Call me Snipet

“Call Me Snips” – David Smith

Call me Snips. Everybody does. Well, everybody who’s with me in the workbox that is, the needles, the bobbins, the pins – so many pins – all dear friends. Being from North Queensland, some of my friends call me Snippo, the jokers. My beautiful and creative owner doesn’t call me anything particularly, but she does treat me with love and care. She gets extremely upset if anyone, including her children, start using me to cut bits of cardboard and plastic and food containers. I’m only for cutting the finest fabrics, silks, lace. She does have a habit of putting me down, and then patting the tops of her thighs as she looks around the room muttering, “Now, where did I put them?”

But I digress ...

My owner hasn’t always had an easy life, but she had three lovely children from an earlier relationship. So, my owner had been a single mum for much of their growing up, had given her life over to her children as mother’s do. Now the children had grown up. The two boys had flown or were on the verge of flying the nest, and the daughter, who has autism and an intellectual impairment, and is such a loving sou, was looking for her independence. My owner was now looking for the appropriate care so that her daughter could have the independent life, her boys we probably taking for granted. I can’t imagine the pain of letting go. How could I? But I could feel the days when she was happy and the days when she was sad. It was in the cutting. Some days she would cling on to my handles as if I were the only friend she had. Those were the days that I concentrated so hard to be accurate, to give her the clean cuts she needed, to make her happy.

And then one day something happened. She was on the phone to someone. “A blind date. Oh, I don’t know. Do I Really want to go through that?” And that, as far as I knew, was that.

But over the next few weeks, I noticed that she was messaging more and more. I could tell from her phone conversations that she wasn’t just talking to friends I had known her talk to for years, but something was new. She would type messages fast and frequently. A joyful glow in her face. Whoever she was talking to was making her happy. When she talked on the phone she talked of Britain, and she talked of art. The conversations and the texts became more frequent. And then one day I heard her say, “I’m coming over to the UK in September”, “Yes we can meet up. I’m staying with a friend in London”

Work became more furious over the next few weeks. She was finishing for something special. She was a designer and creator. And now she was designing and making new wedding dresses at a pace. I snipped, she sewed, she hemmed, she embroidered. And when it was all done she carefully packed her glorious new creations and me away in her suitcases. Over the next week I was either in the dark, or taken out to help finish somethings, but the surroundings were strange. I could sense a coldness in the air that I wasn’t used to. When she talked to people, their voices, their accents, were strange. So is this the UK, I wondered? But I got on with the job, whatever job, regardless. Cutting is cutting, it doesn’t matter where you are. And then I was packed away again.

The Next time I saw daylight, I was in familiar surroundings. There was a spring in my owner’s step. I heard her talk about someone she had met. Presumably the person she had been messaging all this time. Her messaging hadn’t slowed down either. Every chance she got she seemed to be on her phone, tapping furiously away, laughing to herself and occasionally a rosy glow lighting up her cheeks. And then I heard snatched conversations that pieced things together. She had met up with this person. The date was pleasant enough but not enough to write home about. Something about hairs on top of his nose had put her off – sloppy grooming is obviously going to stand out with someone who’s job is so rooted in attention to detail. But then she carried on talking, and she found something changing, found that she cared deeply about this person, and didn’t want to be apart from him. It probably helped that a friend pointed out to her that she could have always plucked the offending hairs out.

And so the conversations continued. She disappeared for a while – a week or so. She didn’t take me or any of my workbox compatriots. But she came back so happy. When she worked, it was like we were one and I glid along the fabrics effortlessly. The was a joy that just emanated from us both.

Then came that time of year where trees are brought in to the house, and sparkling banners and sashes are hung and draped all over the house. I think they call it Christmas. It certainly seems to be a time where more food and drink is brought in and everyone becomes very jovial – whether they want to or not. One day the tree went up – my owner and her daughter had such fun adding baubles and sparkles to it, and the next my owner went off and came back with a stranger. It was him, the one who seemed to make her smile so many times on the phone. He looked happy, she looked happy. Occasionally they would disappear for a while. And then they would both reappear, looking very happy indeed.

When he left, my owner threw herself into work. She was sad one moment, but then she was happy the next. Happiest when she was speaking to her love. I got the feeling the he was feeling the same.

A little time passed. The conversations got more intense. Not bad intense, but more concentrated. There was a lot of planning and running around. Talk of flowers, of music, of guests. Then one day my owner got me out to make a new dress. The fabric was the most beautiful silk. I know a wedding dress when I’m cutting one out. And this was going to be special. But it was the strangest thing. No-one was coming over for the usual discussions and fittings. It wasn’t until I saw my owner measuring herself that I realised. She was making a wedding dress for herself. Wow, big step, I thought. I’d seen from the procession of brides to be what an enormous deal this all was.

