The Lace Makers of Glenmara

by Heather Barbieri

  “Grand, grand,” Moira answered too quickly.

  “Cillian find a job yet?” Aileen knew she shouldn’t bring it up, not in her state of mind, but she couldn’t help herself. They had two older brothers, one who ran a popular Irish pub in Boston, the Wolfe & Whistle, the other a lawyer in Dublin, high-powered, on his second marriage, who’d left village life far behind, and a sister, a professional home organizer in London, who specialized in cleaning up other people’s messes. Moira was the bonus baby, Aileen a teenager when she arrived, tending her as if she were her own because their mother was in too dark a place to raise her. It was a hard habit to break, that caring, that need to protect, to control.

  “Not since you asked last time,” Moira replied, her tone sharper, as it often was whenever anyone, especially Aileen, inquired too closely into her domestic situation. “He’s still looking,” she went on, taking pains to soften her delivery. “His back is bad. He can’t do the work he used to.”

  “Not that he ever did,” Aileen said under her breath.

  “What did you say?” Moira frowned. She was only thirty-two years old, but worries were taking their toll: she already had deep furrows between her brows and threads of gray in her hair. So many children to raise, her husband too.

  “A shame he took that skid—losing his footing,” Bernie said, ever the peacemaker. She’d never had sisters, never been embroiled in the jealousies, the arguments, the resentments. “Sure to damage one’s backbone.”

  “If he ever had any in the first place,” Aileen said.

  Bernie shook her head.

  Kate listened, the talk moving too rapidly for her to comment, even if she were inclined, words darting and swooping like an agitated flock of swallows. She felt comfortable with everyone—except Aileen, who might as well have had a yellow sign around her neck reading “Approach with Caution.”

  At least she wasn’t in Aileen’s sights that evening. Moira was—and she wasn’t about to put up with her sister’s interference.

  Moira’s husband was often the topic of conversation at these gatherings, particularly when Moira wasn’t present. The women thought he drank too much and worked too little. Things had looked fine enough when they married twelve years ago, with a child on the way, another following every year or two after, though the warning signs were there from the very beginning.

  Moira had left the children at home with her eldest, Sorcha, in charge that evening. Cillian was probably there as well, in his usual spot in front of the telly, a beer in hand, unless he’d absconded to the pub again—not the convivial one in town, no, the Cell Block, to the south, so named because it was once a jail, and now the place where the hard drinkers in the region congregated to brag and brawl, Cillian among them. Hardly the picture of the helpful househusband.

  “What’s that on your cheek?” Aileen said, unable to hold back any longer.

  “I ran into the door.” Moira stabbed herself in the finger with a pin, swore under her breath, took up the hook again, working faster this time.

  “You sure it wasn’t a fist?” Aileen said.

  Bernie rolled her eyes. Here we go. She’d done her best.

  “At least my husband pays attention to me,” Moira said.

  “You call that attention?” Aileen asked. “I have another word for it. The one you don’t want to hear.”

  “Can we please not have an argument?” Colleen said. “I’m getting a headache, and we still have a lot of work to do.”

  “Someone has to say something.” Aileen brandished her hook as if it were a sword of justice.

  “Even if it’s wrong?” Moira asked.

  “It’s hard to create beautiful lace when there’s so much negativity in the room,” Colleen said.

  “Yes. What must Kate be thinking of us, carrying on like this?” Oona agreed, giving their guest an apologetic smile.

  “It’s all right, really,” Kate said.

  “She’s like one of the family. Isn’t that what you said?” Aileen glared at Bernie.

  Everyone fell silent, the only sound the tick of the clock on the wall above the cross made of bog oak and the tap of a lacecap hydrangea branch against the window pane.

  “What’s going on, Ailey?” Bernie asked finally. If anyone could ask the question, it was her. “You’ve been acting strange lately.”

  “Have I?” Her lips thinned.

  “I saw Rosheen at the crossroads on my way over tonight,” Colleen ventured, taking another stitch. Colleen had gotten there later than the rest. She’d been talking to her daughter, Maeve, on the phone. Long distance, it was, from the UK.

