Things to Make and Mend (19 page)

Sally thinks of her best friend Rowena Cresswell, twenty-eight years ago, sitting in the Me-n-U café with her mother and the new, pink, crying baby. And something pulls tight in her heart. Something pulls and hurts.

What would the collective noun be for embroiderers? A skein? A reel? A knot?

‘A hassock?’ suggests Kenneth.

The embroidery conference is gathering momentum. People in tasselled waistcoats, in knitted tops with too many bobbles, are putting together their presentation tables. People are appearing with rolls of canvas under their arms, wooden frames, baskets of cotton reels, tapestry sewing bags. Waitresses are bringing in jugs of orange juice and coffee flasks. And an earlier conference is departing, dismantling: something to do with plastics, something entitled
We Get There First.

‘Suits and hand-knits,’ Kenneth observes from the doorway.

It is not unlike one of the Jollies we attend, apart from the style of clothing. The academics we usually mingle with favour fawn corduroys, Marks & Spencers’ turtle-necks, suede shoes. Here, the plastics men are wearing pale grey suits. They are taking down huge, unstable-looking boards bearing logos and pictures of plastic tubing. They are winding up pieces of electrical cable. I look around at the arriving embroiderers, darting about like
tailors’
mice, in their bright colours.

Kenneth is paying our bill at the reception desk when who should stride past but Jeremy Bowes. And I almost applaud. I
knew
I would bump into him here, just as I always do, in cities all over the world.
Spotted you!
I knew it! I feel like a birdwatcher, jotting down another sighting in her notebook.

Jeremy has not noticed me. He is striding in a
noli me tangere
way towards the doors. He appears to be wearing the same bargello waistcoat I first saw him in all those years ago in the Musée de Cluny. He has aged but he is still wearing that
waistcoat.
And this makes me feel oddly fond of him. Maybe he is not the person he seems to be. Maybe he does not have wardrobes full of clothes. Or perhaps he is more nostalgic about old things than he might seem. I think of the number of times we have endured canapés and small talk over the years, in dingy
university
suites across Europe. He is, I suppose, one of my oldest acquaintances.

I step forward.

‘Jeremy!’ I exclaim. ‘Hello!’ And he stops, slightly alarmed. He looks blankly at me for a moment. Then he smiles.

‘Rowena! How lovely to see you!’

‘I noticed you were in town! I saw your name on the posters.’

‘Ah, yes. The embroidery conference.’

‘It looks interesting. We nearly saw some of it. What’s it about?’

Jeremy does not look happy. He purses his lips and considers. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘It’s a glorified women’s sewing circle really.’

My fondness for him erodes a little. ‘Well,’ I say. ‘You’ve spent your life being adored by women. I’d have thought a women’s sewing circle would be right up your street.’

Jeremy frowns. ‘But my lecture is about courtly love,’ he says.

‘Surely love and sewing aren’t mutually exclusive?’

‘No, of course not. Far from it. It’s just, it’s not an academic conference. Not quite my usual environment.’

He looks white-faced and tired.

‘Oh well,’ Kenneth says, walking over from the reception desk. ‘Can’t win ’em all, Jeremy.’

Jeremy looks at Kenneth.

‘Apparently not. I think this lot are more interested in the
techniques
of embroidery.’

‘Well. The techniques of embroidery are important. There’d be nothing to talk about if nobody actually embroidered.’

‘True,’ Jeremy says. ‘But there’s this one woman,’ he begins, frowning – but he seems to think better of it, and stops talking. Some kind of jockeying for position has gone on, I think, and he has lost, like a battle-weary knight.

‘Well, I think it sounds interesting,’ I say.

Jeremy looks wan.

‘Are you going back to Paris afterwards?’

‘Yes. I’ll be at Charles de Gaulle by eight tonight. Hooray!’

And I have a vision of Jeremy in some apartment in the
thirteenth
arrondissement. I imagine he is the sort of man who lives an unexpectedly cluttered life, full of academic papers and divorce papers and books and shoes. Not enough people; too many journeys, pieces of fluff, small buttons, paper clips,
collecting
around the skirting boards of his home.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘See you at the next event. Over the finger food.’

