Gang of Four

by Liz Byrski

  What would she do when the quilt was done? A few days sightseeing in London, and then Brighton? She must have been mad to book that apartment for ten weeks. It was too expensive and the exchange rate was ridiculous. The time stretched ahead like a great void. Was it just that she wanted to be away while everyone else was away? Well, they would still be away when she got back, all of them. Around her, customers bought their books and drank their coffee, no voice rising above a whisper. The town looked much as it did in the photographs taken fifty years earlier. There was something calming about the pace of the shoppers passing the window and the hushed atmosphere of the shop. Perhaps it didn’t matter after all, perhaps none of it mattered. She realised that she hadn’t even thought about work since she had phoned Denise the previous morning and she had no sense that she ought to race off and do something else. A tight wire that normally bound her had loosened and she didn’t have the energy or the inclination to worry about anything.

  ‘I think we’ll just about make it,’ said Vivienne at breakfast on the morning of the fifth day. ‘We’re not as far advanced as I’d hoped but I think we’ll get it done in time.’

  ‘We’re all having too good a time, Viv,’ said Orinda, tucking into her scrambled eggs. ‘Too much talk and fun and not enough work.’ She reached out for the coffee pot and topped up her cup. An African American woman in her seventies, she had travelled from New Orleans with a group of eight other American women from five different states. ‘I’ve been to the last ten quilting retreats,’ she said, ‘and this one is the best yet.’

  ‘It’s wonderful, Orinda. I hate the thought of it ending,’ Grace said.

  ‘This your first time?’

  Grace nodded. ‘But I can promise you it won’t be the last.’

  ‘Enjoying it then, Grace?’ Vivienne smiled across the table.

  ‘Tremendously, meeting the other women, working on the quilt – I just never imagined it would be like this.’

  ‘Quilting’s always brought women together in a very special sort of way,’ Vivienne said, buttering her third slice of toast.

  Orinda gave Grace a nudge. ‘This dame don’t only know about quilts, y’know, Grace. She once took me round the Pavilion in Brighton – those gowns and the drapes and embroideries she’s worked on. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. You still into all that stuff, Vivienne?’

  Vivienne nodded. ‘I am and I’m planning to show Grace the Patchwork Project!’

  Orinda clapped her hands and hooted with laughter. ‘Oh lord, Grace, she’s got plans for you. You gonna have a hard job escaping from this one. You wait till you see it.’ She folded her napkin and pushed her thick spectacles further up onto her nose. ‘I just love finding out ways the quilting sorta gets people together. Y’know when I started to make quilts?’

  Grace shook her head.

  ‘Back in the sixties, in the civil rights movement. There were four little girls burned to death in a church by white racists. Well, me and my friends, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We had children the same age and we were all organising, demonstrating, marching, putting out leaflets, but somehow it didn’t seem enough. We wanted to do something for those children. Something so’s people wouldn’t forget. So we got together and made us a quilt. Five of us, we got fabric from the girls’ own dresses and from all their friends and we worked together on that quilt just like we’re working on this one, all together. We embroidered their names, and dates. You know, that quilt is still hanging in the church to this day.’

  ‘You’re a legend, Orinda.’ Vivienne grinned. ‘How many quilts have you worked on?’

  ‘Lord, girl, I don’ know, lost count years ago. Anyhow, I was a latecomer to it. My momma was nearly blind so she didn’t do no sewing when I was a kid or I would’a been doing the quilts twenty-five years earlier. But y’know, it was a real wonderful thing to discover, and all the women I’ve met doing this over the years, well, you’d never believe it. I got friends all over the world now.’

  Grace sat back listening to Orinda and watching the other women. Five days ago they had been strangers, now they were connected by a common purpose and tradition. She had been the first one through the gallery door when the exhibition was hung. Gary Ducasse had done an outstanding job. The colours and textures of the fabrics glowed in the gentle golden light enhanced by the subtle display backings of cream, peach and old rose. Grace had sat alone in the gallery enjoying the feeling of being surrounded by the work of women.