I obviously didn’t see the wedding but, once the dress was finished, my owner disappeared for a while, and then reappeared with the same man, the new husband. They looked so happy.

It was a busy time. For a while my owner disappeared again – I later learned she went over to the colder country to be with her man. When she came back, she came back with him, and he stayed this time. They were truly living together, sharing their experiences. There was a point that they had to move from the house to a unit not too far away, so we were all bundled up into the workbox and taken away. They had holidays, they looked after the family. There was a point when everyone seemed to be spending a lot more time indoors, and when they did go out they were putting on face masks, and doing a lot of extra cleaning of hands and of faces. I was aware that there was a lot of caution and the sense of fear in the air. The husband also seemed to be doing a lot of reading about the cold country, and angrily talking (some may say ranting) about how they had got it all so wrong, and at least where we were they seemed to be getting it right, and how lucky we were.

Things loosened up. We moved again. Everyone seemed so settled and happy and through all this my owner was still making her beautiful creations and I was there helping her to realise her visions.

I knew things were changing though when the husband disappeared for a while. I learned he travelled back to the old country. My owner was meant to go with him but she had so much work to do. I knew that because we were furiously cutting out wedding dresses, grad dresses, pant suits, pyjamas, you name it. A few weeks later I was packed up. I was leaving my country, and with my owner we were going to start a new life in the cold place. The preparations were so stressful for my owner, but there was also an air of excitement – she was going to join her love, and they could start a new life. She was glowing.

I was packed carefully away, and off we all headed. I overheard her plans. We’d fly to Sydney, I heard her say. She (and we) would stay there for the night and then then fly over to the UK. The cold place. And there she would live, and we would live.

It was a long time in the suitcase. Jostling about as we were loaded, and taxi’d and took off and landed. You know how it goes. And then finally we seemed to have arrived. But something was wrong.

I was first aware of the suitcase being unzipped and opened. Then rough hands started rummaging in the contents and pulling the contents out, myself included. I heard crying. My owner. What was going on? A few packs of seeds were taken from the suitcase – “you can’t bring those in here” a gruff voice said. “I didn’t know” came the voice of my owner weak and dejected. “I can come in for six months without a visa, I thought we could sort things out then” I heard her say. “Doesn’t work that way” the gruff voice said as the man left the room.

She was being held. Instead of now being in the arms of her love she was being kept back. I knew they were meant to meet at the airport, so I guessed he must have been the other side of the security barriers.

A lady came in. She seemed softer, more open. “I’ll give your husband the number of this phone” she said pointing to a phone on the desk in the otherwise bare room. From that point on the phone rang nearly every hour.

The conversations weren’t positive, but she reported to him everything that had taken place. They were holding her. She had been honest in her intentions, so she may get bail. She couldn’t stay in the airport beyond 12 hours. She had no idea was going to happen. She was scared, I could tell that. From the conversations so was her husband. And I could also tell how they couldn’t believe what was happening. What could they have done wrong to deserve this?

Eventually someone came in. “We’ve got you on a flight to Australia” come on. They bundled everything back in cases. I was on top of the clothes in one of them so I could hear pretty well what was happening. But I still couldn’t fathom how two people so in love, could be kept apart. What kind of heartless country would do this?

We got packed on the plane. It was a miserable experience. There were two flights to Australia, and there was a long wait between them. Interminable. Eventually the plane landed. I knew we were home. My owner was bundled through security, the people there as shocked as she was that she was treated this way.

She had to go into quarantine, she was told. She couldn’t leave Sydney for two weeks. And so we boarded a bus and headed for a hotel where she would stay. My owner was distraught. For two days she cried until she could cry no more. She spoke to her man, but I could tell she was grieving for their enforced separation. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Then after another day or so, she began to take control again. She fought to find her passion again. She found somewhere in town from which she could hire a sewing machine. She had three suitcases with her. Two were full of materials that she was taking to the UK to finish work, and cut out new patterns. With the machine, and yours truly, the hotel room became a place of work. At first, I could feel her determination to find her strength again. She held on to me, and we cut our dresses, and skirts and tops. She sewed, she spoke to her loved one. She was trapped in her room, but she found her freedom in her work. And I was there to help her.

It was still hard. She was not where she was meant to be, and from their conversations I could hear how much she and her husband were missing each other. They’re working on their visa with the firm belief it will come through, and come through soon.

They talk, and talk and talk. And she still has me. She still has Snips. Ever faithful, ever ready for the cutting, feeling the joy whenever she picks me up to start on her next creation. The joy and the love – and I am so lucky to be part of that.