The Forgotten Seamstress. Liz Trenow

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СКАЧАТЬ is the upside of being made redundant. I usually spent a good ten minutes in front of the mirror each morning, making sure that the person presented to the world was immaculate. Now, none of that mattered – I could be just me, whoever that was. With a bit of luck I was about to find out.

      So I ended up spending time in front of the mirror anyway, wondering what the new me might look like. Those roots in my hair needed doing, but why go to the expense? Why not allow it to return to its natural mousy blonde? My eyebrows were a bit bushy – but actually I quite liked the slightly fuzzy shape, a relief from those starkly waxed lines.

      Without the weight of mascara on their lashes, my eyes felt lighter and more alert, and appeared to be brighter blue without the carefully applied shadows and highlighter that usually framed them. Okay, my wrinkles were more obvious without foundation, the odd chickenpox scar from long ago more prominent – but I decided there was nothing too scary.

      I straightened my shoulders, looked myself directly in the eye and took a deep breath: this was the new me, the natural, unadorned, take-me-as-you-find-me Caroline: a strong, independent and, yes, about-to-be-successful self-employed interior designer. Yes, that was the plan.

      But it was strange having no job to go to, no appointments to rush between in the usual manic way, no one breathing over my shoulder asking when the report would be ready. My calendar was blank.

      I pushed the living room table over towards the window so that I could have a view of the small park from my new ‘office’, phoned the bank for an appointment with their business adviser, and emailed several friends still working in the interior design field, casually suggesting that we might lunch. I sorted out my filing system, cleaned the flat and made several more cups of coffee.

      When I changed the sheets on the spare bed, I brought the quilt into the living room, hanging it over the back of the sofa. Low sun streamed in, as it always does in winter when the branches of the plane trees outside are bare of leaves. The beams fell onto the quilt, and the silver threads in those silks that Jo had been so excited about seemed to come alive, gleaming in the light.

      I read the little verse again, even though I already knew it by heart. Who had written it, and who was her lost love? How did the maker get hold of those royal silks? How did they know Granny? And was there any connection, as Mum seemed to suggest, with the mental asylum? Then I peered at the appliqué figures for a few moments, willing them to yield up any clues, but the duck and rabbit were stony silent.

      The mysteries were too intriguing to ignore. I added a final bullet point to my list:

       Contact journalist to find out about quilt/hospital/ royal connection?

      I was in the supermarket later that afternoon when he phoned.

      ‘Could I speak to Caroline Meadows?’ the man said.

      ‘Who’s that, please?’

      ‘Ben Sweetman, from the Eastchester Star.’

      ‘Hello, yes, I’m Caroline,’ I stuttered, startled by his speedy response. It must be a quiet news day at the newspaper. ‘Thanks for getting back to me.’

      ‘What can I do for you?’

      ‘I’m hoping you might be able to help me with some information about Helena Hall. As I said in my email, I gather you’re a bit of an expert?’

      ‘Journalists know a little about lots of things, but we’re never experts.’ His voice was baritone, his laugh a deep rumble. I visualised an overweight man, maybe balding, probably in his later years, who’d been at the newspaper for decades. ‘Do you mind me asking why?’

      ‘My granny was a patient there. She died quite a few years ago.’

      ‘Aah.’ There was a slightly awkward pause. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What exactly are you trying to find out? It’s just that records are always confidential, of course.’

      ‘I inherited a patchwork quilt from her, which I believe she or someone else may have made while they were patients. I was hoping to discover a bit more about the sewing and needlework they did there.’

      ‘Is this quilt something special?’

      ‘Special to me.’ I hesitated, a little uncomfortable under such direct questioning. ‘Look, thanks so much for offering to help. But …’

      ‘I know,’ he filled the pause, ‘you think I’m after a story?’

      ‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ I conceded. ‘You are a journalist, after all.’

      ‘Local newspapers are pretty parochial but patchwork quilts are hardly likely to make the front page even here in Eastchester.’ He laughed again, with that easy chuckle. ‘Look, I may be able to help. I know a former nurse who worked there who might be prepared to talk to you.’

      ‘That’s very kind, I really don’t want to put you to any trouble. It’s probably a wild goose chase anyway.’

      ‘Not to worry, wild geese are a local hack’s stock in trade. I’ll be in touch again shortly.’

      He phoned again two days later.

      ‘My contact is happy to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Pearl Bacon. I interviewed her some years ago, when Helena Hall finally closed. She’s an old lady now, but she used to work on the women’s wards and she’s got some interesting memories. Would you like me to arrange it?’

      ‘Perhaps you could just give me her number?’

      ‘She never answers the phone; too deaf, I’m afraid. But she lip-reads well. You’d need to visit her in person. Do you come from round here?’

      I hesitated, still cautious, but then thought to hell with it, I’ve nothing else to do with my time. There was little to lose and I might just find out something interesting about the quilt.

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