Week Five Writing

Exercise: think of a character who has a particular skill in using or making something. It could be cellist, a potter, a lumberjack, a car mechanic etc -- so many of our lives are/ used to be connected with physical things. Take this person and their skill into a situation in which they have to use the skill and communicate something about it to another person who matters to them. Why they have to do this is up to you, but they have to demonstrate their skill with a sense of expertise that changes/ redeems the situation.

My grandmother has always liked to knit. Had made a business out of it actually, in her younger days. She always remembered those days with fondness, often gathering her grandchildren around her on an evening to regale them with yet another tale of her adventures in the world of fashion.

Mum knits too, when she has the time of course, but knitting has always been a uniquely Grannie thing. Each in our turn, she had attempted to teach my two elder sisters and I the family craft, when she deemed we had reached an age where we could concentrate enough to learn.

My eldest sister didn’t enjoy it so very well, I think. Perhaps she didn’t have the patience, or maybe she simply didn’t take as much pleasure from it as Grannie hoped she would. Or maybe she just never had the time. Now with two children and a time-consuming career, I can assume she will not have the time to spare. I can’t say for sure; we were never that close after all.

My second sister definitely enjoys it. I think that, like me, she realises how important it is to Grannie, and how it is the best way to connect with her these days. It also provides her with a well-needed distraction and stress-reliever. But it’s easier said than done to factor in the time; it seems as if she hardly has space to breathe between her job, doing up the house, and planning the wedding. That’s why it means all the more to me when she makes time to FaceTime me at university.

When it came around to my turn to learn, Grannie was retired and therefore had a lot more time to spend with me. I remember when I was younger putting on large performances for her in our front garden – I always had a vivid imagination you see. I would sing and dance and act out scenes from my favourite movies.

Some days, I think that’s how Grannie remembers me. As the enthusiastic six-year-old, prancing around the garden, talking to her imaginary friends with the complete determination that there were in fact people there.

Then there were the days I would run eagerly through to her house to show her my latest artistic work. To her credit, she always told me they were beautiful, when truly they never were.

On rainy days, we would sit side-by-side on the squishy sofa in her sitting room, and she would attempt to show me different stitching styles. I had an uncanny ability to add stitches to my rows, which baffled Grannie. To this day, I don’t know how I did it.

I don’t remember what the first item of clothing I completed was. It was probably something basic like a scarf for my favourite doll. I made a lot of them in the early days, before I learned to follow patterns of other garments or create different stitches.

It’s strange the way things turn out, isn’t it? Back when I was a child, it was I who got confused and had to have Granny correct my mistakes. I watched her create the most beautiful and complex pieces of clothing, certain that I would never be able to do that.

And now it’s the other way around. Grannie gets confused quite easily these days. So much so that Lizzie says its best for her to keep to a regimented routine.

We encourage her to carry on knitting, though she only makes patchwork rugs nowadays. They say it keeps her mind active, even though it’s a simple activity. Sometimes she gets the wool into awful knots, and I have to try and unravel them for her. I know it frustrates her that she can’t keep to patterns like she used to.

But I don’t mind. Because, you see, I still get to spend that time with her. Yes our roles have reversed, but it’s still the two of us, sitting side-by-side on the sofa, watching the rain drip down the doorframe. In her letters, she will enthusiastically tell me about the colour scheme of her latest rug, and I smile, thinking of that self-same enthusiasm I once had for telling her my adventures.

I’ve started knitting my own patchwork rug this year. I’m calling it an odds and ends rug. I’ve been going through Grannie’s wool collection and knitting up the odd balls that she’s got left over from everything she’s knitted in the past years.

I love showing her the squares I’m knitting; in a way, it jogs her memory to see the wool. She will say “oh yes, I remember that one. That was the wool I used for the rug I knit for your cousin when she’d just got out of hospital with the twins. A beautiful one, that was, all pinks and purples for her favourite colours.”

For a little while at least, the simplest thing, such as a ball of wool can bring back a lost moment in her mind, and that’s the true gift. A snapshot of the Grannie I remember from my childhood, before we slip back into the current day and its unforgiving reality.

We still have knitting. I hope we always will. I intend to hold on to it for as long as I can.

Main story extract

“I have something for you.” Bradley said one day, as we walked along the pier, arm in arm.

“Oh?” I asked, watching him as he rummaged in his deep coat pockets.

When finally he retrieved the little black box, and pulled it open with a snap, I looked in at the small object with interest. Lying upon a navy velvet cushion was a shining silver locket.

He watched me expectantly, as if waiting for me to say something.

I opened the delicate latch to find nothing inside barring a tiny engraved phrase. “A toi pour toujours.” I read, my French accent no doubt lamentable. “What does it mean?”

“Yours forever.” He smiled.

I looked down at the tiny locket in the palm of my hand once more, tracing the message with my fingertip. Rendered utterly speechless by what seemed to me such a peculiar gift, I was torn between a reaction of disdain or outrage.

“Come then, let me see it on you.” He took the pendant from me as he moved to stand behind me, slipping the cold metal softly around my neck. He was so gentle with the small piece, holding it with the delicate touch of a lover as he brushed my hair to one side.

Returning to face me, he beamed. “I just knew it would suit you.”

Faced with his delight, I somehow didn’t have the heart to upbraid him on his actions. “It’s lovely.” I remarked instead, my teeth gritted into a joyless smile.

He reached out slowly and pressed his hand against the spot on my chest where the locket rested. I could feel the heat of his hand through my clothing, harshly contrasting with the determined cold of the locket as it bore into my skin. “Wear it against your skin, close to your heart.” He whispered softly, before drawing me into his arms. “Where I wish I could always be.”

When I returned to the flat sometime later, I unclasped the necklace and threw it upon the table with disdain. Did he imagine that I would cherish such a gift from him? Something which declared he was mine when in truth he would never be true? Something which was empty, as we had never had a photograph taken together lest his wife would find it? It was a mockery, a cruel mockery.

I wanted action from him. Not simple words or meaningless gifts. I wanted him to leave Adelaide and declare himself mine. The locked was a placation; something meant to distract me whilst he put off doing what he should do.

Not that I would ever ask him to leave his wife for me. It would have to be his own decision. But this present just confirmed my suspicions; that I would be waiting a long while before our relationship was anything more than a cloak-and-dagger affair. If it ever became more than that…