA looked around her room at the bags of wool, the pattern sheets stuck to the wall, the jam tins bristling with knitting needles, the list of things Sandra had given her to do. Last week it had been exciting; this week it was paralyzing. The patterns were difficult, the date was already closer. She would have to knit—how much? She couldn’t work it out in her head. She tore open a used envelope and wrote down the number of balls of wool, and the dates, and the list of things to do. If she knitted—she did more calculations—if she knitted eight hours a day, she could do it. And that didn’t include pressing or sewing up, or the extra knitting for collars and button bands, and they always took longer than you expected.
But she couldn’t settle to work yet, not without a cup of tea. She got down the big mug from the cupboard, the one with the wide top and narrow bottom and the smiling cow with a pendulous udder. She sat on her back step to catch a bit of sun; it was cold in the flat, and the hot cup was warm and comforting in her hands. The potted plants were all dried up, so she took to them with the hose, and then she remembered that they needed fertilizing. She went to her little shed and lugged out the chicken manure her brother had brought her from the farm. The lemon tree wasn’t doing so well either, so she looked up the gardening book. Well, it must be scale. She would have to go to the nursery for confirmation, but she wouldn’t be able to go today because she had all that knitting to do.
The back veranda needed sweeping: dead leaves were havens for nasty crawlies. She swept up and then saw the cobwebs. When that was done, it was a shame to leave the windows so dirty. She wouldn’t have enough light to do her knitting properly, and it would comfort her while she was in the house if she could look out and see the birds in the birdbath without being distracted by the streaks of dirt.
If she didn’t wash the cloth, it would grow mold and start to smell, so she did that and hung it on the line, and while she was washing that she might as well put her knickers through; with the River Murray in such a terrible state it would be irresponsible to use water just to wash rags.
And so the day went on. When Martha finally sat down to knit, it was four o’clock. She might just squeeze an hour in before it was time to get tea.
At half past six she heard a knock at the door. Sandra, calling in on her way home from work, Sandra, breezy and cheerful.
“Hi, Martha. Just thought I’d call in and see how you were going.”
“OK.”
“How much have you done?”
Martha showed her an inch of knitting.
“Not much. Had a bit of trouble with the band. It twisted when I joined it up on the circular needle. So then I had to start again.”
“Is this all you’ve done since last week?”
“No, I’ve been working on the bathing suit and doing those socks. They take longer than you think. The argyle pattern is slow, and it’s only four-ply.” She didn’t offer to show them to Sandra.
Sandra was disappointed but managed to hold her tongue. She had thought Martha would have at least half of one of the big garments done, at least a back or a front or even a sleeve, but she tried to be generous.
“Never mind. Every job has good days and bad days.”
AT HOME, after dinner, Sandra watched the news, but her mind wasn’t on it. She finished marking a thesis, but thoughts of Martha nagged away behind her work.
Martha wasn’t as organized as Sandra had expected. She’d only knitted bits and pieces, with no appearance of sustained effort. She’d been working for nearly two weeks with little to show for it. Unless she was holding something back. But why would she do that? Martha needed an action plan, a timetable of some kind. If she didn’t get her skates on, they wouldn’t be ready. Perhaps she’d better call in some other knitters. But then Martha wouldn’t get the same attention, and Sandra wanted to give her that, give her the opportunities that would come through public exposure. That wonderful horse!
Another thought nagged at her. Perhaps Martha was knitting other things, like that white business she had taken to the beach house. Perhaps she had other commissions and was keeping them secret.
The exhibition had to go on. She couldn’t let Martha jeopardize that. They’d won the funding, the panels had been ordered, the text was well under way. Martha would get her cut of it—an honorarium for the knitting and the profits from any garments sold—and the publicity would ensure further work. There was no grant money left over for the writing. Not that it mattered; it had always been a love job on Sandra’s part. Writing the text and collating the oral history fragments were quiet joys. The project had developed its own momentum: Jonty Stewart from New Zealand, unexpected interest from colleagues, a chance meeting with an arts editor, the cache of oral history recordings suddenly available. Even a query from another academic in Canada. She’d call in on Martha in the mo
rning. Martha was the linchpin. She wouldn’t be able to get more knitters on such short notice.
