The Forgotten Seamstress (30 page)

Now that I’d heard Maria telling her own story, I saw her designs and use of colours through new eyes. If the central panels were dedicated to her lover and the baby, might the outer ones also have additional meanings hidden within their patterns?

The third panel was dull by comparison to the inner ones: lilac and dark grey cottons were carefully arranged in linear patterns of lines and angles, like a staircase or a series of blocks, creating an almost three-dimensional effect. The shapes held a zigzag pattern on their outer edges, with straight lines reaching in towards the centre.

It seemed unlikely that such a regular, geometric design could hold any message. But then I saw that she had sewn a row of tiny chain stitches half an inch from the seam edges of each fabric shape, and recalled her description. These were rows of capital M letters, for Maria or, perhaps, for the visitor Margaret who had left her so suddenly and without explanation. She’d been important to Maria, more than just a passing visitor. Who was she, and could she still be alive?

The two outermost panels, which had been at the edges of Dennis’s bed roll, were by far the grubbiest. The triangles of fine lawn cottons, in delicate floral and other traditional patterns were joined together and cleverly juxtaposed into light and dark sections so that a larger, bolder pattern emerged.

The cottons reminded me of a blouse that my mother used to wear – the fabric so soft and delicate that she was immensely proud of it. Her voice came into my head: ‘The finest Liberty lawn,’ she’d say, ‘the best cotton in the world.’ Then I realised, yes! These cottons were Liberty prints, designs produced for the famous shop still going strong in Regent Street. How could I have missed this obvious clue? This was so clearly a tribute to the greatest gift that Nora could have given to her friend: her freedom. How joyful she must have been as she worked with Nora on this panel, in their shared flat. And, in gratitude, Maria helped to nurse Nora in her final illness.

It all became brilliantly clear now. Each of the frames had been created in tribute to, or memory of, an individual. The central panel was for her lover, the appliqué figures for her baby, the zigzag Ms for Margaret and the Liberty prints for Nora. But what about the outermost border?

As I dabbed the muddy stains on the grandmother’s fan designs, I wondered when, and for whom, Maria might have sewn them. Was it when Nora became a grandmother? Or even, I thought with a little thrill, was it intended for my own Granny Jean? Perhaps that’s why, as Mum said, the quilt meant such a lot to her?

Suddenly, I felt utterly exhausted, the troubled night and the dramatic events of the past few days catching up with me. It was time to give myself a break, and perhaps wait for Jo’s return before doing any more work on the quilt.

As I hung it over the back of the sofa to air and dry out, something unusual caught my eye. Along the line of elongated hexagons surrounding the inner panel, one of the rips gaped wide open, exposing the inside of the patchwork. Beneath it appeared to be another layer of white fabric – or was it paper?

I took up my paintbrush again and, with its blunt end, tentatively eased open the ripped seam. Sure enough, there did appear to be a small scrap of paper, sewn inside the fabric. There were more small rips further along the border. I eased these open too, but could see nothing behind them. I was looking for scissors to start unpicking the seams to see what else I could find, when my phone beeped.

Brilliant holiday, thanks. So nice to get some sun. But can’t wait to see you – are you free tomorrow evening? xox

‘What is that disgusting smell?’ Jo wrinkled her nose, freckled and peeling from a week in the sunshine.

‘It’s the quilt. It’s been on the road for the last few weeks keeping a homeless man warm. It’s a long story.’

‘And what’s
that
all about?’ She peered through the open door of the spare room where the skeleton of the chair stood, neglected and unfinished, on top of a table. ‘My God, is this the start of your world-beating interior design company?
How
exciting!’

‘It’s a sample for Justin to show to his clients, but I’ve got a bit stuck. Turned out to be a much larger and scarier project than I thought. Christ, I’m so glad you’re back. There’s so much to tell you.’

I described my meeting with Justin, and showed her my designs.

‘They’re amazing, you know,’ she bubbled enthusiastically, examining my sketches and samples. ‘Completely original, especially with that fabulous retro thing going on. Wherever did you get these great sixties fabrics?’

‘Found them in Mum’s loft, hidden in a suitcase, they’d probably been there for years. I think they could be original Warner & Sons designs. Couldn’t believe my luck.’

