The Forgotten Seamstress (29 page)

This very morning, Julie – who works at the newspaper in advertising sales – had been innocently gossiping about this to a friend when she was overheard by the news editor. He immediately quizzed her and, not understanding the implications, Julie recounted the tale. The editor sent a junior reporter to visit Pearl, getting verbatim quotes and making calls to the health trust and the palace.

‘I was on the afternoon shift,’ Ben said, ‘and by the time I got into the office at midday the story had already been set on page five. I really did try to stop it. In fact I made a bloody nuisance of myself with the subs until someone called the news editor and he went ballistic, warning me to lay off. So it went to press – there was nothing I could do about it. I knew you’d hit the roof once you found out, so that’s when I texted you. The news editor was giving me an ear bashing for interfering with his editorial decision when you arrived at the office.’

There was a long silence as he negotiated a complex junction.

‘Caroline?’ He glanced at me sideways, his face lit by the moving orange stripes of passing streetlights.

‘I’m still listening.’ My head was fuzzy from the wine but, even so, I couldn’t imagine how he could have concocted such a complicated story, just to cover his tracks. ‘Did you know that the local radio station ran the story, too? Even interviewed Pearl?’

‘Oh Christ, poor old lady. But it doesn’t surprise me, that’s the way news goes, I’m afraid. Once it’s out, nothing can stop it. I’ll have to go and see her, apologise that she’s been bothered like that. Tell her to refuse any other approaches.’

Neither of us spoke for several moments, until he said, ‘Look, I’ve said all I can to explain, haven’t left anything out. It’s a bloody mess, and I’m so sorry, but that’s what happened. Do you believe me?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted. Relinquishing anger never comes easily to me, and acknowledging that I had made such an embarrassment of myself at the newspaper offices, plus having been extremely insulting to him in front of the receptionist, was even harder.

‘We have a choice,’ he said, with a new resolve in his voice. ‘Either you believe what I’ve told you and accept my sincerest apologies, so we can move on. Or you don’t, in which case I will drop you at the night shelter and be on my way. Our paths need never cross again, if that’s the way you want it.’

‘That’s not what I meant. I
want
to believe you, of course I do. But it was such a coincidence, that story coming out two days after we met the Kowalskis and it was properly confirmed that it wasn’t all in Maria’s imagination.’

‘I know,’ he said, more patiently now. ‘But what else can I do to convince you?’

I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to clear my head of the day’s emotions and dramas, to put things into perspective. Ben was here, he had apologised, he had given a reasonable explanation and all I had to do was to get over it, and accept that it wasn’t his fault. I still felt hurt and confused but he deserved a second chance, not least for driving all the way to London to tell me about Dennis returning to the night shelter.

‘You can help me get that quilt back,’ I said. ‘And then we can talk properly. See where we go from there.’

‘It’s a deal,’ he said.

I shaped up pretty quickly when we arrived at the night shelter and found ourselves having to press through a ragged gaggle of men and women huddling against the bitter cold in the doorway. A neat, balding man who’d have looked more at home in a library answered the bell and ushered us in, quickly, to prevent the others from following us in through the door.

‘Hello, I’m Arun,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Glad you could make it. Dennis is still here, taking a bath.’ In the bleak concrete hallway the mingled smells of gravy, cabbage and stale cigarette smoke were almost overpowering.

‘Haven’t you got room for the people outside?’ Ben asked.

‘It’s not that,’ Arun said. ‘We don’t allow alcohol or drugs. They know the rules, but they try it on every time.’

‘What happens to them?’ I asked, remembering the two men I’d approached in the street on my first search for the quilt, just a few weeks before. It seemed an age ago – so much had happened since then.

‘Some will finish their drinks and then we’ll let them in,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The others will have to sleep rough, I’m afraid.’

He led us through to the canteen, a large, brightly lit room with a stainless-steel kitchen hatch and about fifteen men and women sitting on benches at trestle tables, heads hunched over platefuls of meat, vegetables and gravy, greedily shovelling it in as though they hadn’t eaten for weeks. Volunteers in green overalls moved among them, offering more food and drink, or sitting alongside, conversing quietly. The walls were covered with posters warning of the perils of sharing needles, the importance of medical check-ups, the dangers of alcohol poisoning, and listing other sources of help available.

