Miss Seeton Quilts the Village

by Hamilton Crane

Miss Wicks! Miss Seeton almost dropped her scissors. She had promised she would buy her some fabric—she had forgotten! It was no excuse that she had been distracted by sketching the secret List of Local Legends and History. The schoolchildren had long since put the finishing touches to the painted map foundation strip. Assembly and stitching-on were well under way as panels—done in cross-stitch, needlepoint, or quilted—were handed in. Miss Wicks had been one of the first to submit her contribution, the wrought iron balustrade of her cottage being represented by a length of exquisite crochet lace, the whole picture framed in dainty hexagons. Miss Wicks would never rebuke a friend for breaking a promise, but...

  “Tomorrow,” promised Miss Seeton firmly. Today she was busy cutting her own shapes out of cartridge paper. When one looked at anything closely, and broke it down into its true form, as she always told her pupils, the possibilities were endless. Like designing one’s own personal jigsaw puzzle, only with lines rather than wiggly edges. Miss Seeton knew that in theory you could make curves from multiple short straight lines, and knew that in real life she never would. Or certainly not with fabric. Straight lines on their own would do very well. A window, a door. An individual rectangle? Or several smaller oblongs in slightly different hues of the same colour, to indicate reflections of the outside world on glass, or paint? A pitched roof—a lozenge and a parallelogram in different shades, and there it was, almost in three dimensions...

  Next morning Miss Seeton, her shopping list in her basket and her basket over one arm, selected an umbrella. Yes, the dark blue. Dear Mr, Brinton, so thoughtful to have had her initials embossed on the handle. Though maybe her hat now seemed a trifle shabby. She might pop into the milliner’s while visiting Jeannine Claire, to see the latest Monica Mary creations...

  Her mind on hats, Miss Seeton headed for the bus. Passing Miss Wicks’s cottage, her conscience prompted her to wave at the front window where the old lady, she knew, sat at work in the natural light that was so much more comfortable for the eyes than the artificial yellow of electric bulbs—daylight apparently held a bluish tinge. Which, apparently, explained the comfort. Artists, of course, preferred a north light, without the sun, although in Australia and New Zealand they would presumably prefer a south light. Upside down again. It was all very puzzling, when the sun itself could only be described as yellow. She recalled Mrs. Thorley, the physics mistress at Mrs. Benn’s school, saying this was all to do with scattering wavelengths. On whichever side of the world you happened to be. Perhaps one day someone would invent a lightbulb that showed colours as they really were, even at night.

  She thought she saw an answering wave, and her conscience pricked again. Her own submission to the Plummergen Mural would be modest, a plain likeness of her cottage offered as her contribution to the community spirit of which the dear vicar had preached with such enthusiasm last Sunday.

  It had taken Molly Treeves a long time to explain to the Reverend Arthur why Plummergen’s women had turned Dorcas overnight, and what a splendid chance it might be to bring everyone in the place together. A realist, Molly knew that any togetherness would not last, but even a brief truce was worth encouraging.

  Miss Seeton waved again, and hurried on. Miss Wicks could knit, tat, and crochet, too. She enjoyed her work so much. It would be churlish not to bring back the widest possible selection of fabrics, whether from Madame Jeannine or some other shop. She could tell her elderly friend that it was mostly scraps, costing half of what they really had: her conscience might then leave her in peace.

  There were several others in the queue for the bus. With a nod and a smile for all, Miss Seeton took her place behind them.

  Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine, with the advantage of living opposite the bus stop, were as usual second in line. They tended to watch until someone arrived and then bustled out to join her (or them) to find out where she (or they) proposed to go, and why.

  “No point hanging around outside in a draught,” Miss Nuttel always said; and Mrs. Blaine always agreed.

  Mrs. Newport and Mrs. Scillicough had parked an assortment of offspring with their long-suffering mother and arrived together from the council houses. “Brettenden,” they replied as one to Mrs. Blaine’s polite enquiry after their destination.

  “Yes, a change of scene can be welcome from time to time,” Mrs. Blaine probed further, “can’t it? Especially the shops.”

  “Sometimes,” said Mrs. Newport.

  “Spice of life, variety,” said Mrs. Scillicough.

  “Most things we need are right here in the village,” pointed out Miss Nuttel.