The exhibition was the most energizing thing she’d experienced for years. It must not fail. Even as this thought crossed her mind, Sandra sensed a flaw in the glass.
This was what happened when you stayed up too late: you got twitchy and lost your nerve. Get some hot milk, Sandra, and take a sleeping tablet.
MARTHA greeted Sandra cheerfully enough. She’d finished the argyle socks and brought them out to show her. Sandra was affronted by the red, white, and blue.
“I don’t remember these colors. A little British, aren’t we?”
“I used up some oddments.”
“But red, white, and blue?”
“They go well together, and that’s what the pattern said. Anyway, who said they’re British? They could be Australian—or American. Would you rather have stars and stripes? Not a problem.”
Sandra glanced at her. Was Martha capable of those kinds of ironies?
“Do you think you can get it done? It’s a lot of work.”
“I always do what I’m asked,” said Martha stiffly. “You can count on me.”
“I thought perhaps we could make some kind of timetable. You know, all the parts that need to be knitted, and some dates. So you can pace yourself.”
“I won’t let you down, I promise.”
“Look, how about this?” Sandra had ruled up a progress grid for each of the garments. “See, you can do them one at a time, or several at once if you want variety. Then you won’t get bored.”
Martha could see that Sandra didn’t have any idea. She hadn’t allowed for sewing up, or for the embroidery on the bed jacket. She had assumed that the baby’s jacket would take half as long as the adult sweater, simply because it was smaller, not realizing that because it was finer and in five pieces, it would take at least the same amount of time.
“Thanks, Sandra. I can work it out myself.”
“You could draw up your own version if this doesn’t suit.”
“I’ll think about it.”
AS SHE knitted through the afternoon, to some difficult music on Radio National, Martha wondered why she hadn’t been honest. She felt guilty, that’s why, because she had mucked around all day yesterday.
It wasn’t Sandra’s fault; she just didn’t know how much work it was. And it wasn’t all that much, really: a dress, a skirt, a couple of sweaters, a few socks, a vest, the straps for the man’s bathing suit, and the “war comforts.” Comforts. There wasn’t much comfort in them.
She knitted all day, had a quick dinner, and knitted into the night. When she went to bed she had pins and needles in her fingers, and her back and neck ached. Crazy, dead-set crazy. She should never have said yes.
SANDRA couldn’t sleep, but for once it wasn’t sadness that kept her awake. It was sheer excitement, the old research juices flowing, the lure of the library and the Internet. Already she had filled half a drawer of the filing cabinet. She hadn’t anticipated that there would be so much contemporary knitting. The trend might have started as a marketing ploy by the wool industry, but it had certainly taken off; that kind of thing was successful only if people were ready for it. The new yoga, they called it, the new community: the peaceful clacking of needles creating a heartbeat, a rhythm of rest, a meditative oasis in the midst of a frantic lifestyle. A whole new range of fabrics was being created from an amazing variety of exotic textures and colors. The knitting itself was simple, even Sandra could see that, but the choice of yarns was mind-boggling.
In the beginning the exhibition was for garments from 1900 to 2000. But the new wave of interest in the last few years certainly deserved attention.
“I’M TIRED,” Martha said to Cliff. “I’m so tired. I’m not sleeping. At night the patterns go round and round in my head, but I never get to cast off and put the needles back in the cupboard. I never get to lie down and think that tomorrow will be a rest day, because I can’t rest now, I don’t know how. I used to just go and look at the universe wall and think about the stars and the sun and how fantastic it is that we’re all part of that dance, but now it just doesn’t work. I feel like I’m in prison. I’ve lost the song.” She rubbed the back of her hand on the side of her nose.
For once Cliff didn’t know what to say. He worked his mouth, trying to see if it would shape some words, but none came. He wanted to give her a hug, but he didn’t know if that was allowed. A while back she had slapped at him and told him to keep his hands to himself.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” he said.
Martha didn’t answer. She kept knitting, fast, her head down. She was like a soldier, shooting stitches with her needles. Cliff winced.
“Why don’t you have a rest?” he said.
Martha jabbed a look at him.