  She wondered why it was classed as craft and not as art, for each quilt was a work of art that had survived decades of practical use. It was as beautiful as any painting or sculpture. Each stitch had been made by some woman’s hand, some in hardship or servitude, some in loneliness, some in cooperation with others, mothers and daughters, friends and neighbours, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, going back more than two hundred years. Was it called craft simply because it was the work of women? Gazing at the tiny, even stitches, wondering what other uses the fabrics had had in those women’s lives, gave her a sense of connection to the past. The growing sense of calm she had felt since arriving in England seemed to settle over her; that hard, safe feeling behind her ribs which had been so reassuring had slowly evaporated and, strangely, it no longer seemed important to get it back.

  Within hours of the start of the retreat the cool sterility of the conference centre was transformed into a mass of colour and activity. The expanding tables, designed to accommodate the quilt as it grew, were surrounded by women who had travelled from around the world, bringing patches from their own quilting guilds, and from others. Forty-six women were working on this, taking it in turns to join and quilt the contributions from fourteen countries. Although most spoke some English, the room was filled with a mix of different languages. In addition to those from Australia, America and England, there were women from Germany, France, Holland, Austria, Hungary and Bosnia. There was a group of four women from Russia, two from India and others from South Africa, Zimbabwe and Sierra Leone.

  As well as the sound of voices, the room was often filled with music. Grace had barely noticed that the brochure carried an invitation to bring musical instruments and national costumes. She didn’t play an instrument and came from a country that had no national costume, but others were wearing theirs. The African and Indian women were gorgeous butterflies in their long robes and saris; the Europeans were less dramatic but equally colourful. And they had brought along their music, songs and poetry. While some worked, others made music, several taking turns at the piano.

  There were a couple of guitarists, a flautist from Holland, an accordion player from Austria, a woman from Zimbabwe with a zither, two violinists from Germany, and one of the South African women had small drums and some reed and cane pipes. Grace had anticipated a hushed, semi-formal conference atmosphere and the warmth and vitality delighted her. The women’s stories, told in stumbling English helped along with gestures and dictionaries, had been deeply moving. They came from sophisticated cities and remote villages. They brought tales of rape and torture, luxury and privilege, babies who had died, wars that had robbed them of their homes and loved ones. There were stories of ease and struggle, joy, misery and, most of all, courage. Beside them Grace felt naive; her life seemed bland and shallow. She had read such stories, seen them on television news, registered them at a distance while worrying about what to cook for the next day’s dinner party, or organising her papers for a meeting. She was intelligent and compassionate but she had more information than she could confront – her sensitivity had been dulled and her ability to make the leap of imagination into the emotional space of the people on the screen was crippled. Face to face the stories had a personal intensity that moved and challenged her.

  It was Vivienne who started the singing. They had agreed to do an extra two hours’ work after dinner to stay on schedule and as they settled on the benches, stretching the fabric, examining the stitching, selecting the next sections, she hobbled over to the piano a
nd began to play a few old hymns and folk songs. Some of the women began to sing along with her. Grace, working alongside Orinda, kept sewing and singing softly. It was when Vivienne changed rhythm and played ‘Cheek to Cheek’ that, without looking up from her stitching, Grace began to sing a little louder. Orinda sang with her, and it was just as they got to the last bars of the song that Grace realised she and Orinda were the only ones left singing.

  Without a pause, Vivienne swung into ‘The Lady Is a Tramp’ and Orinda grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her over to the piano. They were singing and moving together as though they’d rehearsed it a thousand times. Orinda’s gutsy voice sounded as if it should have come from someone twice her size and she moved with the rhythm and agility of a woman thirty years younger. And Grace could hear that her own voice was as strong and true as it had always been. When they finished, the room erupted in applause and shouts for more.

