Knitting Page 9

  “Sandy! Look at me!” She was gulping fiercely. “Calm down. We can get out. It’s not that far. Don’t grab me, or we’ll both go under. Turn over on your back. Float.”

  She wouldn’t turn over. She was scared to lose sight of him.

  “When you’re on your back, I’ll grab your hair. You paddle your hands and kick. Go on! Trust me!”

  She still hesitated.

  “Do it!”

  She hadn’t heard that tone for many years. It frightened her into action. She felt his hand wrap firmly in her hair, the strong kick of his leg at her side. She resisted the overwhelming urge to grab at him and began to kick.

  He lifted her head out of the water so she could hear him. “Good. Keep it up. Straighten your legs, you’ll kick better.”

  It was slow work getting back.

  All of a sudden he let go of her. She flipped toward him in panic, then felt her foot touch bottom. The water was still up to her neck.

  “Come on, we can walk now. Here.” He reached back for her hand.

  She couldn’t speak.

  “Ah, little mermaid, I see you’ve got legs after all.”

  “My tail doesn’t work.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  Back by their clothes the elderly couple smiled at them.

  “Got to watch that rip, love,” the woman said. “Lucky you’ve got him. You’re not the first, either. They could do with some lifeguards round here.” She went on creaming her pendulous breasts.

  That night, showered and fed, as they read comfortably in bed, Jack turned to look at her.

  “Are you OK?”

  Tears welled up.

  “I was terrified.”

  “You were great. Lots of people can’t fight the panic. Even though they know how to swim, they drown anyway.”

  “I would have if you weren’t there.”

  She wanted to thank him, but part of her held back, feeling raw and exposed.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  He had turned fully toward her.

  “Yes, there is. What is it?”

  It took a few seconds to steady her voice. “I nearly drowned.”

  “Not even close. You were still thinking, still working to save yourself.”

  But she had almost drowned, she knew. When she kissed him later, she could taste her own desperation.

  SANDRA had finally broached the subject of the exhibition. She would need Martha to knit twenty or so garments from old patterns, from before 1950. She wanted variety—she had already ferreted out patterns for garments with strange names: a fishing guernsey, lady’s sleeping suit, sailor’s steering glove, and child’s bootiken. Martha was fascinated by the patterns but did not take to the opportunity of showcasing her work.

  “I’m just a home knitter, that’s all.”

  “No you’re not, Martha. You’re brilliant. You must know that. And this will be simple stuff for you. You’re capable of work way beyond this. You’re a real artist, the way you challenge ideas, experiment with fiber and color. Look at those wall hangings or that horse sculpture—that’s not home knitting, that’s art.”

  “It is home knitting,” said Martha stubbornly. “I do it at home. I do it for fun, or for people I care about. I’m just mucking around, that’s all, having fun. You make it sound important, like a kind of work. Well, it is work, but it’s happy work, work that I like, that I do when I’m in the mood. But if I have to do it, I might not like it anymore. I won’t be able to choose it. I don’t like deadlines. I crack up when I get too busy, with too much stuff in my head. My work needs to be playing.”

  Sandra thought she understood; she knew how it felt when boundaries between work and play dissolved, when payment was less important than satisfaction. How to win Martha over?

  “Most people get up in the morning and choose to go to work. So do you, if you think about it. And you’d be able to earn some money. I hope to get a grant.”

  “I don’t need money. I get on fine.”

  “Well, the grant wouldn’t be much. We need to hire the space, print the catalogues, pay for the mounting. But you could sell your garments for good prices, a few hundred dollars each. And no commission, either—I think we could arrange that. Some of the clothes will be old—that’s if we can find them—clothes from every decade in the last century. But there’s some particular items I want, like knitted bloomers, and those old bathing suits men used to wear, so there’ll be gaps to fill. I want to concentrate on knitted garments, and woolen ones at that, because it’s the fact that it’s knitting that defines the parameters. I’m still not sure what’s readily available. The trouble with wool is that during the Depression and the war, every spare bit was recycled for warmth. And of course moths get into it. But sometimes families keep things stuffed away in mothballs for years and years, so we’ll just have to see what we get . . . And it’s part of our heritage—Australia and sheep and all that. Would you do some hand-spinning?”