“I can’t. The exhibition opens in fourteen weeks, and I’ve got to finish this jacket, make a skirt, a sleeping suit, another sweater, and do the things from both world wars. Oh, and there’s a baby’s layette to finish. I’ll never get it all done.”
Cliff was watching her ball of wool, twisting and turning on the floor like a mad little mouse.
It jerked toward his chair. Cliff put his foot on it.
Martha didn’t notice until she used up the slack.
“Now what!” She pulled it hard, but Cliff’s foot didn’t budge.
“Get off it, you big lummox.”
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Get off my wool!”
Cliff folded his arms and left his foot where it was. “You need a break, my girl.”
“Shut up, Cliff. Get your big fat foot off my wool.”
Martha was scaring him, but he didn’t budge. “You should tell Sandra where to stick it. The world won’t fall in if you don’t finish it all.”
“Yes it will. Sandra’s already done all the wall labels to go with the work. There’ll be holes and empty places if I don’t do it.”
“This is supposed to be a hobby. Fun.”
“Well, it’s not. It’s work.”
“Are you getting any money for it?”
“I don’t know. Give me my wool.”
“Mattie! Haven’t you asked her?”
“I could probably sell some stuff.”
“Do you mean you’re doing it for nothing?”
“I was doing it for love.”
Cliff snorted.
“What’s she getting out of it?”
Martha shrugged. “I don’t know. We just thought it would be interesting to do, that’s all. Because we like the old stuff, from the war and all that. She’s not getting anything out of it.”
“She writes things. I bet she’s written about you, and all those bigwigs are reading it.”
Martha stood up, stepped on Cliff’s toe, hard, and retrieved her wool.
“Bigwigs wouldn’t be interested in knitting.”
“Don’t you bet on it,” said Cliff. “They get paid for it. They think people like us are insects. They study us.”
“What are you, then? A cockroach?”
Martha was knitting fast again, her face set in hard lines.
“And you’re Miss Busy Bitch. I mean Bee! Miss Busy Bee!”
Martha glared at him, packed up her knitting, and said, “Go home. I’m going to bed.”
“Oh, come on, Mattie, have a cuppa with me first.”
“No. Out, cockroach. Go home.”
THE phone rang and Sandra jumped. When she answered, there was no response. She hung up again. It was unnerv ing, getting called and nobody answering. Made you wonder if someone was thinking of breaking in and just checking to see if you were home.
When it rang a second time, there was another silence, but this time it was followed by the click-click of falling coins.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Sandra, guess who?” said a voice. Sandra recoiled at the unfamiliar voice using her first name.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll hang up,” she said.
&
nbsp; “Don’t get your knickers in a knot,” said the voice. “It’s me, Cliff. You know, Martha’s mate.”
Ah. Sandra had an image of stubble, missing teeth, odd socks.
“Oh, Cliff!” She tried to keep the relief out of her voice. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m worried about Martha. She’s working too hard.”
“What do you mean?”
“All that knitting. She’s not coping.”
“Well, it’s kind of you to be concerned, Cliff, but Martha’s an adult. I’m sure she’d tell me if she wasn’t managing.”
“No,” said Cliff. “That’s just it. She wouldn’t. She won’t take any time off.”
Ah, thought Sandra, poor old boy’s feeling neglected.
“Well, thanks for telling me, Cliff. I’ll keep it in mind.”
She hung up and sighed. Only Cliff. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, Martha had said. Nothing to be jumpy about. But he should mind his own business all the same.
MARTHA was ashamed. Cliff was trying to be kind, she knew. And why was she working like a mad thing? There was no joy in it anymore. There was no anticipation, no mulling over the pattern, feeling the way toward a new gift, a new recipient. Watching someone, trying to work out what they would like.
What would happen if she just stopped? What would happen if she died tomorrow, fell down dead? What would Sandra do then?
She, Martha, had made a mistake, that’s what. A big mistake. She’d said yes instead of no, and now she was in a tangle. And when she got into a tangle, it took years to get out of it. Like those other times, those times when she had done all those other things she didn’t want to do, saying yes when she really wanted to say no. All her gates were broken. People just went in and out as they pleased, and she just let them.
She’d made a big mistake, and she didn’t know how to undo it. Sandra needed her, and Sandra was her friend, and she couldn’t let her down.
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