A Stitch in Time

by Amanda James

  The cook wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. ‘“Thank you for your concern” she says. A bit hoity-toity, aren’t we? Next thing, she’ll be joining the WSPU like madam upstairs!’ She jerked a pudgy thumb skywards.

  Sarah was unsure how to react to that. Thankfully, Rose grabbed her arm and bustled her through the kitchen to the scullery. ‘Right, I’ll empty this stinkin’ bucket before Cook smells it. You get some water in the sink; wash your hands and face and then get back up to the sitting room. Cook’s not in a good mood; she thinks the WSPU should be burned as witches. “Them’s that play with matches deserve all they get,” she says.’ Rose giggled.

  Left alone at last, Sarah turned the tap on over the big, white, ceramic sink. It protested, making a squeaky noise like a strangled mouse, but eventually gave out a stream of beige-coloured water. She made a face and scrubbed at her hands with a bar of rough soap and reminded herself to steer clear of any liquid that hadn’t been boiled whilst she was here. Sarah replaced the soap and carefully dabbed her forehead with a sponge.

  A cotton square was all she could find for a towel and she hoped that it wasn’t Cook’s best handkerchief. Sarah looked around the scullery and decided that although the house was grand, it seemed to be outdated for the Edwardian period and a bit shabby here and there. Miss Lemon Dress, presumably Lady Attwood, had said as much to her earlier.

  That brought her to her next question. So, what year was she in, exactly? The cook had mentioned the Women’s Social and Political Union. If memory served Sarah correctly, Emmeline Pankhurst, due here for tea later, had formed the WSPU in 1903. Their tactics to get votes for women hadn’t got too militant until around 1911 when women, egged on by Christabel, Emmeline’s daughter, were encouraged to smash shop windows with hammers, and throw stones at the windows of politicians. Sarah also seemed to remember that arson became a weapon of choice around 1913. Was that why Rose said the cook referred to matches? But then if it was 1913, George V was on the throne – Edward had died three years earlier.

  Sarah sighed, straightened her cap and smoothed out the creases in her apron. She wondered if John would appear, or at least a John lookalike. She could use a friendly face and some guidance right about now. She took a deep breath. Right, positive thinking, Ms Yates. No use moping in here; get your arse back upstairs.

  On her way past the range, the butler still in residence, she tried to glance at the newspaper’s front page. His thumb obscured the top line, so she dropped to her knee and pretended to tie her bootlace, whilst cocking her head to the side in an endeavour to spy out any kind of clue about the date. The name Lloyd George was clearly visible over a crease in the broadsheet and a side panel advertised ‘Bingley’s Miraculous Tonics for every ailment known to man. Our tonics promise to revive and invigorate even the dullest appetite.’

  Sarah racked her brains. Lloyd George … he’d been Chancellor before Prime Minister. If he was PM, that would make it at least 1916 and in the middle of the First World War … no, there had been no mention of war, and she felt that there would have been by now. Coupled with the WSPU information her gut gave her a ballpark figure of 1912–14.

  ‘Seen enough, madam, or would you like me to hand the thing to you?’

  Sarah raised her eyes from the newspaper to meet the bespectacled steely beads of the reader. He did not look amused, not even a little bit. ‘Um … I was just tying my lace, Mr err …’

  ‘Mr Err? I think you’ll find it’s Mr Grayson, and don’t take me for a fool. And whilst it’s admirable for a maid to want to know what’s happening in the world, you will do it on your own time. Now go to work!’

  Sarah nodded, jumped up and headed for the door. As she stepped through, she heard Cook say to Grayson, ‘Why they have to educate females at all I do not know. I think a bit of learnin’ leads to trouble if you ask me. I can’t read nor write and all the happier for it.’

  After a few wrong turns, and confirmation from the large hall mirror that she was once again ‘herself’, Sarah eventually ended up back at the drawing room. Rose was busy at her task; she wiped dry one half of the window, singing, ‘Bird In A Gilded Cage’. The haunting quality of her voice brought a lump to Sarah’s throat, though she didn’t really know why. As far as Sarah knew, the song was about a beautiful young woman who had married an old man for money.