  “What, instead?”

  “No, as well as.”

  “You don’t need me for that. Go to the Spinners and Weavers Guild. There are plenty of knitters and spinners in Adelaide. I’ll give you the addresses.”

  “But I want you. We can work together.”

  “Not spinning. I can do it, but I don’t want to. There’s something about that wheel going round and round in circles that drives me crazy.”

  “Oh, all right, I guess I can find a spinner. But you’re the knitter. This is the chance of a lifetime, Martha! This could turn into full-time work for you! An exhibition like this is advertised in magazines and newspapers; the arts people will come flocking. They’ll all be wanting your clothes, you’ll see. You might even get an order from the prime minister or some famous actor.”

  “I’ve knitted sweaters for actors before. And the prime minister can jump in the lake. I don’t approve of him.”

  Sandra tried a different tack.

  “Martha, this is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Look, I want to put on a show that combines words and textiles. It was you who inspired me. Women have been doing this for centuries, making things. And in the act of making things, just by living their daily lives, they also make history. That’s the story I want to tell, the story of the making. That’s my making, if you like. I’ve had this idea for a long time, but women have made so many things that I didn’t know how to narrow the field.

  “Then you came along with your knitting. It was you, don’t you see? Knitting is clothing made in spare moments, or round the fire, whenever women gathered together. People like you are keeping this skill alive. It’s something to celebrate—clothes made in love and service, something women have always done.”

  “Men used to knit, before women.”

  Martha just didn’t get it. Sandra kept on talking, pouring words into the space between them, which yawned even wider as she spoke.

  “It’s hard to explain. But the word stuff is my side and I’d like you to do the knitting. Two people, making things, me collecting words and putting pieces of text together, and you collecting wool and knitting garments.”

  “You’re making a big fuss about nothing, Sandra. Knitting’s just for keeping warm. And for a bit of fun. The horse is only fun. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  Sandra wanted to shake Martha till her teeth rattled, but she threw herself back in the chair instead, in a comic display of despair. Martha looked at her. Sandra reminded her of a floppy rag doll that was starting to fall apart. In fact, Sandra would fall apart if Martha didn’t help her. Martha could see Sandra needed help, but it might be costly . . . Sandra had no idea what it might cost Martha.

  “It’s really important to you, isn’t it, all this business?”

  “Yes.”

  When it came to the crunch, Martha believed that others’ interests should be put ahead of one’s own.

  “OK. I’ll do it. But not for all that arty-farty stuff. I’ll do i
t because you’re my friend. Only—”

  “Only what?”

  Martha shrugged, and then smiled. “Never mind. You’re my friend.”

  THE weeks before the first anniversary of Jack’s death plodded by. On the day itself, October 29, Sandra worked flat out so she didn’t have to think. The following week, in the first flush of having survived a whole year alone, Sandra found herself oddly cheerful, buoyant with anticipation. It was a long time since she had felt like this.

  Kate and Tony and Martha and Sandra were going to Port MacDonnell for the first week in December. In the old days it had been Jack and Sandra, Tony and Kate. When Kate first introduced Sandra to Tony, all those years ago, Sandra was alarmed on Kate’s behalf. She couldn’t imagine anyone being happy with this loud, brash, opinionated businessman. But over the years she had discovered a different side to Tony—his loyalty, an unexpected generosity, a deep kindness behind the noisy exterior. After Jack died he had helped her, night after night, sorting through paperwork, until she understood it properly.

  Originally the week away was to celebrate Tony’s selling one business and buying another. It was the ideal time for a break, and Jeremy would be on holiday in Perth with relatives. Kate and Tony’s plan coincided with Sandra’s own time off. While she had not been specifically invited to go with them, it never occurred to Sandra that she might not be welcome. She and Jack had shared many such occasions with Kate and Tony, and she invited Martha without checking with them.