  “So she’s still in town, is she? Hitching a ride again, I suppose.” Aileen shrugged as if it didn’t matter, though clearly it did. “She does what she wants, that one. Damned what I say.”

  Colleen had had her share of trials raising children—her strong-willed daughter Maeve among them. Maeve, who lived in London now, working in the fashion industry. Oh, the battles they used to have. “I’m sure she’ll come back.”

  “You’re surer than I am, then.” Tears welled up in Aileen’s eyes. She swiped at them with her hands, seemingly furious for letting weakness—yes, she saw tears shed before others as weakness, would rather turn them into anger, into a force to be reckoned with—get the best of her. “I’m sorry. I swore I wasn’t going to cry. It’s just that she—That I—”

  “Nothing like a teenager to make you feel like a bitch, a nag, and an old woman, all at once,” Colleen said.

  “She has so many piercings, she’s like a connect-a-dot puzzle.” Aileen laughed and sniffled at the same time.

  “She has a belly ring now, doesn’t she?” Moira asked. “I always wanted one of those—or a tattoo.”

  “At least she has the midriff for it. Mine’s like a fallen soufflé.” Bernie poked at her midsection in dismay.

  “I think they call those a muffin top now,” Oona said. “At least that’s what my daughter tells me.”

  “That makes me feel so much better.”

  “Rosheen’s got one of those leopard bras too,” Moira said. “I saw the strap when I was down at the shops a few days ago.”

  “Brilliant,” Aileen sighed. “Now everyone knows my daughter has the underwear of a prostitute.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a leopard bra myself,” Colleen said.

  “Those are quite popular now,” Kate ventured now that the conversation had shifted to fashion again.

  “Go on…” Oona giggled.

  “Anything other than industrial-strength bras and granny pants,” Colleen continued. “If I’ve lived this long, I ought to have the right to wear some pretty knickers.”

  “Exactly,” Kate agreed.

  Aileen set her work down. “Look at us, working away at tea towels, collars, and cuffs. No one needs them anymore, if they ever did. They don’t make us any money. They aren’t sexy.”

  “Tea towels have never been sexy,” Moira said.

  “I don’t know about that. John used to do a little dance for me, trying to get me away from washing the dishes…,” Bernie said.

  The others whistled and laughed.

  Bernie blushed. “Well, he did.”

  “Too bad he wasn’t a professional,” Colleen said. “Then we could have hired him for my birthday party.”

  “He only did it for me. And now, of course, he—” Bernie broke off.

  Colleen patted her arm.

  “Towels and collars and cuffs and runners are all we know how to make,” Aileen said, more quietly now.

  “You could make the lace into something new,” Kate said, an idea taking shape in her mind. Her hands fluttered with excitement. “I made some sketches—”

  “What good are a bunch of drawings going to do us?” Aileen asked, a note of challenge in her voice.

  “Everything starts with a design,” Kate insisted, sure of her plan. If Aileen would only let her explain—

  “Of one sort or another.” Aileen gave her a piercing look.
>
  Kate pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to stoop to Aileen’s level, though it was hard. Stitch ’n’ bitch indeed.

  “What are they designs for?” Colleen interjected.

  “Lingerie,” Kate said, more determined now. “I’ve been thinking: you could incorporate the lace, creating overlays or inserts for the garments you already have, or make new ones, crafted entirely of lace—”

  They stared at her in surprise.

  “What a waste of good lace, and anyway, what would people say? What would the priest say?” Aileen broke the silence.

  “I can’t believe people worry about such things in the twenty-first century,” Kate said, though even at home in the States, there were those who did—Extreme Catholics, she and her friend Ella called them. “Besides, I doubt Father Byrne has much experience in the matter, unless he’s keeping a few secrets under his cassock.”

  The women, except Aileen, laughed, talking at once:

  “Yes.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’ll make the most gorgeous bras and knickers the world has ever seen.”

  “So instead of tatted lace, it’s tit for tat, is it,” Oona said.

  Aileen glared at them. “You must be joking.”