‘Look, I know a good upholsterer in South London if that helps,’ she said. ‘But it’ll cost, you know?’

‘But worth the investment, this time round, don’t you think? In the long run I’ll have to set up a proper workshop, of course.’

‘What about your mum’s place?’ she asked. ‘That’s got a garage, I seem to remember.’

‘I’ve got to sell it, to pay her nursing home fees. Anyway, I couldn’t travel there every day.’

‘You could if you sold this place – you’d get a fortune for it.’

‘Strangely enough, that’s what Ben suggested,’ I said, before I could stop myself.

She was on it like a heat-seeking missile. ‘Ben?’

‘Sweetman. You know, the Eastchester journalist?’

‘Oh yes,
that
Ben?’ She gave me a sideways look. ‘And how
is
Ben, then?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I mumbled. ‘I think I’ve blown it.’

‘How?’

‘Long story. I’ve apologised, but he’s gone to ground.’

‘Do you care?’

‘I’m not really sure …’ I stuttered. ‘I think so. Oh God, Jo, I don’t know.’

‘I’ve got time.’ She settled herself on the sofa, patting the seat beside her. ‘Come on, tell all. I want to know everything about Ben,
and
all the other things that have been happening. Every detail. That’s the price of my expert opinion on your stinky quilt.’

‘Do you mind if I pour myself a glass? What about you?’

She blushed, avoiding my glance.

‘Is there something
you’re
not telling
me
?’

She nodded, coyly.

‘Ohmigod, Jo. You’re pregnant?’ I hugged her. ‘That’s amazing news! When’s it due?’

‘I’m only six weeks gone, it’s early days. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you right away. It must be hard, after …’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Really,’ I said. ‘I’ve been so bloody busy I’ve hardly given it a thought. But I am
so
excited for you. It’s amazing – happened so quickly! When’s it due? Boy or girl? What does Mark say?’

‘First scan next week.’ She allowed herself to smile. ‘Mark’s really chuffed but pretending not to be, of course, and underneath I think he’s terrified. Keeps worrying about having to sell his motorbike and clear all his albums out of the spare room.’

As I poured myself a glass of wine and put the kettle on for Jo’s herbal tea, she chattered on about how she hadn’t suffered much morning sickness but felt completely exhausted all the time, about the names they’d already been discussing, and the terrifying responsibility of bringing another human being into the world.

‘Enough of this baby talk, I want to hear all about Ben,’ she said. I tried to summarise the crazy events of the past ten days: Pearl’s realisation that Queenie was indeed Maria, and how I’d listened to the tapes, then stayed at Ben’s house that night and wondered whether I regretted it, the newspaper article and our argument, our visit to the night shelter and the meeting with Dennis.

‘And I suppose this paragon of virtue is astonishingly handsome and filthy rich?’

‘Not rich at all, and not even very handsome, to be honest, but sweet-looking and sort of cuddly. He’s the sort of person who needs time to grow on you. Tall, lots of hair. Hazel eyes, the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘Oh, and he likes Howard Hodgkin.’

‘Better and better. But you haven’t heard from him since the row?’

I shook my head. ‘Two whole days. I wish he’d text or something, if only to say he’s forgiven me.’

‘Give him time, he’ll come round,’ she said. ‘How could he possibly resist the gorgeous, talented Caroline Meadows? And if not, you should just text him again. But give it a bit longer, don’t let him think you’re desperate.’

She was right, perhaps it just needed time to heal.

‘Tell me about these people in Bethnal Green,’ she said, wisely changing the subject. I described how we had traced the Kowalskis and their confirmation that Maria and Nora actually had both worked at the palace.

‘You know what this all means? It solves the mystery of where she got the May Silks. Do you suppose she stole them?’

‘I don’t think she was a thief. On the tape she talked about finding a bundle of scraps that her predecessor had left in a cupboard, and used them for the first panel of the quilt. But I don’t think she ever knew how precious they were.’

‘All the same, it’s brilliant to confirm where she got hold of them. I love it when history proves you right,’ she smirked. ‘I can’t wait to tell Annabel. She’ll probably try to claim all the glory for herself, but she’ll know it was me who first noticed them.’