  From the doorway, she watched the young maid for a few seconds, and concluded the reason for her emotion wasn’t the quality of her voice, but poor Rose herself, doomed to servitude for the rest of her life. Another young woman, just like thousands of others of this period, lacking opportunity and escape from this grand, but crumbling, cage of employment.

  Sarah sniffed and walked over to the fireplace. Rose turned, nodded and continued with her song and her task. Gleaming brass fire tongs, a brush and a poker hung in a rack by the side of the fire. Sarah selected the tongs but realised she had as much idea on how to get the fire alight as she did about the exact date. What should she do next? Rose couldn’t be called upon to explain, because Sarah had the idea that fire lighting was a task given to more lowly members of staff. Even though Sarah was probably around ten years older, it was clear from the way that Rose had spoken to her earlier that she was above Sarah in the pecking order.

  Sarah looked up to find Rose scrutinising her from across the room.

  ‘Ain’t you made a start yet?’ She frowned.

  Sarah thought quickly. ‘I don’t know what to do; every time I bend down I go all dizzy again, Rose.’

  ‘Well, dizzy or not, it needs doing.’

  Sarah looked beyond Rose to the view outside the window. From what she could see it looked to be a sunny day and the green leaves on the branches of a nearby tree waved in the breeze. ‘Why do we need the fire lit on a summer’s day, anyway?’

  Rose tutted and shook her head. ‘Because Lady Attwood ordered it, that’s why. This old house is draughty on the hottest day, and more important, you know better than to question her wishes, Sarah.’

  ‘Yes, Rose, sorry. I wonder if we might swap jobs, just this once? I feel much better standing up.’

  Rose looked as though she would refuse but then shrugged and pointed her finger. ‘Just this once, mind. And don’t tell my auntie, or she’ll be at you hammer and tongs.’

  ‘Your auntie?’

  ‘Gawd, yes, Cook, of course, you dozy article.’

  Ah, Cook was her aunt, then. Sarah walked over to the window and dipped the cloth into the water. That explained why Rose had a higher position. From the window, she found that the house looked over a park and the row of houses next to the park were of red brick and very grand in structure. They had at least five storeys and many had balconies and arched windows edged with white frames, from floor to ceiling. Some even had Doric columns supporting porch entrances. These entrances led up a number of steps to shiny front doors complete with brass knockers. Sarah presumed that Lady Attwood’s house was similar from the outside.

  It was fairly quiet on the street; only one or two people strolled past. Two women arm in arm twirling their parasols, and a chimney sweep pushing a barrow filled with tools.

  Sarah knew that in the present these houses would be hotels or flats, but would, at the moment, house many of London’s rich and famous.

  The feelings she’d had when walking through wartime Sheffield began to surface again. Sarah thrilled at the prospect of experiencing the past at first hand. It would be nice, though, to have a timetable and set plan of what she was supposed to do on these jaunts. She stepped closer to the window and rubbed at a smudge on the glass.

  When she got back she’d get some straight answers from John. Would it be too much to ask for a bit of warning, just to prepare herself? And she wanted to know about the ‘powers that be’ he’d referred to the first time she’d seen him and how exactly he got his information. If they’d set out to test her, as John mentioned, they were certainly doing a grand job. Sarah wasn’t sure how much more her frazzled ne
rves could take, and she was getting more than a little tired of playing the dopey Dora.

  A few minutes later, Sarah folded the drying cloth and turned to Rose. ‘I think I’ve finished, Rose, how are you doing?’

  ‘Nearly there.’ She struck a match and held it to some rolled paper under the coal. The fire took hold but slowly. ‘This bloody chimney could do with a fettle. Trouble is,’ she lowered her voice, ‘Lady Attwood is too busy saving her pennies.’ Rose stood up, and dusted her apron. ‘Leastways she is until she snags old Mr Darnley. She’d better do it soon or we’ll all be out on our ear I reckon, even Cook and Mr Grayson, too.’

  Sarah walked over and leaned her arm against the mantelshelf. It seemed that Rose wanted to share some gossip. Any information Sarah could glean without appearing to have lost her memory, or her marbles, was most appealing.

