Thank heavens for public holidays, time to relax, catch up on a
good book and meet up with my writing buddy. Creative writing can
sometimes be a lonely pursuit especially when ideas dry up, words won't weave
into beautiful prose and the writing muse leaves town for a few weeks! I
could be bitter but I'm not because this is where writing buddies come into
their own.
A writing buddy is someone who shares the joys and tribulations of
the lone writer. I'm very fortunate because I have one such writing buddy.
We belong to a very select writers' club ... so select there's just the
two of us! Like me she enjoys the twists and turns of the writing process, the
highs and the lows, the moments of inspiration and thoughts that create a good
story. We also share the moments of self-doubt, the painful steps out of
the comfort zone and the scariness of releasing our writing to the world at
large. However, in an effort to learn and grow as authors these are the strides
we need to take.
I do understand that all of this is necessary in the world of
writing and publication. I mean if the great authors of today (and those
of yesterday too!) hadn't released their writings to the world then
wouldn't the world be very dull place indeed? Imagine a world without manuscripts,
poetry, songs and plays. What would we know of faraway lands, adventure, people
of fame and ill repute?
It's been some time since I've added something to my writing
blog... what with the writing muse out of town and the word weaver busy elsewhere.
Today’s meeting with my writing buddy re-ignited my scribbling spark, provided
much inspiration and encouragement to share a story from my book. Enjoy and do
feel free to give me some feedback particularly those of you who write and blog
regularly.
Thank heavens for public holidays and writing
buddies throughout the land.
An Unfinished
Quilt
Mary Fraser
“What’s
this granny Mo?” asked Niamh. “Is it a
bag of scraps? There are needles, threads and bits of material. Some very
pretty colours and fabrics. I do love the ribbons and pieces of lace. Are you throwing these out?”
It
was Tuesday and Mo’s student granddaughter offered to help her with clearing
out the spare room.
“Oh
no. Not that…not the quilt! The quilt stays… I’ll get round to finishing
that one of these days.
“Come
on, gran, it’s nowhere near finished.
How long have you been working on it?”
“Oh,
it’s one of my work-in-progress projects that I like to do in the autumn
evenings. It’s my story quilt,” said
Maureen.
“Never
heard of a story quilt …how does that work then?”
Maureen
explained, “Well each piece of fabric in that ‘bag of scraps’ as you call it tells a story, like a history
book. The quilt is a record of events.
It’s about events in my time, your mother’s time and who knows maybe even
events in your time!”
“What
events in my time?” asked a somewhat bemused granddaughter.
“It
tells of family, friendship, good times and sad times too. It’s sort of … special. It’s something I want to complete and perhaps
pass on to you one day.”
Maureen
Graham busied herself with the rest of the tidying.
“But
it’s not finished. It doesn’t look very
much like a quilt to me. In fact, it looks like it’s been abandoned,” said
Niamh. She knew she was stating the obvious but the mound of material intrigued
her.
“Well
yes, I suppose you could say it has been abandoned. I’m not sure if I abandoned the quilt or it
simply abandoned me” said Maureen.
Recently
there had been so much going on in her life that she really didn’t have time to
sit down and work on the quilt. She had been busy with organising rehearsals
for the church choir, baking for another fundraiser in the village and
generally keeping her home tidy. Often
by the end of the day, she was too tired to work on the quilt.
“It’s
autumn now. Are you going to finish it?”
“Maybe
one day …yes one day I will … but not now … not today. Besides, we’ve got this room to tidy up and I
know how busy you are at university so I’m grateful for your help today”.
“It’s
very pretty”, Niamh continued and she carefully lifted out the unfinished quilt
with the loose patchwork pieces and the various connected threads.
Maureen
stopped tidying and watched her granddaughter unfurl the patchwork quilt and
spread it over her bed.
“When
exactly did you start making it, gran?”
“Oh
some time ago … long before you were born.”
In
truth, she had started the quilt when Niamh’s mother was a little girl.
Niamh
could see that her grandmother needed a rest.
“What do you say, we have a break?
I’ll make us a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about this story
quilt of yours?”
“Okay,
I could do with the sit down,” said Maureen, “We’ve been going non-stop since
this morning”.
Niamh
put the kettle on. She gently folded the
quilt and lovingly arranged it on the dining room table. They sat either side
of the table and looked at the unfinished project, the carefully positioned
swatches, the coordinated colours and the patches yet to be sewn in. Niamh ran
her long fingers over the colourful patterned pieces.
“I
love these blue squares with the little white flowers. They’re very pretty”.
“Oh
yes, believe it of not but that material was your mother’s first school dress. I bought it when she started Mullaghbhan
Infants School. No school uniforms back then. I remember how pleased she was to be starting
school with her friend Isabel”.
“Not
Isabel Foley?” exclaimed Niamh
“Yes,
Isabel Foley. Our families were
neighbours here for years,” replied Maureen.
“You
do know that they’re good friends even today.
Can’t get them off the phone when they start chatting. Dad says Mum and Isabel should have shares in
the telephony company” laughed Niamh.
