Knitting Read online

  MARTHA needed a break. She had finished the tea cozy and the toilet-roll holder and was now knitting a fancy pair of socks for Cliff in a slipstitch mosaic, fluorescent green on black. Martha liked knitting socks; they were very satisfying. Big enough for experiments but small enough to finish quickly. She’d never made two pairs alike.

  She’d been knitting for three days solid, and the socks were nearly done, with no mistakes. But if she didn’t have a rest now she’d soon be making them. The walls of her flat had started to feel like those of a hospital, and Martha knew the best cure for that was absence. She had some vague idea of going to the Botanic Garden, but mainly she wanted to get out of the flat and do something different for a change.

  She heaved herself and her bags onto the bus to the city and took herself for a walk down North Terrace. Outside the Art Gallery was a banner advertising an international exhibition of fashion lace. After a good look at the notices to make sure it was free, Martha tucked her small leather purse into her pocket where she could keep one hand on it and left her luggage at the coatroom. The man in uniform looked rather distastefully at the bags, which had to be heaved over the counter.

  The lace exhibition was toward the back of the gallery. No staff were in the vicinity, but Martha took note of the security cameras and felt comforted.

  Rounding the corner into the exhibition, she was startled by a tall black man in a white shirt standing directly in front of her, his legs wide, arms across his chest, each hand tucked into the opposite sleeve of his white shirt. He was so tall that she didn’t look into his face, and besides, her attention caught on his shirt, which he wore loosely over his bare chest and black trousers. The top part had a mottled density, like ice on a river, with a hint of deep, dark water rushing beneath. The lower half, covering his midriff and hips, had been topstitched into triangles, and the triangles themselves had been cut out, so the contrast of his black skin beneath the white was stark and unmitigated. The bottom of the garment was jaggedly uneven.

  Martha realized suddenly that this was a kind of lace, that here was a man wearing lace—and a big black man at that. She raised her eyes. Both he and the garment were beautiful.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, speaking to her politely in an American accent. He pointed behind her. “The guy over there is wanting to take my picture.” Martha turned around and saw a photographer behind her, with bags as big as her own. He was opening silvery white umbrellas and fussing around with cameras and tripods.

  “Do I have to leave?” she said. “I only just got here.”

  “We’re nearly done,” he said. “You can sit over there and watch if you like.” He indicated a solitary chair against the far wall.

  “Can I just—?” Martha extended one hand toward the white stuff on his body.

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  She fingered the white fabric, felt the texture of fills and spaces, saw the ripple of the black muscled river beneath. Behind her the photographer grunted.

  “Thank you,” she said, looking up again into the man’s generous face, and reached to smooth a wrinkle below his shoulder. But it wasn’t a wrinkle, it was a gathering of whiteness, like a vein in marble. Underneath the soft fabric his arm was as solid as rock.

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” he said.

  From her hard-backed chair Martha watched the final stages of the photo shoot. The photographer, she saw from his directions, was at pains to contrast the filmy fabric with the muscular man. And the man, she could see, was an artist himself and used to being photographed; he moved and smiled and simmered on cue, with such fine control that even the smallest movement created a subtle but noticeable change.

  Ten minutes later Martha entered the main display. She had never seen such garments. Plastic bags knitted into dresses, a sun-yellow raincoat punched in a pattern the notice called “binary”—something to do with computers—a cloak made from handmade paper, a felt hat with bits of knitting wool laid flat in the felt like squashed colored worms. There was a glass dress, too, made of thousands and thousands of beads. It was shimmering shiny and not very modest, but it was beautiful, hard and bright and beautiful. It was difficult to imagine a soft human body wearing an uncomfortable dress like that, but maybe it was just for looking and not wearing. Though that black man had been wearing one of these creations, the thick white lace spread over him like a second, holey skin, with teasing peepholes to the rocky forearms beneath. Black and white and beautiful, and good to touch, too. It must have been a natural fiber. His voice was kind. Maybe if you wore beautiful, comfy clothes it made you kind as well.

