Fabric of Time

There’s a large, round, wicker basket that sits underneath a nest of mahogany tables in your living room. It’s been there for as long as I can remember; and almost certainly a long time before that. A drawstring bag of dusty pink jacquard, made from an old pair of curtains, is the lining. Inside is a hoard of precious memories.

You were twenty-one when you made it at an evening class. You said that it was a time when you were making and collecting things for your bottom drawer. ‘’Before I married Henry,’ you explained. Then gradually, over the years, you had built a collection of fabrics, buttons, ribbons and lace to fill the capacious depths. ‘Nothing should be thrown away,’ you would keep reminding me. ‘They might come in handy.’

Everybody said you were a good dressmaker. So many ladies in the village visited you to have dresses made to measure. I loved to watch you with lengths of fabric laid out on the big oak dining table, as you carefully arranged and pinned down the thin paper patterns. Then, with large, heavy steel scissors, you would cut out the individual pieces that would eventually be joined together to create a brand-new outfit. All joined together on an old Singer machine that was powered by you through an ornamental cast iron treadle. I would sit on the floor next to you for ages, completely entranced by rhythmic movements of your legs and feet, as they made the thick black rubber belt turn the wheel connected to the mechanisms that moved the needle up and down. You made it seem so easy. A flawless, seamless process, where you worked as one with the machine to create a unique made to measure garment. But, when it came to finishing the hems, you always took a needle and sewed them by hand. Small, neat stitches that could hardly be seen. I was so proud to wear the dresses that you made for me. They would make me feel special, no one else would have the same style in the same colour or pattern. Even though I didn’t like the fittings. ‘Don’t pin me!’ I would say as the sharp stainless metal went into the fabric. Never into my skin. You were too skilled for that. I can picture you now, kneeling there, working on a hem or adjusting a seam with a cluster of pins in your mouth, making muffled reassurances.

I take out the sewing basket and place it next to your empty armchair before sitting on the floor beside it. Gently, I loosen the cream woven cord drawstring and pull open the thick gathered fabric that hides memory triggering treasures. All arranged in layers so that no space is wasted. Old rusting tins, that once held sweets or tobacco, but now hold needles, pins, buttons and other fastenings. The once colourful brand names and designs now faded and forgotten. Beneath them lay the many cotton reels that were a spectrum of shiny shades. And finally, the real treasure. A myriad of cloths and fabrics, with many of them carefully stored in a range of small paper bags. Some are plain in colour, while others advertise long gone haberdashery shops or department stores. The material inside are neatly folded offcuts from the bottoms of trousers or skirts and the surplus material from so many of the garments that you’ve made over the years.

From one wrinkled green paper bag, I take out neatly folded coral satin. I run my fingers along the smooth glossy material remembering the bridesmaid’s dress you made me for a cousin’s wedding. That was the first of four bridesmaid’s dresses and I remember them all. Two were of purple velvet and the other a pale lilac satin. ‘Always a bridesmaid, never a bride,’ you once said. I never believed that it would come true.

Opening bag after bag I take out the remnants of fabric and lay them in neat rows on the carpet beside me. A multitude of colours and patterns spread out across the 60s style patterned Axminster. There’s the purple velvet from the winter bridesmaid’s dress and the cream lace from the long party dress you made for my 7th birthday. Memories come flooding back to me in waves, without having to try. I can see the image of a photograph in my mind’s eye. The dress was a flowery beige, with a cream, contrasting yoke and the lace that edged the seam where the two fabrics were joined. The clothes may be long gone but, seeing these remnants, wakens memories that were pushed to the back of my mind long ago.

I’m not sure how long I sat there staring at the rainbow of colours and patterns laying in front of me. I was lost in thought. Eventually, I looked up towards the bay window. I half expected to see the Singer standing there. The black, majestic machine standing to attention. Poised, ready to create another outfit. But it was no longer there.. You sold it, when you could no longer hold a needle, and more pins ended up on the floor than in the fabric.

Remembering the purpose for my visit, I shake myself and return from the past to look closely at the fabrics set out. I carefully choose a range of colourful, cotton materials that are big enough for what I have in mind to do. Once the choices are made, I carefully put all the other material into their bags and return everything back to the basket. Trying to put it all back in the same way that I had taken it out, before pulling the drawstring tight and storing the basket once again under the nest of tables.

That was two weeks ago, and I’ve been working hard every night since I made the visit to complete my project as quickly as I can. And it’s been easy. Although I’m not sure if I have the same relationship with my new electric sewing machine, as you did with your machine. Even though I did buy a Singer.

Coming into the hospice I clutch my shopping bag tightly. Nerves make an uncomfortable knot in my stomach. The building is bright and airy, and I’m greeted warmly by the nurses, who show me to your room. They’ve explained to me that the stroke means that your movement is limited on the right side and that you’re struggling to communicate. But you can still hear me and see me and understand. I enter and find you sitting in an armchair next to the window that overlooks a garden. You’re neatly dressed in your favourite outfit of a tweed skirt and black jumper. I wonder if the skirt is one that you made before you gave up sewing. It doesn’t look as if you bought it in a shop.

As I come towards you, the familiar (if now lop-sided) smile lights up your face. I return the smile and give you a hug and kiss. I explain that I’ve got something for you and lift a brown paper parcel from my shopping bag before placing it on your lap. It’s clear from the frown on your face that you want help to open it so, carefully and slowly, I take the paper away and shake out the patchwork blanket from inside, before laying it across your lap. You start to smile again and look carefully at the variety of colours and patterns, while your hand moves gently over the soft, cotton squares. Sometimes stopping and looking out into the distance. Presumably remembering the outfit or the person it was made for. After a while, you stop at the flowery beige square that has a tiny piece of cream lace sewn to it and look up at me. It’s clear that you want to say something, and I wait patiently. The knot in my stomach gets tighter.

“Y..y…,” you say falteringly, in a hoarse whisper. I understand.

“Yes. My material,” I say with a huge smile, as my stomach relaxes. I can feel the tears starting to come and I try hard to swallow them back.

“The party dress you made me.”

You reach out your good hand, and I take it in mine. It feels fragile, as if one squeeze could crush it, and I can see your veins through the thin, translucent fabric of your skin. I gently wipe away my tears that have fallen on it.

With our hands still joined, I guide them to the blanket and rest them there. There’s no need for words, just the time to look, feel the fabric and remember.