  “Not all of them,” said Mrs. Newport. “You’re off shopping too, aren’t you?”

  This was close to a challenge. How best to answer while giving nothing away?

  “A change of scene,” repeated Mrs. Blaine. Mrs. Newport gazed at the basket carried by Mrs. Blaine. Mrs. Scillicough remarked the linen bag poking from Miss Nuttel’s coat pocket.

  They were joined by Mrs. Skinner and Mrs. Henderson. These ladies lived in houses close enough for each to keep, with little effort, a wary eye on anything suspicious her rival might do, by day or by night. Neither need fear that an outright march could ever be stolen by (or on) either side, which inevitably struck both as unfair, and gave them a feeling of justification when in unspoken agreement they chose to ignore the vicar’s words about community spirit. “Haven’t missed the bus, then,” said Mrs. Skinner. “Good.”

  “Plenty of time,” snapped Mrs. Henderson. For once she had been a little slow to notice the opening of Mrs. Skinner’s front door. The shoes Mrs. Henderson wore now were the pair she normally kept for around the village. There was plenty of wear left in them, but after a while they tended to pinch her toes. Mrs. Henderson was not looking forward to her day out in Brettenden.

  Miss Seeton was reminded of squabbling schoolgirls. And with a hint of reproach said: “Jack Crabbe is always reliable, of course. We have no more than two or three minutes to wait, which on a beautiful morning like this can surely be no great hardship.”

  “Fancy a change of scene yourself, Miss Seeton?” enquired Mrs. Newport.

  “Just a little shopping.” Neighbourly interest; how fortunate one had been in Cousin Flora’s loving bequest. Her dear cottage, her many friends... “The art supplies shop, mainly, because I have used all my cartridge paper in my poor attempts at design...”

  Everyone looked at everyone else. The last few weeks had been difficult for the seamstresses of Plummergen. Secrecy became endemic. In a place with gossip as its lifeblood, this had sent blood-pressure soaring. While people would admit to a stake in the History and Legends Quilt, they refused to give details. But if Miss Seeton, rather a late starter in the Sewing Stakes, was careless enough to let something slip, then...

  Mrs. Blaine, domestic half of the Lilikot partnership, simply had to know. “It sounds as if you have something too elaborate planned, Miss Seeton.” She tittered. “Being a teacher, of course, you have such an advantage—so many new ideas we in our quiet little village would never dream of.”

  Miss Seeton looked startled. “Oh, no. My needlework has always been practical rather than decorative—like Goldilocks, or do I mean Curlylocks? I may well sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, though of course at this time of year there are few strawberries to be had—” Mrs Blaine, whose marriage had been childless, failed to catch the nursery-rhyme reference—“and sadly my stitches are nowhere near as fine as my Cousin Flora’s. But I would never attempt anything one could call elaborate. Just a simple depiction of my house in appliqué, thanks to dear Louise, and in plain cotton because I understand that anything more luxurious can fray if handled inexpertly, or stretch, as well as slipping.”

  The cartridge paper design—cheating! Professional tricks none of them knew! An incomer trying to outshine the locals!—was about to be disputed when the bus came along. Everyone climbed in. Miss Seeton moved to the back, leaving room for those less agile—so beneficial, her yoga—who might get on at later s
tops and be glad not to have to squeeze their way down the aisle. Jack Crabbe, of course, was a perfect gentleman and would never leave the stop until everyone was safely seated, but if she could help in any small way she was more than happy to do so.

  Miss Nuttel, glancing over her shoulder, nudged Mrs. Blaine in her well-padded ribs. “Up to something,” she muttered. “Smiling to herself, and not speaking to anyone.”

  “Plotting, you think?” Mrs. Blaine wished she wore make-up so that she could take out a mirror and powder her nose while she snooped to the back of the bus.

  “Could be.” Miss Nuttel, gardener, pondered. “Strawberries in September? Odd.”

  “That must be the drink talking.” Mrs. Blaine’s black eyes glinted. “Vodka doesn’t smell, remember. If it had been whisky or brandy she’d have reeked.”

  “Explains why she’s sitting by herself,” agreed Miss Nuttel. “Thinks nobody will notice.”

  “She could still be plotting something. Or she might have an accident. There’s so much more traffic in Brettenden. You know, Eric, I think we should keep an eye on her—for her own sake—while she’s out and about by herself in a strange place.”