  Orinda, in her rather prim little yellow suit and steel-rimmed glasses, reached up to Grace and hugged her. ‘Honey, you sure got some voice there,’ she cried. ‘What’ll we do next? D’you know “Night and Day”?’ And before Grace could answer she began to feel the music inside her, moving through her, driving her. She was back with Ron and the band again, up on the stage, and behind her she could hear his saxophone, crooning the blue notes. Her skin prickled and a lump rose in her throat. It lasted only seconds but she was shocked by the sharpness of the memory.

  It was another half-hour before the women finally let them go and even then it was only because Orinda went on strike. ‘Now look here, y’all,’ she grinned, waving her finger. ‘This little ole black lady’s had enough for one day.’ And she hung on to Grace’s hand as they collapsed together onto a deep couch.

  ‘Come on now, Grace, own up,’ said Vivienne, sinking down beside them, ‘You said you’d been a nurse, you didn’t say anything about being a jazz singer.’

  Grace laughed, feeling light-headed. ‘At the hospital where I did my training one of the medical students played in a band. A crowd of us went down to hear them one night and … well, it just sort of happened. I’d always enjoyed singing, and I had a few too many drinks and got up and joined them. That’s how I met my husband, he was playing sax.’

  ‘No training then?’ Orinda asked, and Grace shook her head. ‘Me neither. Started just like you – must be we just got natural talent, honey!’ And she threw back her head and laughed until her glasses slipped down her nose. ‘Makes you feel good, doesn’t it? Don’t sing much myself these days.’

  Grace laughed. ‘You’d never know it! I thought you must be wowing them every night in the New Orleans clubs. D’you know, Orinda, it must be almost thirty-five years since I did any singing.’ And as she said it she felt very much as though she might cry.

  She walked briskly in her sandshoes and grey tracksuit, leaving the hotel just before six as she had done every morning since she arrived. Staying away from the main road she took the path that wound through the fields, down past a small copse, along the side of a dry stream bed and back through the village to the hotel. A heavy dew sparkled on the grass and the air was deliciously cool. She wanted to sing while she walked, sing loud, filling her lungs with the sharp morning air and letting the notes float out across the fields and through the still sleeping village streets. Instead she sang softly to herself, and wondered just how long ago it was that Ron had put away his sax, and why they had stopped making music together. Last night had been like opening a trunk of treasures hidden for years in an attic; she wanted to rummage through and examine them, take them out, shake them, spread them in the light. She stretched her arms above her head, drawing the fresh air down into her lungs, and began to jog the last stretch back to the hotel. She felt excited, energised, as though she had stepped from somewhere else right back into her own body.

  It was almost seven o’clock as she made her way through the revolving door and across the hotel foyer. The smell of breakfast wafted from the dining room. A shower, then food – she was hugely hungry. She was just heading for the shower in her room when she noticed the message light flashing on the phone. She sat on the side of the bed and called the operator, who gave her the message to call Tim in Tokyo.

  Breakfast was finished and the morning session already under way when Vivienne found Grace sitting alone in a corner of the courtyard staring at a tub of yellow pansies. ‘Everything okay, Grace?’ Vivienne stumped awkwardly across the paving and sank heavily onto the seat beside her. ‘Blasted new hip’s more trouble than the old one.’ And she leaned her stick against the edge of the seat. ‘I wondered where you were, missed you at breakfast.’

  Grace stared at her, silent for a moment. ‘It’s my daughter-in-law, she’s had an accident,’ she said, her voice tense.

  Vivienne looked at her in concern. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Is it very serious? What was it? A car?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘She fell down some steps outside their apartment in Kyoto. She’s broken her collarbone and her right arm.’

  ‘Oh, poor girl, that’s nasty,’ said Vivienne, rubbing her own robust knees with the palms of her hands.

  ‘Yes, she’s in plaster, of course. Otherwise she’s okay, thank goodness. I’d better find out about flights and so on.’

  ‘Flights? What for? I thought you were staying on.’

