Patchwork commuters

Of course the norm on the London Underground is to stoically pretend that you are not there. And nor is anybody else. Stare straight ahead (or at your phone) and maintain a mental bubble around you that denies the obvious and unsavoury fact of being jammed in a metal tube with a bunch of complete strangers. Cope with that crush of humanity by blocking it out.

I was working on a patchwork quilt and started taking small sections with me to hand stitch on the daily commute. My grandmother had taught me to do patchwork. The same grandmother who taught me to knit, to do book-keeping, to master calligraphy and to believe that anything is possible if you are determined enough and use your imagination. “There’s no such word as can’t” she would admonish us whenever we showed any signs of giving up on a task.

She had a patchwork bedspread on her guest bed. A glorious riot of rich red velvets, striped Georgian style brocades, slippery silk. She took no heed of any of the rules of which fabrics were ‘allowed’ to be combined, nor did she follow any formal or heritage patterns. She made the quilt however she wanted.

I used to love asking about all the different pieces of cloth. “This was from a cloak that your uncle had for his part in The Pirates of Penzance. If you don’t know what that is then you should go and look it up. You’ll remember it better than if I just tell you. And this was from a dress your mum wore for her first proper dance. She complained that it was scratchy under the arms, but it looked so lovely. I told her: You have to suffer to be beautiful.”

So a decade later, it was now me doing the sewing. On London Underground trains. I noticed that this simple act disrupted the standard dynamic of these random strangers in the train carriage.

At first there would be sly sideways glances. Surprise. Curiosity. Maybe a tentative smile if our eyes met when they looked from the sewing to the needlewoman. As the train got out of the busy centre and towards the fringes of the city, a seat might open up next to me and they’d go for it.

“What is it?”

"A piece of a patchwork quilt"

“Why are you doing it?”

Or they would want to tell me about their grandmother in Poland or Peru or Patagonia, who had also done that kind of work. How I had reminded them of that grandmother and now they were thinking it was time they gave her a call. And what was the design? What was I making? Most importantly, for whom? All manner of interest.

Others in the carriage would often lean towards the conversation too. Glad that someone else was doing the questioning so they could just eavesdrop. A gentle interweaving, shared smiles and nods.

And always, at some point, there would be the question of where I got the fabric. The wide variety of cotton prints they could see in my hands and in the small clear plastic bag on my knee.

“Well,” I would say, flourishing my small needlework scissors, “When the train is crowded, and people are strap hanging – standing just in front of me – I very carefully snip a small piece of fabric from the back of their shirt or skirt. They never notice because of the crush.”

Whoever had asked me would shift back uncomfortably in their seat. Nervously processing this information.

“They really don’t notice?”

“Well not at the time, though I guess when they get to work, or get home, someone will ask them why there is a hexagonal shaped hole in the back of their shirt or dress.”

Their eyes would widen as their mind flipped through the possible scenarios. And consequences. They looked at my work differently. A little accusingly. Or they looked guilty themselves - inadvertent collaborators. Because yes, that piece there did indeed look like it could have come from a banker’s shirt, and that retro flowery part could be…

The quilt is hanging on my office wall these days. A riot of colour. An object of joy. Although I made it years ago, I still recognise pieces of my school uniform, a favourite summer dress, an old tablecloth. I love the stories embedded in the quilt. But stranger’s clothes? No, I wouldn’t really go that far.

So back then, on the train, at some point I would laugh. Put them out of their misery. Of course I wouldn’t be so mean, but I was certainly amused by the idea of it. I got joy from the inappropriate nature of the imaginary theft – and of course from the connections with strangers that grew as I spun my tale. From that first moment of curiosity, through their awkward reaching out, then reluctant conspiracy and finally shared humour. I loved the web the patchwork wove between passengers; who would otherwise have boarded, travelled and disembarked with no sense at all of each other.

I was sewing a patchwork quilt, but I felt I was also creating a patchwork of commuters. Each as different as the fabrics I was sewing, but also sharing a connection. Sharing the rhythm of the train and the daily commute. Each a unique part of a greater whole.