  But this glass dress, this was a dress for a woman with a cutting voice and a snapping handbag, someone who ordered people around so they wouldn’t see who she was. A dress for a woman who was always holding in a shriek but would let out only bits at a time, slivers of misery from behind those tight glass beads.

  At the bus stop Martha waited, staring at a sparrow hopping about, her mind busy elsewhere. After Sandra’s shawl she had started knitting the green and black socks for Cliff, something quick and simple, while she waited for clarity regarding her next large project. She could feel the idea coming now, nudging deep down between her belly and her heart, something beautiful and soft, something for love and joy and dancing. Martha’s hand swept downward in a slow flourish with no regard for anyone watching, something that would drape, have a touch of—she searched for the word—splendor, that was it. A touch of splendor. She had better hurry and finish those socks.

  Martha had been home only a couple of minutes when she heard a knock at the front door. There stood Cliff holding a bunch of jonquils. They were not wrapped.

  “For you,” he said. “To say thanks for looking after me.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Ford,” said Martha with the suggestion of a curtsy. “That’s very kind. Did they grow in your garden?”

  “More or less,” said Cliff.

  “But how did you know where I lived?” asked Martha.

  “I was out and about,” said Cliff. “Saw you when you got off the bus. I yelled out, but you didn’t hear, and it’s taken me this long to catch up.”

  “So how did you have time to pick jonquils?”

  “Just call me Mr. Magic.”

  Martha laughed.

  “Well, come in, Mr. Magic, and have a cup of tea.” She led the way through to her little kitchen. “But don’t go getting ideas. A cup of tea is all you’re going to get. And maybe a biscuit, if I can find some.”

  IT WAS raining, and the rush-hour traffic moved cautiously, but even so Sandra missed the turn to the church where she had agreed to meet Kate. She and Jack had been there once, to a candlelit Christmas service, invited by Kate and Tony before Jack’s illness, but in the confusion of bright headlights streaming on wet roads she overshot the turn. Sandra and Kate had arranged to have dinner after Kate’s interview with a prospective new cleaner for the church. Kate was always doing some kind of volunteer job.

  When Sandra arrived, it was past five-thirty. The lights were on above the side door into the office area, and warmth and light seemed a better option than sitting in a cold car. She picked her way across the flat-sheeted puddles and past the rose garden to the blue door. It was slightly ajar, and she pushed her way in.

  The church was old bluestone, but the office area, which Sandra now saw for the first time, surprised her with its array of high-tech equipment. Sandra had always associated churches with a certain fustiness that proclaimed their irrelevance. The reception area was carpeted and welcoming, the wall bright with a panel of children’s paintings. Farther down she could hear voices; the interview must still be in process. The paintings were full of arks and animals and varied interpretations of Noah, including one that showed him waving a beer bottle and looking decidedly tipsy.

  She felt a sudden draft of cold air as someone else came in from outside. Sandra turned to see a tallish man, ill dressed, middle-aged, needing a shave, but striding confidently into this a
lien space. He nodded to Sandra, crossed the room, tapped on the door at the other end, and disappeared behind it. The voices became more animated, and Sandra strained to hear, but she couldn’t make anything out. A few minutes later the man came back.

  “G’day,” he said and extended his hand, at the same time giving Sandra’s tailored jacket a quick once-over. “Nice to meet you. Have you come about the cleaning job?”

  “No, I’m a friend of Kate Linkett’s. I’m meeting her here.” Sandra looked the man up and down in return. His trousers were a little short and he was wearing odd socks, a detail that tweaked at her memory, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “Oh, Kate. She’s a good one, she is.”

  Sandra nodded, not sure what “good” meant in this context. The man was in no hurry to go.

  “What about you?” asked Sandra, also curious. “Are you here for an interview?”

  “No way!” The man laughed. “Wouldn’t suit me. I like to be outside. Just came to put in a good word for me girlfriend.”