‘No doubt. No doubt. Oh well, I’d better go and do this. Bye, Rowena. Bye Kenneth.’ (
Sleep!
his face says.
A glass of warm milk and an early night!
) And he turns to face the collective noun of embroiderers.

The keynote speaker is a few minutes late but this is probably to be expected. Just as the volume of murmured conversations begins to rise he appears in the doorway, walks across the room and hops on to the small chipboard stage. There is a hush.
People
end their conversations and fold their programmes in their laps. Jeremy Bowes smiles a rather tight smile and snaps on the overhead projector. It makes a humming noise and projects a
too-light
image on to the wall behind him.

Medieval man offering medieval woman a rose.

Jeremy Bowes turns to his audience and begins. ‘Medieval
tapestries,'
he states, and then he pauses.

‘Works of elegance,' he continues. ‘Works of fidelity. Works … of love.'

He is one of those people who can speak in short,
ungrammatical
bursts and still sound impressive. His confidence is almost too much for Sally to bear. She can feel her palms begin to sweat.

Jeremy smiles down at his audience and his audience smiles up at him. ‘Family tapestries,' he goes on, ‘were symbols as much as things of practicality …'

The woman sitting beside Sally fans her face with her
programme.
Sally feels as if she might be sick. Now a kind of singing has set up in her head. She looks up at the tapestry projected on to the screen – the lord offering his lady a rose – and it makes her think of all the mistakes she has made. All her assumptions,
misconceptions,
wrong conclusions. The next image – a scene from the Bayeux Tapestry – is not particularly comforting. It reminds her of the first time she saw it, in France, on canvas.

The audience peers up at poor Harold trying to pull the arrow out of his eye; at the casualties of war amongst the pretty
flowers.
Jeremy tells them there are over 626 human figures in the
tapestry,
190 horses, 35 dogs, 506 other birds and animals, 33 buildings, 37 ships and 37 trees or groups of trees. Sally thinks of all the women who embroidered it, their hearts full of love and fear.

‘The imagery in this particular scene …' Jeremy is saying, pointing out a piece of crewelwork with something that looks like a magician's wand. And quickly, Sally glances across at Miss Button. She is sitting diagonally across the aisle from her. She has sheer tights on. Her varnished-nailed hands rest elegantly in her lap.

Jeremy Bowes is now handing round courtly love printouts detailing points of interest. Sally looks down at her copy.

France, around 1340. Linen with gold silk embroidery.

This is an ‘aumoniere' or alms bag. These were popular
presents
from lords to the ladies they courted, which explains why scenes of courtly love were the most common decorative motif. A young couple flirts here, while on the reverse a more mature couple are exchanging love tokens.

Oh, nothing has changed. Nearly seven hundred years later, people are still flirting and giving each other love tokens. People are still attempting to entrance with fashion: a scarf, a bag, a dress. It means no more than it ever has done.

Her pulse is thudding like a horse. She looks at her watch. It is ten thirty-eight. She wants to be anywhere but here. She wants to be with Pearl, with her mother, with Sue, with John. Her hands are cold and she thinks she really may be sick. But she can't run away now: it is too late. Jeremy Bowes is finishing with a last,
professional
flourish – some joke about the pretty tote bags carried by women at today's parties – and, oh God, he is walking off the stage. He is walking down the steps to the accompaniment of
laughter and applause. And here she is, Sally Tuttle, getting to her feet! Here she is, standing up, an amateur in home-made clothes, a non-academic, about to give a talk on what she does in her spare time.

Jeremy Bowes looks a little flushed as Sally walks past. But he manages a small nod as they cross in the aisle. Sally cranks a kind of smile on her face. She can smell his aftershave, like an animal picking up the scent of fear. And she continues, continues towards the stage. She looks down at her feet as they move her along the rows. Plod, plod, plod. Here are the steps. Here is the microphone. Here is the overhead projector which she is not sure how to operate. Plod, plod, plod. And now she has gone into a different state. Suddenly there is nothing at all in her head. No fear, no words, no thoughts. Something has taken over. She moves across to the stand where Mary and Martha are waiting for her. They look as terrified as Sally. She opens her mouth.