Jo sighed a lot as we unravelled the quilt across the table. ‘Jeez, this is a mess. It’s certainly going to need professional cleaning and repair.’

‘Don’t I know it? But take a look at this.’ I showed her the rip in the edge of the hexagon, where I’d seen the paper inside.

She took out her magnifying glass and gently lifted the edge of the stitching. ‘You’re right, there is something odd in there,’ she said. ‘It looks like a template that’s been left inside for some reason. It’s unusual to find that in a finished quilt.’

‘What can we do to find out?’

‘We’d be in danger of ripping the fabric even more if we try to look from this side. What we need to do is take off this lining, and unpick whatever’s been used for the wadding, so that we can get to the back of this section.’ She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a pair of the finest scissors I’d ever seen. ‘I’ll use these. Have you got a pair of unpicking scissors so that we can tackle it from both sides?’

‘We’re going to do this
now
?’ I was astonished. ‘Won’t it be a bit risky?’

‘Trust me, I’m a professional,’ she laughed. ‘It’ll have to be done some time and if you took it to a studio for repairs they would remove it anyway to fix mending mesh on the reverse. They’d put the lining back afterwards. Besides, I’m mighty curious about this template paper, aren’t you?’

‘Seems a bit drastic. And won’t it damage the cross-stitching, the poem on the lining?’

She examined it. ‘It’s not sewn through, so no problem.’

‘Then let’s go for it,’ I replied, suddenly certain. ‘It might be royal silk, but we’re not exactly endangering the Crown Jewels.’

I set up two reading lamps for extra light, and we joked about feeling like students again, working on our final projects together, as we started at opposite sides of the table, working along the edges of the quilt, carefully unpicking the sheet lining from the edges of the patchwork. It came away quite easily but revealed a more daunting task beneath. Maria had used a light woollen blanket as wadding between the quilt and the inner lining, and this was quilted to the patchwork with the finest of running stitches along the seams of each concentric frame and its borders. It must have taken her hours, and unpicking it was slow and painstaking. Her stitching was so meticulous that slipping a scissor blade beneath each tiny little loop required a steady hand to avoid piercing or pulling the delicate fabric.

As we worked, I described in more detail my meeting with Professor Morton and that extraordinary day of listening to Maria’s tapes. As I talked, snipping and releasing the stitches the seamstress had made with her own hand, I began to experience again the curious sensation that she was close by, listening to us, watching us to make sure we treated her cherished creation, the work of almost her whole lifetime, with respect.

We made more drinks and started back at our task, snipping and parting the woollen blanket from the quilt beneath as we chatted about Jo’s holiday, and her hilarious but rather terrifying camel trek. I told her about our encounter with Dennis and the way he’d stripped off his Father Christmas dressing gown in front of the assembled company without a moment’s hesitation. We discussed my struggles with the chair and footstool, and what I should do to get them completed in time.

After an hour or so we’d reached the border of elongated hexagons – which Jo called ‘lozenges’ – surrounding the inner square, where I’d found the template.

‘Come and look at this,’ she whispered.

‘What is it?’ I hurried to her side of the table.

‘Just a sec, I’ll clear it properly,’ she said, as I peered impatiently over her shoulder.

Three more snips, and the blanket pulled away. Beneath it was the back of a lozenge with the hem of the fabric tacked carefully around a piece of yellowing paper. Jo delicately lifted the hem until we could just make out what appeared to be old-fashioned copper-plate handwriting in faded blue ink.

‘She’s used the paper for a template. See if it’s the same on your side.’ Her voice was squeaky with excitement. ‘This is extraordinary. I saw something like this in a book some years ago, about a quilt that was unfinished. But the way these papers are tacked looks as though they’ve been left in deliberately.’

I took up the scissors again, with unsteady fingers, and unpicked a few further stitches to reveal the lozenge shapes on my side of the square. Just as on the other side, the fabric had been folded over the paper templates and fixed with wide, even tacking stitches and extra back-stitches to secure the folds. Beneath the folds I could see more scraps of paper, with more handwriting. It was like excavating long-buried treasure.

‘I’ve got more words here, but I can’t really see them because of the tacking,’ I said.