  The voices were louder, and the door was opening. They turned toward it to see a woman backing out with three large bags. Sandra recognized the bags before she saw the woman’s face.

  “Hello, Martha.”

  Martha looked up in surprise.

  “Ms. Fildes?”

  “Oh, please, call me Sandra.”

  Martha looked mystified. “You don’t want to be a cleaner, do you?”

  “No.” Sandra laughed.

  “Oh.” Martha paused and then smiled. “But you come to this church.”

  Sandra shook her head. “No, not me. I’m a friend of Kate’s, who is helping with the interviews. We’re going out for dinner.” Kate had still not appeared.

  “I come to this church, though,” said the scruffy man. He turned to Martha. “How did you go?”

  “All right, I think. Wait and see.”

  “This is your boyfriend?” Sandra asked Martha.

  “Cliff? No way!” Martha laughed. The man reddened behind his stubble as Sandra stared at him.

  “Cliff?” asked Sandra. “Are you that Cliff?”

  Martha laughed again.

  “Yes, the same one! Cliff, do you know who this lady is?”

  Cliff shook his head.

  “The one with the phone. The one who called the ambulance the day you collapsed in the mall. It’s her—Sandra. You know, I told you, she called the ambulance, and then I went to see her and she gave me a toasted cheese sandwich for tea.”

  “Ah,” said Cliff. “That one. I see.” He paused, then shook Sandra’s hand again, and bowed over it. “Thank you, madam. Thank you very much. Very kind of you indeed.” He was still shaking her hand.

  “Are you all right now?” asked Sandra, pulling back.

  “Yes, yes. Nothing much. Just banged my head, I think. Knocked all the sense out of it.”

  “Excuse me, have to catch my bus,” said Martha.

  “I’ll help you,” said Cliff, reaching for the brown suitcase.

  “No, thanks, I’m used to it,” said Martha, quickly grabbing the handle. “It balances me. If I don’t carry them myself I feel awkward.”

  “Well, I’ll just see you to the bus stop,” said Cliff. He reminded Sandra of a Labrador puppy.

  Martha sighed. “OK. Come on, then.” Her hands were full, so she lifted an elbow to Sandra in a parody of a wave. “Nice to meet you again, Sandra. Might see you round.” They made their way out the door. Cliff ignored Sandra; his attention was focused on Martha.

  Kate suddenly appeared. “Have they gone already?”

  “Martha had to catch a bus.”

  “Oh, I meant to say goodbye. Never mind, I’ll talk to her later. Just hang on a moment while I get my bag.”

  “How old is this building?” asked Sandra when Kate came back.

  “Can’t tell you exactly, though it had its centenary before we arrived. Do you want to see the rest of it? The church is just through there.”

  Kate led her into an open space with a lofty ceiling and stained glass windows.

  “We had it modernized a few years ago. These are new seats. The old ones were designed to keep you bolt upright. It’s a great space now, very flexible. We have dinners here sometimes. And through here”—Kate led Sandra into a side lobby, switching on lights as they went, then opened another door—“is the old church hall.”

  “What a wonderful floor!” They were standing at the edge of an expanse of polished wooden floorboards. Sandra suddenly remembered herself as a child, tap-dancing across the church hall on Saturday mornings, delighting in the rhythmic echo of her two strong feet. She had sat in that same church hall for Sunday school, where her parents had sent her for a couple of years to broaden her education, while they stayed home and did the gardening. She remembered little of Sunday school, other than the story of King David “dancing before the Lord with all his might” before the returning ark of the covenant, and that his wife had despised him for it.

  “Well, yes,” said Kate. “The floor looks great, but the acoustics are terrible. The kids love to run on it. We’ll probably carpet it one day, but it’s used as a dance studio during the week. Well, that’s it. Let’s go. I’m hungry. Interviews are hard work.”

  In the car, Sandra told Kate about the connection with Cliff and Martha and the conversation they’d just had. “You church people sure attract some weirdoes.”