  It would be a good week. Tony would hibernate like a big brown bear in his crime novels and leave the three women free to plan the exhibition. It was play rather than work, a holiday, Sandra told Martha, though the idea of a holiday seemed foreign to Martha’s thinking.

  During November, Sandra and Martha spent three weekends scouring thrift shops for old knitting patterns, with more success than Sandra had anticipated. In the shop that looked the least promising she found a small blue leather case, one lock sprung open and refusing to close, full of knitting books and patterns. An auctioneer’s job lot, an estate sale probably, maybe a dollar at the end of a long day. The woman behind the counter must have seen Sandra’s look of joy. She charged her twenty dollars. Martha watched, bemused, and said later that she should have bargained, but Sandra was pleased with her purchase and considered it cheap.

  A few days before leaving, Sandra looked through her personal collection of retro woolen garments. Why she had developed this particular passion she was not sure—it had something to do with the texture, the cozy warmth, the tradition of women providing for their families, the smell of mothballs. Her mother knitting was one of Sandra’s enduring memories, and Sandra still had a couple of items her mother had made in the 1940s. The other garments were all postwar. She hoped that by going through the patterns with Kate and Martha, they could choose some items for Martha to make and fill in the gaps.

  In spite of their differences Sandra had grown fond of Martha. She was funny, and Sandra found her company strangely refreshing. You were never sure what she would say or do next; she was an enigma, creative and capable but a bit strange. Socially awkward was perhaps a better term, though not quite that either. She got on with people well enough. She was just different.

  Sandra was sure of Martha’s need for a holiday, even if Martha wasn’t. Preparing for the exhibition would require a long, concentrated effort. Besides, Martha would benefit from some company: her social life seemed rather limited, though Kate told Sandra that Martha had become a regular at church, or at least at coffee afterward. Unlike the previous cleaner, she didn’t get upset about mess.

  “Don’t worry about the floor,” Kate had overheard Martha saying to Cliff. “If you don’t drop crumbs I won’t have a job.”

  But for some reason she seemed almost resistant to the idea of the holiday.

  “Are you sure I’m invited?” Martha asked Sandra.

  “Yes. I’m inviting you right now.”

  “It’s a bit close to Christmas. I’ve got things to do.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time, Martha. It’s only one week. And you can bring your knitting.”

  “What if I don’t come?” asked Martha. “Would you ask some other odd-bod, like Cliff?”

  Cliff! Why was she so solicitous about Cliff? Sandra tried to be patient.

  “I’d be disappointed. Besides, it’s too late to ask Cliff. And it’s really Kate and Tony’s weekend.”

  Martha raised her eyebrows.

  “Are some people better value than others?”

  “I don’t want Cliff,” said Sandra firmly. “I asked you. I want you to come. If you don’t come, I won’t go.”

  “Couldn’t Cliff come too? Poor old bugger could do with a change.”

  The hot flush was climbing into Sandra’s scalp.

  “There’s no room,” she said. “We only want to take one car. And it would be presuming on the others. We’ll ask Cliff another time.” Martha was looking at her steadily.

  “Well,” said Sandra. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Why me, though?” said Martha.

  Sandra laughed, trying to make it light,

  “Your expertise. And your company. And so we can do some planning for the exhibition.” Her answer was quick and airy, but she felt cross. Kate and Tony could have their religion—loving your neighbor was too bloody difficult.

  But she knew her persistence wasn’t really about Martha. It was more about filling the gaping hole of Jack’s absence.

  December

  THEY ARRIVED at the beach house right on sunset.

  “Guess I’ll be the hunter, then,” said Tony, and went off to find the key, hidden in a screw-top jar under a geranium. He came back waving it triumphantly. They trooped in like schoolchildren inspecting a new classroom.

  The house was more modern than they had expected.

  “Wow,” said Martha.

  “Dishwasher,” said Kate.