  “Civic duty.” Miss Nuttel nodded. “Only what the vicar said, isn’t it?”

  Where Miss Seeton was concerned, the Nuts were accustomed to lurking. Had they not, on her first day in Plummergen, gone to pay a call and found her curtains shut in the middle of the afternoon? Checking round the outside of the house they could see no one in any of the ground-floor rooms. She was upstairs! Their suspicions were naturally aroused. Such behaviour, in a newcomer who ought to anticipate visits of welcome, was abnormal. Abnormality could be a pointer to...perversion. Or worse. Had they not always suspected her of involvement in witchcraft, demonology, the Black Arts in general? Guided by the Ouija board, had they not on another occasion checked round the house for indisputable proof of her malignant tendencies, and had she not thrust an arm from her bedroom window—a first floor window—and conjured up some unknown, unseen, unnamed Force to strike Miss Nuttel senseless to the ground?

  Not all the protestations of Martha Bloomer then or later could persuade them that the sacrificed baby they had both seen that dreadful night—its throat cut, its blood falling into a basin on Miss Seeton’s draining-board—had been bramble jelly dripping through a muslin bag. It was irrelevant that Erica Nuttel had never cared for the sight of blood. It was no over-heated imagination that had caused her sudden collapse. Miss Seeton, they knew, was a skilled practitioner of the very darkest of dark practices.

  Yet few ever seemed to believe Miss Nuttel and Mrs Blaine, so strong were Miss Seeton’s evil powers, so cleverly did she seem to throw her sorcerous dust in village eyes. This time, perhaps...

  In Brettenden, accordingly, the Nuts lurked.

  Miss Seeton had meant to go to the art supplies shop, but again her conscience pricked her. She had made a promise—and Jeannine Claire: Modiste was in the same part of the high street as Monica Mary: Milliner. She would call first on Miss Brown, to ask where she acquired her ribbons and trims for the lavish creations that adorned so many local heads. It would most likely be a London wholesaler, though it might be a shop within walking distance, where she could go afterwards if neither Miss Brown nor Madame Jeannine had interesting scraps to spare.

  The Nuts watched Miss Seeton glance at the art supplies shop, hesitate, shake her head, and walk on. Signalling? They looked, but saw nobody paying particular attention to their quarry. “Just shows how cunning she can be,” said Miss Nuttel.

  Miss Seeton, unaware of pursuit, came to the hat shop and went in. Through plate glass the Nuts watched her in animated conversation with Miss Brown, who after some minutes vanished to the back of her shop. She returned with a pale blue paper bag that Miss Seeton received with a nod and a smile, before putting it in her neat wicker basket.

  “Could be anything,” said Miss Nuttel.

  “Drugs, Eric?” quavered Mrs. Blaine.

  “Disguised, whatever it is.”

  Surveillance continued. After further animated conversation Miss Seeton began to try on hats. A number of hats. More than once. In the end Monica Mary helped her reach a decision, and the Nuts rejoiced. It is possible to spend only a certain length of time in front of a shop window, no matter how stylish the display therein, before people start to notice.

  Banknotes were produced. Miss Seeton handed them over. Miss Brown returned some of them. Further animated discussion. Miss Seeton smiled, shook her head, nodded, and a pale blue cardboard box tied with silvery string made a neat parcel for her to bear proudly from the shop before carrying on down the high street.

  “Drugs,” agreed Miss Nuttel, sadly. She could never buy another hat from Monica Mary Brown—and that meant in future going all the way to Ashford.

  As they hurried after their still oblivious quarry the Nuts were accosted by Mrs. Newport and Mrs. Scillicough. The sisters, of a younger generation, had seen nothing in the hat shop window of any possible interest, and wondered why Nutcrackers and the Hot Cross Bun were so clearly lurking. Then Miss Seeton appeared with her hatbox, and trotted away. They wondered no more.

  “Up to her tricks again, I suppose?” Mrs. Scillicough nodded towards the retreating figure, and was ready to join the chase if it seemed likely to prove worthwhile.

  “With Miss Seeton, you never can tell,” said Mrs. Newport.

  Miss Nuttel, busy watching Miss Seeton, did not answer. Mrs. Blaine hesitated.

  “We...don’t know,” she admitted at last.