  “So do you,” retorted Kate. “You met them in the mall all by yourself.”

  “But Cliff? Aren’t you scared he’ll run off with the collection?”

  “He might.” Kate shrugged.

  “Did you give Martha the job?”

  “Yes, for a trial period. The others were worried about what Martha might carry off in those bags. I think she’ll be fine. Doesn’t strike me as the thieving sort.”

  “And if either of them does run off with the silver?”

  “It’s only money, Sandra. Besides, we’ve got insurance.”

  MARTHA decided she should attend at least one service at the church to have a good look at her clients. When Kate had shown her around, she had seen a mess of crumbs in one corner that didn’t make sense. She came in early, parked her bags on the floor at the wall end of the pew, and sat down beside them. Ah, that was it. Tea and coffee were served beforehand, with plain sugary biscuits. Well, any church that offered you a coffee on arrival was better than most.

  Sandra was also in church that morning. Kate’s husband, Tony, was away on a business trip. Sandra had spent the evening at Kate’s with art-house videos and good wine and then stayed the night. In the morning it seemed impo lite to refuse Kate’s invitation to attend church. They were a few minutes early. Sandra watched the congregation assemble, noted the excitement of the children, the elderly clustering under the wall-mounted heaters. And there was Martha again, a few pews forward and hard up against the wall.

  “I didn’t think Martha came to church,” said Sandra to Kate.

  “Never has before. I’ll just go and say hello.”

  Sandra envied Kate’s ease with people. She watched her sit down next to Martha and exchange a few words. Martha looked around at Sandra and nodded, then shook her head at Kate. They talked some more, and Kate came back to sit by Sandra.

  “What did you say to her?”

  “I invited her to sit back here with us, but she said her bags would take up too much room. She’s a funny bird. But she’s coming back for lunch. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Inwardly Sandra groaned. She opened the church bulletin and concentrated on the prayer list. Did people mind, she wondered, having their names listed to be prayed for? Evidently not. What would Jack have made of it? Pray for Jack Fildes, starting chemotherapy this week. And for his wife, Sandra, in her Great Dark. No, there was nothing as personal as that. But what if Kate had offered to pray? It might feel nice to be wrapped in someone’s prayer. Not in their presence of course, no, God forbid, but to be prayed for in absentia, she could cope with that. On
ly Kate had never asked. Perhaps she prayed without permission.

  Martha, unabashedly looking about the church, noticed that Sandra did not have a husband with her, even though she had said she was married and wore a ring. Sandra was short, but her friend Kate was tall, thin around the shoulders, with a round face that seemed at odds with her angular body. She was wearing an interestingly patterned jacket that Martha felt sure was rayon, but she would have to touch it to be certain. Martha was curious about Sandra and had eagerly accepted the invitation to lunch.

  After church they sat together in Kate’s kitchen while Kate finished preparing the salad. She told Martha she had a husband, Tony, who was away because of work, and a twelve-year-old son, Jeremy, who was at a friend’s place.

  Martha’s bags were by the wall where she could keep an eye on them. She watched Sandra set the table. Sandra obviously knew her way around this kitchen, was familiar with the cupboards. She’d said she was married, but she never mentioned her husband. Perhaps, like Kate’s, he was away with work. Perhaps the two men had gone together.

  “Was that Tony who rang this morning?” Sandra asked Kate. The ringing phone had woken her.

  “Yes. He’s homesick. It’s a long stretch this time. Seven weeks. I really miss him.” She looked at Sandra suddenly, furtively, as though embarrassed, but Sandra had her head down over the soup spoons. Kate turned to Martha. “My husband travels a lot in his job. He’s in Vancouver at the moment. Anyway, what about you, Martha? Do you have a partner?”

  “No.”

  Martha was still watching Sandra. Something fishy was going on here.

  “What about before now?” asked Kate brightly.

  “Well, yes,” said Martha. “I was married once. When I was seventeen I married the boy down the road.”