Liam's Sweater

Liam’s Sweater

“Never marry a sailor,” her mother warned. “They are always leaving.”

But love does not ask your trade. At first, when Rachael met Liam, she resisted the blue +cap. But when dimples appeared on either side of his smile like attractive bookends, her mother’s advice was jetsam, discarded and thrown overboard.

Love had come late to Rachael, which made each parting harder. She sat on the dock; her arms wrapped around her knees. She watched until the ship hauled down, gradually slipping past the curvature of the earth. Rachael had begun to view the sea as a rival temptress who lures men away from their homes and loved ones.

Who knew when he would be back? Or even if he would come back?

She stood, stretching her cramped legs. Summers, she knew he must go away to make a living, but that thought did not erase loneliness. Sighing, she turned toward their croft now empty of his laughter.

During warm days after Liam left, she tended their garden. As she hoed, weeded, and watered the carrots, potatoes, cabbage, and onions, she smiled. He always complemented her on her hearty vegetable soups.

There were the sheep to feed, to pasture, the spring lambs to protect, and their neighbor, Lars, who lived almost a mile away up the dusty road toward the village, would come to help her with the shearing. Lars also took away sheep for slaughtering. She knew it must be done, but the sheep became too dear to her. She tried not to think of Clover when she flavored her soups with mutton and broth. To her delight, her manly husband, a gentle soul with rough hands, could not kill them either,

To busy her hands and mind during the long evenings, she hit upon the idea of using the wool to make a gift for her husband. She would clean it, card it, and knit a sweater for Liam to wear during the cold winters when he was back home. The pattern was one her grandmother, Marta, had devised. The work gave her hope that he would return. She pictured him lifting her off her feet and whirling her around like he was wont to do when he was happy. He would put her present on right away.

“Aye, I’ve not only got a pretty wife, but a clever one as well,” he might say.

When the wind began to blow colder, Rachael hurried to the harbor and confronted her nemesis, the siren of the sea, willing her to give back her beloved. But each time a ship appeared on the horizon; it was not the vessel she desired to see.

But early in October, she peered far out to sea and saw a mast that looked familiar. But the ship appeared to list to the starboard side. As the ship came closer, the deep swells and white-capped waves crashed onto the stern, tearing some of the rigging loose. The lanyards flapped wildly in the rising wind.

She clasped her hands tightly together as the Captain carefully maneuvered the ship into place and a sailor tied the ship to their designated buoy and dropped anchor. Her heart pounded as skiffs were being lowered to bring the sailors ashore.

As the men rowed nearer shore, she could make out some of his mates, but she did not see the jaunty cap, nor the red handkerchief Liam wore around his neck.

When the Captain, taking off his cap and turning round and round in his hands approached her, she knew the dreadful truth. The sea goddess had won. Her heart was stone.

She took the package wrapped in butcher paper and twine and threw in the back of the closet. Days passed in silence, cold crept in through the walls. She huddled close to the fireplace. That winter she reviewed every memory, meeting him, dancing with him at a festival in the village, bringing him to meet her disapproving mother and him charming her, nonetheless. Every moment of their wedding was engraved in her mind and the passionate nights afterwards.

In the spring when the flowers began blooming, she was of a mind to clean out the house and shed. Busy work to keep the sad away. When she purged the closet, she saw the wrapped sweater lying in a heap. She thought of unraveling it and fashioning a shawl to wrap around herself. But then when she had finished her work, she had another thought. There would be scarce money in the months ahead.

The next day, she marched down the dusty road to Lar’s house to speak with his wife, Mary.

“Mary, would you be willing to sell this sweater I made for Liam when you go to the marketplace this Saturday?”

Mary patted Rachael’s shoulder. “Of course, dear. How much do you want to ask for it?”

“Whatever you can get is fine with me.”

“Sit down and have tea. It is a walk back.”

***

It was a Monday, the dreaded wash day, when Rachael saw a stranger climbing the hillock to their house.

She abandoned her scrub board and wiped her hands on her apron.

“How can I help you, Sir?”

The man removed his bowler hat. “Are you Missus Grey?”

“That I am,” she said.

“I am Thomas Whiting at your service, Madam. My wife, Laurie, saw your sweater in the marketplace on Saturday, Fine workmanship. Is the pattern your own?”

“No, my grandmother, Marta devised it.”

“So, it is an original?”

“Yes, I believe she made several.”

Mr. Whiting adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and swallowed, his protruding Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Do you have these patterns?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pulled a parcel out from under his arm. “Would you consider making more like this one and anything else your grandmother had patterns for? You would be rewarded handsomely.”

“It took me a fair time to process the wool, spin it, and knit it.”

“Could you possibly recruit some women in the village to help you? You could teach them. My company would be willing to give them a good wage. We would provide the wool and spinning wheels for your use.”

Rachael thought of the rapidly depleting stash of coins in the jar on the kitchen shelf.

She gestured at the small house behind them.

“Mister Whiting, where would I put these employees?”

“Oh, Missus Gray, I was hoping you would agree. There is an empty warehouse down in the village. My wife and I could collect you on Wednesday to show the premises.”

And so it began, a cottage industry. Soon, more and more women had to be taught to keep up with the demand. Rachael found her days busy with satisfying work. She felt proud to be able to help women from around the countryside. She continued for many years as a successful businesswoman.

When you buy a Liam’s Sweater, the patterns are Rachael’s grandmother’s, but they are made on machines in a factory. But the ornate tag says what the original sweater’s label could have said, MADE WITH LOVE AND THE FINEST WOOL.