  ‘So do you think that will be an end to her money worries?’ Sarah whispered, looking to the door and back to Rose to show her that she was being careful.

  ‘If she can get him, yes. I overheard her talking to Mrs Farmingdale the other day when she popped over for tea. Lady Attwood said that she was sick of these old Victorian decorations and once she had a new husband everythink would be different,’ Rose said, sweeping the coal dust from the hearth with the brass-handled brush.

  ‘Blimey, aren’t you clever finding all that out, Rose. I wish I had your brains,’ Sarah said, hoping that Rose would fall for flattery.

  Rose obligingly swallowed the hook, winked and said, ‘That’s nuffink. I found out that old Lord Attwood left her with lots of debts on account of his gambling habit when he died. It’s no wonder that she had to sack young Bill the footman and Daisy.’ Rose put the brush back, folded her arms and sniffed. ‘It was a real shame Daisy went. Even though she was her ladyship’s personal maid, she never had no airs nor nuffink, did she?’ She looked at Sarah expectantly.

  ‘No, Daisy was a real good sort and no mistake, me old china.’

  ‘Ere, don’t let Mr Grayson hear you talk slang or you’ll be first out.’

  Sarah nodded and then leant in close to Rose. ‘So, Rose, I bet you couldn’t find no more out though, eh?’

  Rose raised her eyebrows. ‘I know stuff that would make your hair curl. Now I have to double up as her personal maid as well as everything else, I come across all sorts. For instance, I know that she’s not bothered about no women’s suffrage at all. She’s only bothered about getting close to Mr Darnley, and he’s big pals with all the top ’uns from WSPU. She only joined in with helping those “fallen women” last year ’cos he was doing it.’

  ‘Oh, Rose, that’s really shocking.’

  ‘Yes, and talking of shocking, she’d be really shocked if she knew where I went on my days off and no mistake.’ Rose inclined her head in a ‘follow me’ motion.

  Sarah followed her out of the room and could barely contain her curiosity as they hurried along corridors, three flights of stairs and stepped into a laundry. Rose stood with her back to a mangle, looked at Sarah and put her finger to her lips.

  ‘Look, can you keep a secret?’ Rose’s eyes danced with excitement and her face flushed.

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘Well, alright then. On my days off I go to WSPU meetings, but for God’s sake don’t tell Cook.’ Rose giggled, picked up clean towels and ducked out of the room.

  Sarah smiled and felt her spirits rise as she stood by the door watching Rose step lightly along the corridor. The bird trapped in the servitude cage had suddenly grown wings and was preparing to fly.

  Chapter Ten

  Were parents gifted with a special ‘insight’ button immediately after spawning their first child? It certainly seemed that way to John. He watched his boot lock on to the spade again and force another clod of earth from the ground. Sweat trickled from damp hair into his eye and he flicked his head in annoyance, but didn’t slow the punishing pace he’d set himself. Spade in, boot locked, arms flexed, spade out, spade in …

  Harry could always see straight through him, him and his bullshit. His mum, on the other hand, had been a different story. In her eyes he could do no wrong, and if he told her something, she’d believe it hook, line and sinker. God, how he missed her. Of all the people in the world he wished to see right now, she was the one. She’d know what to say, to advise, she’d help him make sense of the tornado of confusion whipping through his heart. But she’d died of cancer two years ago, and no matter how hard he wished, he couldn’t bring her back.

  Flinging the spade aside, John sank exhausted to his knees. His breath came heavy and his shirt was soaked through. With the back of his forearm he pushed his hair back, grabbed a water bottle and tipped it to his mouth. Eyes closed against the noonday sun, he gulped half the bottle in one and thought about the day his dad had visited again.

  Harry was no fool. But then he did have help from insightful sources – insightful sources that had controlled John from the age of eighteen. The powers that be had guided his every move as a Time-Needle. Of course, Harry had helped, too and by the age of twenty-three, John had become almost as good as his father and his father before him.