‘We sober them up with dinner and then we offer baths and a change of clothing if they want it before they go off to the dormitories,’ Arun said. I was getting used to the smell, but the hunger and sadness was heart-breaking.

He caught my glance. ‘You get used to it soon enough. They’re fascinating characters, all sorts, and we often have a laugh with them. Some get to be old friends – albeit unreliable ones. The best reward is when we never see them again. It usually means they’ve managed to find fixed accommodation. I see you’ve brought a peace offering.’ He pointed to my rucksack. ‘Let’s see if we can find Dennis.’

We threaded our way between the tables and through a door at the other side of the room, then along another corridor until we arrived at a sitting area where five or six men and women smoked on ancient sofas and chairs, transfixed by the television flickering in the corner. Some were still in street clothes, others in dressing gowns, their hair still wet from the shower.

Curtained cubicles were ranged along one wall, a rack of square lockers along another. Arun led us towards a gnarled-looking old man with a straggly grey beard, snoring deeply on one of the sofas. He was wrapped in a red towelling dressing gown; his massive feet with discoloured, knobbly toes and yellowing toenails stuck out into the centre of the room.

Arun shook Dennis gently by the shoulder, trying to rouse him. The old boy opened his eyes and started to curse loudly and incoherently, mistaking him for a thief. Eventually he quietened down and gazed around belligerently.

‘I think Leylah’s been talking to you about your bedding?’ Arun said, sitting down, and gesturing for us to do the same.

‘Nuttin’ wrong wi’it,’ Dennis slurred through jagged teeth.

‘It’s getting pretty cold out there. We’d like to give you something a bit warmer,’ Arun gestured to my rucksack. I took out the fluffy woollen blanket and the once-expensive camel coat that I’d found in a charity shop.

‘Take a look at these.’ Arun put a fingertip to his lips, warning us to say nothing. Dennis took the blanket, fingering its thickness, lifted it to his nose and sniffed it. He dropped it on the floor and picked up the coat, examining it carefully inside and out, checking the pockets and hems, and reading the label, for all the world like a discerning customer in a menswear shop. Then, in a sudden movement, he jumped to his feet, throwing off the dressing gown and exposing his surprisingly white naked body to the room, before pulling his arms through the coat sleeves and carefully buttoning it up all the way down the front.

All faces had turned away from the television screen to admire the fashion show. Dennis looked up with a broad smile. ‘Wha’d’ya think, lads?’ he said, strutting around the carpet, setting his shoulders and angling his head like a model, to the great amusement of his audience. I could see what Arun meant about interesting characters.

‘Fits yer good, mate,’ shouted one, and the others clapped.

‘I’ll take ’em,’ Dennis said simply, and I sighed with relief. I’d been holding my breath, waiting for this moment.

‘Right,’ Arun said. ‘Shall I keep these safe for the morning? And you can let me have your old stuff to get washed.’

Dennis went to one of the lockers and pulled out a roll of rags so discoloured it took a moment or two to recognise the quilt. He handed it to Arun, who passed it to me. It had been rolled inside-out and I flipped a corner to see the inner fabric. There, under a layer of mud and other unidentifiable stains, was the unmistakeable sunrise pattern.

‘Is this it?’ he asked.

I nodded, suddenly overcome with emotion. ‘Thank you so much, Dennis,’ I started, as Arun ushered us quickly away.

‘Before he changes his mind,’ he whispered.

In my elated state I’d been chattering away about Arun and Dennis, failing to notice that Ben said almost nothing on the way back to the flat.

Then, as we pulled up, he said, ‘I’m on the early shift tomorrow and it’s gone eleven, so I’d better be heading home.’

‘Won’t you come in for coffee, or a quick bite to eat? To celebrate?’ I asked. ‘You haven’t given me a chance to thank you for helping me get the quilt back, and at the very least I owe you an apology for flying off the handle, earlier.’

‘I appreciate the gesture, but not tonight, I’m afraid.’ His voice was clipped and curt. ‘I’ll give you a call.’