  ‘I was, but they want me to go up there and help out. Angie needs help – my granddaughter is almost four and my son, well, of course he’s at work all day.’

  Vivienne inhaled noisily through her mouth and then exhaled even more noisily. ‘So you’re going to drop everything? Can’t they get some local help?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course they could,’ Grace began, her voice sounding strangely shaky. ‘Tim’s company has been awfully good, they’ve offered to pay for full-time help. But it’s not quite the same, is it? They’re used to me being around. They said they’d rather have me there than …’ she seemed to run out of words.

  Vivienne shifted her weight and turned to face her. ‘But you’re on holiday. Do you want to change everything? D’you want to rush off there?’

  ‘I always help out,’ Grace said, wondering why she felt too exhausted to move.

  ‘You go to Japan?’

  ‘Well, they’ve never been in Japan before. They just moved up there.’

  ‘Hmm. Exciting! New life!’ Vivienne said. ‘Shame this has happened, but it’s hardly the end of the world.’

  Grace looked at her as though searching for answers. ‘Do you have children, Vivienne?’

  ‘Two of my own and Gary, who’s sort of unofficially adopted. And two grandchildren.’

  ‘So you know how it feels.’

  ‘How what feels?’

  ‘Being responsible for them even though they’re grown up. It never stops, does it, the responsibility? That feeling of having to be there when you’re needed.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Vivienne slowly. ‘That feeling! Yes, I know that one, Grace, but I strive to ignore it. Sometimes I leap to attention when summoned, but mostly I don’t. Mostly I stop, draw breath and try to hold back from being the solution. It’s surprising how admirably they manage their own lives given half a chance.’

  They sat in silence. Grace crossed and uncrossed her legs and drummed her fingers on the arm of the wooden seat, searching for that nice hard feeling of control that had deserted her. Rising up in her chest and throat in its place was a great well of words and a lump that felt as though it might choke her. ‘This has been so wonderful, meeting these women, being part of it, the quilt, everything. I was running away, you know.’

  Vivienne looked up in surprise as Grace raced on, words spilling out punctuated by gasps that sounded like strangled sobs. ‘Yes, running away, not forever, nothing like that, just running away from being alone. My three best friends all went away. They’re all doing some sort of midlife retreat, giving up their jobs, doing their own thing in different places. Then the kids went to Japan. And my motherin-law died and my father, who has Alzhe
imer’s, stopped recognising me. I felt completely alone and useless. I’m used to being surrounded by people who need me. So I was running away from being all on my own, from not being needed.’

  Vivienne leaned back, stretching her arms up and running her hands through her hair. ‘Well, there you are, now you’re needed again. Does that make you feel better?’

  Grace was silent with shock at the unfamiliar sensation of tears running down her cheeks. ‘It feels strange,’ she said. ‘I’ve only been here a few days but it felt so wonderful. When I got here I thought I must have been stupid taking all this time off, planning to stay in Brighton, on my own. I was scared about what I’d do with all that time. But meeting you and the other women, working on the quilt, what that means … and then last night, the singing and … well, something’s changed. I changed, I felt totally different, as though I was on some marvellous adventure. Oh god, this must sound so stupid.’

  Vivienne dropped her arms, leaned forward and took Grace’s hand. ‘It doesn’t sound stupid at all. You decided to do something for yourself and you’re enjoying it. It is an adventure.’

  ‘I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this,’ Grace cut in. ‘I never talk about how I feel, and now look at me, blurting all this out. And I’m crying. I never cry. I’m so sorry. But you see, it was all so different. As though I was different, as though I’d let go of a whole lot of things. I mean, I haven’t phoned my office for six days, not since the morning I arrived. You don’t know what that means for me.’

  ‘I think I’m starting to get the picture,’ Vivienne said.

  ‘And now it’s all gone, I have to pick everything up again. It seems … well, it seems so hard. I feel disappointed and … and …’