  “No, I mean the chairs,” said Martha, pointing to the white, billowy living room furniture. “Look at that. Like clouds.” She sat in one sideways and dangled her feet over the armrest. There was no TV. They would have to entertain themselves.

  They brought in food and made beds. Martha, suddenly talkative, announced that she’d sleep in the same room as Sandra so they could have “nice little chats,” but Sandra said she snored and didn’t want to keep anyone awake, and besides, there was plenty of room.

  “I don’t mind,” said Martha.

  “Well, I do. I’d stay awake all night trying not to snore.”

  “What’s this box?” asked Tony, lugging in a large lidded plastic box. “This is over your luggage limit, Sandra! And Martha, all those bags! Anyone would think we’re here for a year.”

  “Knitting patterns, nineteen hundred to two thousand,” said Sandra in an announcer’s voice.

  “I need those bags,” said Martha.

  “This is a holiday,” protested Tony.

  “What have you got in these things, Martha?” He grunted as he pulled her luggage from the car.

  “Knitting. Stuff I might need. And this little bag”—she indicated a small pillowcase—“is the knitting I was doing in the car.” Sandra, sitting next to Martha in the back seat, had seen it and asked what it was. “Part of a dress,” Martha had said. The yarn was fine and white, like baby wool. Sandra hadn’t been able to make sense of the shape.

  “Who’s it for?” she had asked.

  Martha acted as though she hadn’t heard. After a long silence during which she sat prim and tight, she relented enough to smooth it out and show Sandra the pattern. It looked like a dense pattern of whorls.

  “The pattern’s called roseheart.”

  Sandra saw it then. A pattern of rosebuds, each cen tered in a lace diamond. “Beautiful,” she said. “But what shape is it? I can’t see how this is part of anything.”

  “It’s part of the top,” said Martha, and snapped shut again for the next sixty miles.

  SATURDAY morni
ng they ate a long, leisurely breakfast, then draped themselves about the house to read. They had a whole week ahead of them, there was no urgency. Even the flat sea, visible through the broad front windows, lazed quietly in the warm sun.

  From the corner sofa, behind yesterday’s newspaper, Sandra watched Martha open a large pink bag that Sandra had not seen before. Martha reached down inside it and drew out a children’s picture book. The print was so large that Sandra could see from the other side of the room that it was on the life of Monet. Martha flicked quickly through until she came to one particular page. She stared at it for some time.

  In the morning light Sandra saw that Martha’s strawberry blond hair was beginning to gray and that beneath the table one of her small feet was turned inward and resting on top of the other. Martha had good legs for all she was thickish on top—Sandra could see her ankles above the heavy leather sandals and below the hopelessly old-fashioned skirt. She watched Martha’s hands, short and plump and stumpy-fingered, resting easily at the edges of the book. Martha had tilted the back up slightly to avoid the reflection of light.

  Sandra was studying her so intently that when Martha moved she almost jumped. Martha leaned to the bag on the floor and took out a few balls of wool—lavenders, greens, and pinks, and one bark brown, and arrayed them in line on the table in front of her, referring to the open Monet book. She shifted one ball of wool and then another, like tiles on a Scrabble rack, then leaned back with her hands behind her head and stared at them. A few minutes later she took a strand from each of two adjacent greens, dropped them on the floor, and wound a new ball of double thread. A gradation, Sandra realized, a transition piece, a kind of editing, linking two paragraphs that didn’t quite fit. Their crafts were not so different after all.

  All day Sandra observed Martha, who was more animated, more engaged, than at any time in the long drive. What was it about Martha she found so fascinating? Her otherness, maybe, and of course her skill and deftness with wool. But what else? Oh, yes, her careless propensity for joy. Martha enjoyed everything: the magpie digging for worms on the front lawn, the tiny delicate bush flowers, the childhood taste of the long green stems of sourgrass, the smell of Kate’s glycerin soap. She did not appear to own much, or earn much. She must have had her own griefs and disappointments. How did she travel so lightly and laugh so easily?