  Miss Nuttel was still watching. “There!” she announced. “Look—going into Jeannine Claire’s place right now.” Her indignation was great. First, the hat shop, now the dressmaker! At this rate they’d never feel safe shopping anywhere in Brettenden again.

  “She did buy a new hat, Eric,” said Mrs. Blaine. “Maybe she just wants a—a matching costume.” She herself hadn’t bought a new hat for ages. Or a new frock, either. Eric said they must be as self-sufficient as possible, and save money—and the planet—where they could. Mrs. Blaine knew she always had her sewing machine to make a blouse, or a dress, but the effect was never as good, and she certainly couldn’t make a hat with all the ribbons and trims that Monica Mary used.

  In tacit agreement everyone remained at a safe distance from Jeannine Claire: Modiste. Nobody wanted anyone else to gain the fact-finding advantage, and four people in front of a high-class shop window would definitely attract attention.

  Miss Seeton came out, and bustled away.

  “Not long enough for a fitting...” Miss Nuttel prepared to follow.

  Miss Seeton stopped, turned, and hurried back down the high street. Plump Mrs. Blaine was left behind as the others melted into shop doorways. Miss Seeton inclined her head but said nothing, hurrying on to renew her stock of cartridge paper before she forgot again. Mrs. Blaine had time to peer into the wicker basket.

  She made her report. “Another paper bag!” she announced, as doorways disgorged the loiterers. “Bigger—and pale pink!”

  “Drugs, then,” said Miss Nuttel grimly.

  While Mrs. Newport generally harboured suspicions of Miss Seeton, Mrs. Scillicough was never sure. This, however, was not one of her doubting moments. “Drugs? Gammon!” she scoffed. “Stealing a march on the rest of us, that’s what she’s doing.”

  “How?” demanded her sister. The Nuts stared.

  “Caught her at it, didn’t we? In and out of that posh Jannen shop with her paper bags—and when she said it was going to be just plain cotton, too.” It was hard to tell which had annoyed Mrs. Scillicough more: Miss Seeton’s blatant attempt to outdo the rest of the village in the matter of quality fabric, or the fact that she hadn’t thought of any such scheme herself.

  “Well!” said Mrs. Newport, thinking fast. “Using fancy material, and ribbons! Two can play at that game.”

  “Three,” said her sister, promptly joining her in the dash along the high street towards Jeannine Claire: Mo
diste and the possibility of satin, lace and velvet offcuts.

  Miss Nuttel looked at Mrs. Blaine. Mrs. Blaine sighed. “Dutch courage, I expect,” she offered, but her heart wasn’t really in it, and Miss Nuttel could think of nothing in reply.

  Without her hatbox Miss Seeton might have managed, but with her basket, handbag and umbrella too she knew that rolled sheets of cartridge paper would be awkward to carry, no matter how many rubber bands the shop used to secure them. She had decided to buy instead one small packet of assorted colours—only to find the shop had sold out, with the next delivery not due until next week. Drat. This meant choosing between buying several small packs of individual colours, or one middle-sized assorted pack, neither of which would fit so well in her basket.

  “Have a carrier bag,” suggested the girl behind the counter. “Nice strong handles, and free advertising for us.” She and Miss Seeton were old acquaintances.

  “Perhaps I should have left the hat for another day,” said Miss Seeton, “but Miss Brown was so persuasive, and I know she never makes the same design twice, except in different colours, that is.”

  “A bit like you,” said the salesgirl, unfolding a smart grey carrier bag. Miss Seeton had already explained about hexagons, and appliqué, and the varied shapes that could make up her cottage, and how she could not quite decide which; and the girl had said that she too enjoyed sewing, and was happy to advise on the best method for stitching through cartridge paper, and the best place for Miss Seeton to buy...

  “Needles,” murmured Miss Seeton as she passed the Nuts, who had ducked into another providential doorway when she emerged from the art supplies shop. Needles, of course, she already possessed, but the salesgirl had warned that just as she should never use her sewing scissors for cutting paper or card—Miss Seeton blushed—so she should keep her sewing needles for fabric, thread, and nothing else. She must buy either a packet of darning, or a packet of heavy-duty needles from the haberdashery section of Messrs Lance & Lance, that celebrated department store (tel. Brettenden 73) and, once back at home, label it carefully and keep it in a different part of her sewing box to avoid confusion.