  When he was about ten he’d asked his father when and why the Needler family had been chosen. Harry had told him that it had all started with his six times great-grandfather, William. He had been a farmer and one day while weeding around the cabbages, he’d picked up an old wooden needle. The needle was one of many artefacts that he discovered in his day-to-day work and thinking that his wife might like it because their name was Needler, and also because she sometimes collected things that he’d found, he took it home. She had liked it and placed it in the box with various coins, bits of pottery and even an ancient Roman ring.

  Apparently when they’d gone to bed that night William had been visited with what he described as a ‘shining vision from up above’. The vision told him that he and his children would be Time-Needles and described the duties expected of him. The Stitch he was supposed to find was a young woman who lived in his village. Which young woman it was, he wasn’t told, however. Furthermore, the reason why he had been chosen was because he had picked up the needle. Needles belonging to the ‘shining visions from above’ had been dropped here and there over the centuries and only those who were worthy of the job could find them.

  At first he thought he’d dreamt it all, until he was shown a glimpse of a Roman amphitheatre while eating his lunch in the top field the next day. There was a gladiator fighting a lion and the lion seemed to be winning. William felt that this was a deadly warning of some kind and, terrified, threw down his lunch and ran back down the lane to his farm. Upon passing a neighbour’s cottage he noticed their daughter, Ann, sitting outside sewing a blanket. Without a shadow of a doubt he knew that she was the Stitch he’d been told of and he somehow managed to persuade her that his ramblings were true.

  Ann was transported back in time the next day, somehow prevented the gladiator from being selected to fight that day and the gladiator went on to lead a slave revolt against the Romans. The rest, as they say, was history. John was at the end of a long line of Needlers, but there were others around the world who were his contemporaries apparently, and all with similar tales to tell.

  Of course John had felt proud and very special when his dad had told him their history, but there were many times when he wished that he was just an ordinary guy. Life would be so much simpler.

  Harry had known exactly how to play John when they’d gone to the pub the other day, John remembered. They had played pool, had a meal, and sunk a few pints without even a mention of Sarah or even the business. As ever, John had been lulled into a false sense of security and then, near the end of the evening, he’d been tricked into revealing much more than he’d intended.

  ‘So Josephina is still in Italy?’ Harry asked, wiping the froth from his pint off his top lip.

  ‘Yes, and she can stay there as far as I’m concerned,’ John said.

  ‘Perhaps, but I think she did care, John
… You just never showed her the love she needed. Always a bit standoffish I thought.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad, but I think that you think too much. It was Sarah earlier, and now Josephina. And is there any wonder I was a bit standoffish? It’s not the easiest thing in the world to keep our other business hidden. I’m not sure I will ever settle down properly. I mean, how can you give yourself wholly to a person when they only know half of you?’

  Harry nodded sympathetically, took another drink and then remarked casually, ‘Sarah seems to be doing quite well in 1913, I’m told.’

  ‘You got the same email I did, then? Nice that they feel the need to still keep you in the loop … not!’ John frowned at his dad. ‘And yes, considering it’s only her second trip she should be very pleased. She has a way to go before she comes back though, I think.’

  ‘Are you unduly worried?’

  ‘Err … no, though of course I’ll be glad to see her back.’

  ‘And I think she will be glad to see you too,’ Harry said, taking a sip of beer.

  ‘Oh, here we go again …’ John sighed.

  Harry put his hand over his son’s and leaned across the table. ‘You can’t fool me. You care for her but won’t admit it to yourself. If your mum was here …’

  ‘Well, she isn’t, is she?’ John snapped and stood up. ‘Do you want a last pint or what?’

  ‘So you do care then.’ Harry said the words as a statement not a question.

  ‘Shit, Dad, I don’t know … no … yes, I guess.’ John ran his hand through his hair. ‘I know it’s not a good idea, but …’ He tailed off and shrugged.

  ‘But I am the last one to talk, eh?’

  John nodded. ‘Yup, you said it.’

  ‘And though you’ve only known her five minutes as you say, there is such a thing as love at first sight … it was like that with me and your mum. I remember it like it was yesterday. She’d just come back from her second trip and was in a hell of a state because she’d appeared in the middle of town on a busy Saturday afternoon instead of at work in the bakery where she’d left from. Arriving in town like that had completely thrown her and she had nearly run under a bus apparently.