  “No, she isn’t. It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” Bernie said. “We can make ourselves feel beautiful again. That’s what you said, Kate, remember, when I brought my things in from the clothesline that day?”

  “Yes,” Kate said, as all of them save Aileen nodded. “Yes, we can.”

  Kate laid the scissors, needle, and thread on the table in Bernie’s kitchen. She’d deconstructed many a garment, but had never undertaken anything like this. She could tell Aileen was waiting for her to fail. Some people were like that, expecting the worst at every turn. Kate wouldn’t let Aileen stop her. She took stock of the materials. They’d need more supplies—bands of elastic, hooks and eyes, straps—but those could be ordered easily enough. For the moment, they would remove portions of the existing material, add inserts and overlays. They’d make do with what they had.

  She felt the weight of the tools in her hands, the place where the skin rubbed, blisters formed, as they had when she’d first learned to sew. The craft had been part of her life from the very start, when Lu hung the golden thimble over the bassinet, letting her baby daughter bat at it while she worked. Lu sewed for pleasure until Kate’s father left them when she was eight years old, and then she sewed for money. Before she worked those late nights, she sat with Kate, beginning with a needle and thread. She showed her how to snip the ends, lick the tips to bind the fibers, slip them through the eye, knot the strand firmly. Kate studied embroidery, made pillow-cases and pictures of flowers and cats and dogs, her fingers sore at first from needle pricks. Later she advanced to hems, and finally, when she was older, the machine itself, her mother’s arms encircling her as she told Kate what she needed to do. Lu never raised her voice, even when Kate snarled the bobbin and misthreaded the machine. It’s all right. Let’s try again.

  Kate had heard her mother’s voice when she sat at the machine later, after her death three months ago, part of the melodic hum that intensified as the needle raced frantically to the edge of the fabric. She’d run it so hard in those first days after the funeral that the needle snapped in two—the before and the after. She focused all her energies on finishing her debut line in time for the spring shows, sewing in a fury that verged on desperation, barely sleeping or eating, Ethan spending more time away from the apartment to escape the noise. “I never see you,” he said. “When will you be done?” In the end, he was done—with her.

  But she didn’t know that then—she was too busy reworking the concept, trying to get it right, until she gave up and hung the garments on the racks, ready for model fittings, the Seattle rains falling that March outside the studio. A ragged faerie-in-a-dustbin look, faerie punk, Kate called it, struggling to find a marketing hook, but in the end the pieces were only a poor imitation of the latest runway darling. She thought that was what Jules wanted. But it wasn’t, not at all. What had she been thinking? Why hadn’t she been true to her vision, stuck with the 1950s silhouette she loved? She was sure it wouldn’t have happened if her mother hadn’t gotten sick. Kate showed her everything. It was part of her creative process. Her mother seemed to realize this, did not generally offer advice, let Kate talk, understanding she was thinking things through, but her mother had fallen ill that winter, and everything changed.

  Kate didn’t know anything was wrong at first. Her mother didn’t tell her until it got bad, the cancer winning, the cellular occupation firmly entrenched.

  “You should have told me,” Kate said when she finally confronted Lu about her “little appointments” as they ate dinner one night, one of the last in the home Kate grew up in.

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything.” Lu’s sewing lay on the sideboard. She was working on an elaborate design of a peacock in the art deco style. Lu didn’t know if the cancer would allow her to finish it, but she kept on, stitching the texture of each feather, the tips crowned with watchful eyes. She bit off threads with her teeth, because she couldn’t find her snips. Kate meant to bring her another pair. Her mother had been misplacing things lately. “It’s chemo-brain,” she said. The drugs took away more than the cancer. They robbed her of her hair, her thoughts. It wasn’t like her, this forgetfulness. Lu had always been so organized, spools of thread lined up in the sewing box, glowing like gems: peridot, amethyst, aquamarine, garnet, ebony, cerise, jade, cobalt.

  Kate wondered what else would fade from memory, if she too would be lost, her mother unable to recognize her in the end. If everything in that room, the table and chairs, the Murano pendant lamps, the bamboo shades, the sewing basket itself, would become artifacts of her mother’s past, forgotten, sold.