‘Well,' says a voice – and extraordinarily it is quite a clear voice, with comprehensible speech coming from it. ‘When I first began to embroider I never thought I'd be standing here nearly three decades later …'

It doesn't even
sound
like her voice – it sounds like another woman's –
Needlewoman's voice!
– composed, measured. Needlewoman starts to talk about her reasons for embroidering: appalling marks at school in everything except Needlework (
ha ha ha,
responds the audience); time on her hands; a general lack of anything else to do. ‘And,' says Needlewoman, ‘now look at me! Look what it has led to! Fame! Riches! Awards!'

She feels as if she is in a hot air balloon rising gently skywards. There is a rustle of laughter and she looks down at people in the audience. She tries to focus. Women are smiling at her,
acknowledging
their own peculiar obsession for needle and thread. And Miss Button, sitting in the second row, is smiling at her too. She has a small, perky, sad smile on her face.

We have loved the same man,
Sally thinks, as if she is observing some natural phenomenon.
Me and Miss Button. Once. Nearly thirty years ago. And it doesn't matter any more.

Afterwards, she almost runs to the Ladies. She pushes open the heavy door, scuttles past the chrome paper-towel dispensers and the thoughtful display of winter greenery. All the cubicles are occupied. She stands by the wall, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She stares instead at an advert for hosiery.
If you've got the legs we've got the tights.
After a while there is the noise of a bolt being pushed back and –
Oh, fantastic!
– Nora Wheeler emerges from one of the cubicles.

‘Hi,' Sally says.

‘Hi.'

There is hardly any room for them to manoeuvre around each other.
I will have to say something.

‘Were you at Jeremy's talk? I didn't –'

‘No. No. I didn't make it I'm afraid.'

Nora smiles and tucks her handbag tighter beneath her arm. She is wearing her fabricky suit again. The fabric is noticeable before the cut: the old-fashioned, flecky tweed. And above it, her face is teenager pink. Her eyes are a little bloodshot. Her mascara is blobby and spiderish on the tips of her lashes.

‘Are you OK?' Sally asks.

‘Oh, fine. Just got contact lens problems.'

‘Oh.'

‘I missed
your
talk too, I'm afraid.'

‘Did you? Oh, well. I didn't really know what I was saying
anyway,'
Sally replies, her words coming out now in a big,
unprofessional
rush. ‘It all seemed to go so fast and there I was going on about stranded cottons and I just –'

‘Oh no, I'm sure people were really interested.'

‘Right. Well.'

And Sally makes her way into the nearest cubicle, closes the door and hovers over the toilet. She gazes at a small, framed
sunset
advertising weekend breaks for the over-fifties and listens to the whoosh of the electric hand-dryer outside.

After a short silence she rearranges herself and unlocks the door. She wants very much to be alone. But Nora is
still there.
Damn it. She is standing at the basins now, motionless, as if she is playing Statues. Sally smiles vaguely, steps forward and stands beside her, glancing cautiously at her reflection in the mirror. She doesn't want to look too closely. But she can't help having a quick glance. She sees a whitish blur, her hair untidy, her eyes ringed by dark circles.

‘Oh dear,' she says, out loud. She leans her handbag against the counter to take out her hairbrush. Beside her, Nora is attempting to turn on the tap, first pressing it then trying to twist it. Nothing happens.

‘I think it's one of those automatic ones,' Sally says. ‘I think it's got one of those –'

‘Oh yes,' Nora replies waving her hands in front of the tap. ‘So,' she says. ‘Have you got much more to do of Martha and Mary?'

‘Mainly the sequins, I suppose.'

‘Mmm. I love sequins. The sparkle.'

‘Me too. I …'

But something curious is happening. Sally watches as Nora Wheeler's mouth suddenly twists and a sob emerges from it. She puts her wet hands up to her eyes.

Sally stands at the basin, the water running over her hands. She doesn't know what to do.

‘Sorry,' Nora says. ‘Sorry. How embarrassing.'