“Well
Issy and your Mum go back a long way.
They stayed in touch when Isabel moved to London.”
“What
about this piece of material? It feels all
warm and soft. Like something quite
comforting?” suggested Niamh. She ran her fingers up and down the red plaid
material.
“Ahh,
I remember that well. It was part of an old
shirt. It was one of your uncle Desmond’s
favourites. He was very attached to that
shirt as a young man. He wore it until
it was almost threadbare. I had a job
trying to get rid of it. He loved the
bright red plaid in the material.
Reckoned it helped him to stand out in a crowd … and get him noticed by
the girls!”
“But
it’s so … un-cool!”
“Well
back then he thought he was very cool” said Maureen.
Niamh
went off to make the tea.
Maureen
continued looking at the quilt and found herself re-living times and family occasions.
Memories were resurfacing. For her, each square of material recalled a memory. There
was the anniversary piece, which she had saved from one of Dan’s old shirts, a
light blue material with fine pin strips running through it. He had worn that shirt at the surprise golden
wedding anniversary party organised by the children. She remembered the event and the secrecy
surrounding the event too. She had
sensed something was going on. She
smiled when she remembered the clipped conversations between the children when
Dan and she were around. The conversation changed if one of them came into the
living room unexpectedly.
Of
all their children, Gina was the one who couldn’t keep secrets, even as a
child. She took great delight in news
and gossip. It used to drive the other
children mad. Maureen had often been
called to the school when Gina was a child as
she had been prone to ‘creative conversations’ in the school playground.
But Dan and she had been proud that Gina had managed to put her fertile
imagination to good use as an adult.
Gina loved her job as an interior designer with one of Dublin’s most
prestigious design companies.
However,
all their planning had been worthwhile because Dan and she had had the most
wonderful day with family and friends celebrating fifty years of marriage. It was fortunate that all the children and
their respective families had been able to come to Mullaghbhan. It was the
first occasion to have all their grandchildren together. Their son Desmond, wife
and family came all the way from Australia.
What a party it had been. They celebrated all weekend. It had been such a happy occasion
Niamh
moved to the table with mugs of tea and biscuits. She handed her grandmother a mug of tea.
“And
what’s the story with these navy blue and white polka dot squares?” asked
Niamh. She pointed to three polka dot
squares. They had faded a little but
even today looked pretty.
“Would
you believe those were from a maternity dress I wore a very long time ago when
I was expecting my first child?”
“ Mum?”
asked Niamh.
“No,
your mum was my second child”, said Maureen, “my first baby died after three
days. We named her Rose. She was very
small and beautiful but not very strong.”
“But
… I thought Mum was the first born in the family”.
Maureen
Graham shook her head. She said
nothing. She got up and walked slowly
across to the window. She didn’t utter a
word, despite the feelings arising within her, feelings of sadness, loss and
grief. She felt as if there was some
sort of turmoil going on in her head. She looked out of the window. She recalled the excitement surrounding the
arrival of that first baby. Dan and she
had waited for so long for a baby.
Although Maureen felt more than a little anxious as a new mother, she
was reassured that help and support from her own mother would be
invaluable. And it was, but not in the
way she had anticipated.
“Mum
never mentioned …”
“No,
perhaps because she didn’t know. We
never told her.” Maureen finished
Niamh’s line of enquiry.
“Oh
granny Mo, I’m so sorry… I didn’t realise.
It must have been terrible. It
must have been heartbreaking for you and granddad.”
Maureen
Graham acknowledged her granddaughter’s words with a nod. She was quite surprised how easily she shared
this information, especially now and with her granddaughter. These had been
events that weren’t openly talked about at that time. Perhaps it was too painful or the timing
wasn’t right. Somehow, now, she had
wanted to share something about this child’s short life. She felt the need to
acknowledge baby Rose’s life. There was something quite comfortable and relaxed
in Niamh’s company that allowed her to speak about the dead child.
She
turned back from the window, clapped her hands together. “Come on Niamh, we’ll need to get a move on
otherwise we’ll never get this job finished.”
Maureen’s
granddaughter knew and understood that they both needed to change the
subject. She sensed that the story of
baby Rose was a painful one to tell.
Thoughtfully
and carefully Niamh began to fold up the unfinished quilt. She folded it over very carefully, tucking in
the corners and the fraying threads. She gently smoothed her hand over the
quilt of bright coloured materials. She
hoped there would be another time for her to listen to the untold tales of the
story quilt. Possibly every square had a
story of its own?
Later
that evening as Niamh wandered along Mullaghbhan strand, she reflected on the
conversation with her grandmother. The
story quilt held a secret. Perhaps there
were others? She certainly hadn’t been
expecting that story today. She wondered
why her grandmother hadn’t mentioned it before now. Was her mother aware she had a baby sister?
Would it be disloyal to her grandmother to tell? She felt that her grandmother
had told her in confidence. She was
flattered and honoured to have been taken into her grandmother’s confidence but
there was a dilemma. Should she tell her
mother? But wasn’t that her
grandmother’s job?