I leaned over to give him a kiss, which he accepted, but he didn’t return it, or hug me back. ‘You were a star tonight. I didn’t deserve it, especially after the things I said to you. I jumped to the wrong conclusions and I really am sorry, please believe me,’ I said, trying not to plead. Just as we were beginning to like each other, I’d gone and messed it up.

‘It’s okay. I think we both just need a little time.’ He started the engine. ‘Good luck with the quilt.’

I covered the dining room table with an old sheet and carefully pulled the quilt out of its black bin bag, untied the string and gingerly unrolled it across the table, releasing a pungent odour of mould and stale urine.

The quilt was in a terrible state: the colours faded, with stripes of mud and other stains, and, worse, there were several rips along the lines of Maria’s delicate stitching. Specialist repair was definitely going to be needed. I’d tried to visualise it so many times, attempting to recreate it in sketches and paintings, and in my mind’s eye the design had assumed a heightened intensity, the colours more vibrant, the patterns more electrifying. The grubby rags in front of me seemed to mock those loving recreations.

I rolled it up again and put it back into the bag to contain the smell. Exhausted, feeling slightly hung-over and close to tears, I texted Jo:
Hope you had a great holiday? Can’t wait to hear all about it but also really need your help re quilt. Please call when you’re back. xx

I woke in the early hours with a headache and a raging thirst and, as I went to the kitchen for a drink of water, a shaft of streetlight fell through a gap in the living room curtain silhouetting what looked for a moment like a figure crouching on the table. I was about to cry out, when I realised it was the bulky mass of the quilt in its black bag, where I’d left it.

‘Get a grip, you silly cow,’ I berated myself, pouring the water and slugging down a couple of paracetamol. I snuggled back under the duvet, but sleep was chased away by visions of Dennis in his camel coat, the laughter of his fellow shelter-mates, the smell of the quilt and the despair I’d felt when I unrolled it. Then I began to worry about Ben. Would he forgive me for how I’d reacted? Would I ever see him again?

There was nothing for it. I put on my dressing gown and made a cup of tea, then took the quilt out of its bag and carefully unrolled it across the table once more. The smell was less pungent now, just sour and sad. I took out a large soft paintbrush and began to stroke the hairs gently across a stained area at the edge of the quilt, trying to lift the worst of the dirt away without rubbing too hard on the fabric. After a few moments I could already see the difference. Perhaps the damage was repairable, and all was not lost.

As I worked, in the early morning silence of my flat, I began to hear Maria’s voice in my head again, that rough, smoky, East End twang, describing how she’d started the quilt in the lonely hours after Nora had spurned her. How she had begun to embroider the intricate lover’s knot on that silk from the trousseau of her beloved Princess May. Poor lovelorn Maria. I got the strangest feeling that the seamstress was close by, just at my shoulder, watching and listening – a weird kind of presence, conjured up in my imagination, that made me shiver.

The border around the central panel, a row of elongated hexagons or what Miss S-D had called ‘lozenges’, pieced from small scraps of plain and patterned silks, was muddy and ripped in places. I brushed each piece delicately, for fear of causing the dyes to run, creating even worse staining or more damage. There were several rips in the fabric and along the stitching that would certainly require professional attention.

The next panel, with its little appliquéd figures that had so intrigued me and Andy Kowalski as children, seemed to have survived without too much damage. I recalled Maria’s words: ‘
His name and mine are concealed in the figures
’,
and realised that this was not simply a random collection of images. The duck, apple, violin, the curious triangular leaf, like ivy perhaps, and that fiery dragon, spelled D.A.V.I.D. And below, the mouse, an oak leaf and acorn, a rabbit, another kind of purple flower – a lily of some kind, ah yes, it must be an iris – and the anchor, spelled M.A.R.I.A. The names of mother and child embroidered into a sad little memorial.

Surely this was even further proof that Maria was telling the truth? Why would she create a quilt panel for an imaginary baby? I checked the corner of the lining and the little cross-stitched verse. More threads were missing, but it was still legible. I was now convinced that Maria had dedicated the panel to her own child, the baby so brutally taken from her. When she completed it all those years later, she added these few sentimental words to make sure that everyone would understand, even after her death. A wave of melancholy swept over me for this poor misunderstood woman.