A Stitch In Time

The dust jacket is light and comes off easily. I tuck it away, shaking fragments of the past on to ever creaking floorboards. The machine is revealed, resolutely white with vivacious red branding and violet-blue stitch patterns positioned underneath a green-eyed light. There are no cobwebs, but I blow anyway as though a firm well intentioned exhalation might release this tangled present from the grasping grey hands of a cloudy yesterday. It doesn't. Whether I bravely open my eyes or keep them naively shut, the past remains, weaving its shadow through today’s warp and weft.

When I was much younger - a sinewy snap of a girl, fragile of mind and heart, capable of weeping at the slightest insensitivity, perfectly adept at shedding buckets of woe on a daily basis - I used to watch her elaborately craft all manner of garments and vast gingham tablecloths at a machine like this one. She sealed naughty edges shut tight at the magic overlooker and produced woollens from the endless two and fro of the knitting machine. I loved the calming repetitious sounds but despised with great internalised fury, the frilly dresses with their wide skirts, lacy edges and clinging petticoats intended for me. Yet in the machines I saw freedom. If I could only get to them, learn how to fashion my own clothes, I would be able to escape the square hole my curvy, intangible edges were crammed into on a cruelly long daily basis.

I pull out the integral tray to find old familiar tools - a variety of shiny feet essential for holding fabric fast to the machine and keeping wayward needles in line; a long plastic and metal button-hole wedge whose tricky placement I have not yet been able to master, ostensibly because I tend to prefer more haphazard processes of lining up fastenings; a tiny red brush to eliminate errant memories from the strong yet delicate needle area and the sharp teeth of the feed dog; a couple of indispensable un-pickers - a necessity in this harsh life were stitches have a habit of pulling too tight or running too loose; as well as a rarely used thimble (pricked fingers are compulsory in this business) and spare bobbins, each aching to be clothed in a cling of brightly coloured cotton.

I soon learned that stamping my feet and screaming full throttle at the audacity of life to not run the way I would have liked it to, the way I felt I deserved it to, the way we all deserved it to, was not the way to get things done in the house of my youth. Keeping quiet and staying in line was by far the better strategy in the long term, quietly biding my time until the longed for and barely imaginable (though I spent a good deal of time trying) escape.

I buried my head in Heidi and Just William but knew that the chaos they created and got away with most of the time was not an option for me. In my house a firm hand was applied to such behaviour as I discovered that children were mere ornaments and charges to be crafted according to strict rules. The fabric was snipped into shape with the orange handled, adult-only scissors whilst loose threads were cut away with the large blue zig-zag pair cleverly designed to inhibit fraying or straying. All bad habits are removed at the base, prevented from developing into worse ones because we all know that one bad thing leads to another.

I replace the standard black cotton in my machine with a bright turquoise reel that sings of hopeful adventure, a journey to someplace else, where mistakes are allowed, learned from without incurring severe punishment. There is a forceful bind in the thread that I must unwind, search for the end piece and pull the cotton out long enough to wrap it around all the notches and hooks. And I wonder then, if my rebellion is less vanguard than it seems, if I'm merely following paths long trod through different eras. Will this spiral keep repeating itself over and over? Round and down then up and down. I moisten the cotton end to remove any dusty frays and make it more pliable as I gently guide thread through the needle’s eye. There is no other way to do this it seems. What has been before must come around again one way or another.

My younger self would secretly peek a magpie eye into the forbidden fabric cupboards where layer upon layer of material jewels were stashed and stored carefully, kept still and silent until their time came around. Cautiously, I would stroke the sleek soft velvets, run fingers along the thrilling ridges of corduroy, slip silently over the silky nylons and bury my hands in cool cottons, dreaming of the fashionable petticoat-less dresses, comfy long leisure pants, modern pocket-full jackets I would make if ever I got the chance. Something cut above the knee, with sleek lines, frivolous and fun, that reflected the real me that lay suffocating under piles and piles of what I was supposed to be.

There is immense satisfaction to be gained from winding the bobbin, filling up that little circular reel with as much colourful thread as it can handle. There is a feeling of security in these closely held rhythms and patterns that keep us full but not spinning out of control. I watch her playing with the tin of myriad buttons collected over the years, pricking herself with needles and pins just to see what it feels like.

The needle thread catches the bobbin thread in glorious synchronicity, and I lift the foot to place my pinned fabric underneath where it is cosily sandwiched to itself, ready to be seamed together in a rush of firm measured stitches. Two layers of material pressed and sewn to make one. And so I am born. Two layers similar in their conflictions, mildly attracted, rashly attached to create another. There was a pattern of course but whether it was a well-designed one or an outdated flimsy piece of paper with faded marks and sections brutally cut out in odd places, remains debatable.

Foot re-lowered, I check the stitch pattern and speed and with my heart in my mouth, breath held for a lifetime of silence, I let my own foot touch the pedal, slowly at first, listening to the whir of machinery in action, holding the fabric softly in front, firmer behind, being careful not to pull, I guide the material under the needle and let it do its work, removing pins as I go, like stabilisers from my daughter’s bike as she zooms off around the park, full of confidence and courage.

Faster now, the needle pierces the fabric, digs into the flesh, gathers up the thread and pulls it through to the surface, breathing new life with every glorious stitch, words cutting and binding, pain and pleasure skipping along one after the other.

I teach my daughter to sew by hand, try to be generous with my time and fabrics and less so with my instructions, guiding gently, letting her take the reins before I think she is ready. As she grows I will teach her how to use the machine so she can make the items and clothes she wants to. I will gift her the knowledge so she can fly free whenever she feels ready. She will undoubtedly need to unpick stitches from time to time and I will be here to assist if she needs me.

Time passes and I am blissfully unaware of its ticking and tocking, resting here in the moment, one stitch at a time.