The tap stops running. And Nora bends to look for something in her handbag. Sally watches her pull out a packet of Handy Andies.

I should say something,
she thinks.
I should do something.

But she is no good at comforting. She has never been sure if other people want to be touched.

‘Can you tell me about it?' she asks eventually, like Mrs
Bonniface,
her old counsellor. 

‘You must think I'm insane,' Nora replies. ‘I'm forty-seven, for God's sake. It's just Jeremy, you know … How stupid of me! I thought we were getting on so well, and he cut me absolutely dead at breakfast this morning. Didn't want to know. It's just so …'

And Sally thinks of Jeremy Bowes, with his charm and his lovely eyes and his shoes and his anecdote about the horse.

‘Well, you know …' she begins, and Nora looks at her
hopefully,
as if she is about to say something very wise about men.

‘Some men …' she says slowly.

Nora sniffs.

‘… should not be taken too seriously.'

‘Yes, well, I know that,' Nora snaps.

‘They will always,' Sally continues, ‘take themselves seriously. So we shouldn't have to bother. It is ultimately,' she adds, ‘a big waste of time.'

Nora looks disappointed. She sighs and looks close to crying again. She says, ‘I suppose I thought he was different.'

‘That's a common mistake,' Sally replies, glancing up at a sign above the basin that reads ‘Now Please Wash Your Hands'.

‘Some of them are very nice of course,' she says, ‘but some of them aren't. The same,' she adds hurriedly, ‘could be said about women.'

And she pulls a paper towel from the dispenser, dries her hands and dabs her eyes, realising that there are tears in them too. Then, before leaving, she
does
put her arms around Nora Wheeler and gives her a hug. You never know when a hug might be helpful. Or when something – anything – might be the right thing to say.

When she gets back to her room she folds Mary and Martha up and puts them gently in their carrier. She takes off her
presentation
clothes and packs them away too: her blouse and her skirt, her over-heavy earrings. She pulls on her trousers and shirt and coat and sits on the bed to wait until it is time to leave. She has just under half an hour. There is nowhere to visit in this time, nothing to do.

She opens her bedside cabinet and takes out an inevitable small maroon Bible. She turns to Luke – to a passage she already knows and has always struggled to understand. Her comprehension always falls slightly short.

‘…
Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things: but one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her
.'

What is
that good part
? She has never understood that.
Ignoramus.
She fails to comprehend again, and puts the Bible back in the cabinet.

Now she sees that she has overlooked something. She has
forgotten
to pack her little box of sequins. It is sitting forlornly on the window sill where she left it the night before. She goes to pick it up and is just putting it into her coat pocket when there is a loud knock at the door. It makes her jump. She wonders if it is Nora Wheeler, come to say goodbye. Or, God, could it be Miss
Button?
Miss Button, come to talk about old times?

She edges around the end of her candlewicked bed to open the door.

There is a short man holding a large bunch of flowers. ‘Miss Tuttle?'

‘Yes?'

And he pushes the flowers towards her. ‘Oh,' says Sally. She reaches out to take them, as if she does this every week: receives
bouquets, like an opera singer. The flowers are predominantly yellow and white – gerbera, chrysanthemums, marguerites, punctuated by skeins of greenery. And a balloon! There is a
balloon
– a silver one, bobbing theatrically and bearing the words
Well Done.

‘How … lovely,' Sally says to the man. She feels she should sound more jubilant. She has never in her life received a
congratulatory
helium balloon. And unfortunately, now she has, she does not feel she deserves it.

‘There could be a card somewhere, like,' the man says.

‘Thanks.'

‘Enjoy them, like,' the man says, walking away and beginning to whistle.

She shuts the door and looks at the flowers. They have a slight scent – a kind of mild, jungly fragrance. Attached to the
cellophane
is a little cream-coloured envelope. She thinks of John, who once presented her with a bunch of hand-picked daffodils stolen from Wandsworth Common. And she thinks of Pearl, who used to run in from their tiny garden with flowers from the lawn – buttercups, daisies, chickweed – for her to put in an egg-cup filled with water.