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  Kate felt betrayed and frightened. She had the sense that her mother was tucking her in bed as she had when Kate was a child, kissing her cheek, turning off the light, closing the door—except now, for the last time. Kate wasn’t ready for her to go. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready.

  “I wanted to protect you,” Lu said.

  “By lying?”

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you everything.”

  “Isn’t omission the same thing?” What else hadn’t she told her? About this? About other things?

  Lu toyed with her steak, lifting the edge of the filet with the tines of her fork as if something were hidden underneath. (She’d given up the vegan diet the previous year, saying she needed more iron.) The salad, a bitter radicchio and butter lettuce, lay in a crumpled heap next to slices of Comice pear. She had no appetite, but went through the motions of someone who had once enjoyed eating, traveling the world with her palate—Persia, Tunisia, Ethiopia, France, Italy, Thailand. “No, it isn’t. Not always.”

  “But—” A flock of crows alighted on the maples outside the window, the trees’ branches stripped clean, the birds black shapes against ashen clouds.

  “We can’t tell each other everything.” Lu held up her hand, warding Kate off. She’d never done that before; she didn’t have the energy to pursue the matter further. “I thought it was for the best.”

  Kate cradled the thimble in her hands, remembering her mother, remembering William’s words as he returned the lost notion to her. “Give it time,” he’d said.

  Was the time, finally, right? Kate hoped so. She told herself she was ready to take up the needle again. Or as ready as she’d ever be. She had a purpose now, a true reason to stay: she would help the lace makers of Glenmara. She felt a surge of excitement, followed by trepidation at the prospect of the challenge she’d taken on, the specter of past failures and Aileen’s doubts still on her mind.

  Her arms were bare. She worked better without sleeves, which had a tendency to get in the way. She tapped her fingers to the ticking of the clock, anticipating the beginning of the dance, when scissors and needl
e and thread would transform the pieces into something new. The women had gone home for their lingerie, Colleen for her sewing machine; they might need an extra for the finishing work, for strengthening attachments and making reinforcements. The garments must not fall apart. They must be made to last.

  Bernie had accompanied Colleen, leaving Kate on her own. What have I gotten myself into? she thought. The minutes seemed to stretch into hours, her uncertainty growing with each passing second. She took deep breaths to still her shaking hands. There’s no pressure. No pressure at all. There were no deadlines, no critics—well, other than Aileen. It was all in fun, wasn’t it? Don’t overthink. Each woman, each garment, would dictate the design.

  Soon, she heard the lace makers coming up the walk, the clatter of heels, the chatter of voices. Someone bumped against the door, calling, “We’re back!” Kate let them in. Colleen brought up the rear, lugging her sewing case behind her, Bernie trying to help.

  “Lord, this thing feels like it weighs ten stone!” Colleen gasped. Kate and Bernie helped her lift the machine onto the table. “We might have to make a lace back brace for me.”

  “I don’t know why we’re cutting up perfectly good knickers and bras,” Aileen complained.

  Kate didn’t listen. She heard her mother’s voice in her ear: You can always start over. All it takes is a new thread.

  The women had brought their best lingerie, as uninspired as the everyday pieces but unworn, wrapped in tissue. They proffered the pieces as shyly as the schoolgirls they’d once been, all those years ago. When Kate laid the pieces before her, considering each in turn, a design suggested itself, as if emerging from the women’s skin, their very selves. Yes, she knew what they would do: for Bernie, who went first, there would be a garden of wild roses to accentuate her lovely complexion; for Colleen, seashells—descended, as she was, according to family legend, from the selkies and merrows that swam below the cliffs, full-figured and otherworldly. For Aileen, deco—sharp lines and geometrics, each locked inside the next, optical illusions, tension and razzmatazz, blue, gray, black, like her eyes and hair and moods, and a tassel in the very middle, because she wouldn’t expect it, needed it. For Oona, golden threads to match her bright personality; Moira, the green of the land, to help her feel more grounded, sure.