“Not yet.”
“Well, a reprint’s no big deal. Relax, Sandra, it’s not the end of the world. Now, how about staying for dinner? Do you want a glass of red?”
“No. I have to pick up stuff for Martha.”
“Ah, so you’re looking after her. Good for you. But you can do that later, can’t you?”
“No, I’ve got lectures to prepare.”
It’s always been your project, Kate had said. Selfish Sandra strikes again. Martha’s closed eyes, Jack’s face turned away, shutting her out. Retreating inside themselves, where she couldn’t reach.
At the door Kate gave Sandra a hug and looked her in the eye.
“You’re not such a bad old stick,” she said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
ON THE way to Martha’s it started to rain. Sandra stood under the postage-stamp awning at the front door and fished in her handbag for Martha’s key on its yellow rubber-duck key ring. The duck waggled at her merrily as she fiddled with the unfamiliar lock. The wind started up again and the rain blew in under the awning at her stockinged legs. Then the key turned, and she was in, into the warm dark, the faint smell of mothballs, and a sudden silence.
She felt for the light switch and turned it on, then edged around the orange horse and looked it full in the face.
“Hello, horse,” she said, her voice raspy in the silent room. “Your creator is sick. You won’t be going to the show.” The horse looked different. It was smiling at her somehow, but what exactly Martha had tweaked to give it that funny look of amusement, Sandra couldn’t say. It had grown at the edges, too. Martha had done more work on the rump, and the saddle shape extended farther downward.
Staring around the small room, Sandra realized that on earlier occasions she had noticed only the more obvious pieces of knitting—the horse, a couple of rugs thrown over chairs, a cap on a hook by the door. Her attention had been on finding patterns, taking Martha—and her bags—shopping. She had never paid proper attention to the smaller details of Martha’s homey little nest.
It was a soft place of curving surfaces, padded chairs, woven rugs. There were lots of cushions—patchwork, crochet, knitted, appliqué, woven, embroidered, even a battered-looking cushion made from tubes of French knitting. Each was beautiful, marrying texture to color. The color of the walls, cream—or was it pale gray or green? Sandra couldn’t tell in this light—made a peaceful foil to the bright clusters of color. There was a Bakelite radio, a relic from the farm, perhaps. Surely Martha wasn’t into buying expensive retro. Faced toward the radio was an aging cane chair, sturdily made, its deep hollow softened with a cushion of intricate drawn thread work. A granny rug hung neatly on its back.
Along the main wall was a miner’s seat, the rich Moroccan coverlet exactly picking up the colors of the hooked rug below. At one end of the seat—Sandra smiled in spite of herself—was piled a zoo of tiny animals, a winking donkey, a tightly knitted miniature python, a woolly lamb leaning on a regal lion, a happy dog with pink tongue lolling, a little red hen, a whiskered mouse in a tartan waistcoat. At the other end was a fat, squashy cushion embroidered into a friendly elephant, its trunk curled up toward the sultan and his wife and children in the howdah on its back. And tucked into the corner on the floor was a hippopotamus footstool, shaped so that it seemed to rise from the blue carpet as though from water.
Sandra moved through to the kitchen. On the bulletin board were various knitting pictures and patterns. Some she recognized as garments they had chosen for the exhibition—a variation of a Kaffe Fassett jacket in glorious merging stripes, the neck-to-knee woolen bathing suit. But there were others too; a black-and-white portrait of a nun knitting and laughing, a reproduction of a medieval knitting Madonna, a mother and child wearing sweaters connected by enormous sleeves. Down one side Martha had stuck the wool samples from wholesale suppliers, their bright tufted rows softening the edge of the board. Below them sprouted a forest of glass-topped pins, and in one corner was a nursery label for a pink rose named Martha. The electricity bill was pinned up too, such a small amount that Sandra wondered if there was an error. On the counter was a loose cluster of knitting needles, as though Martha had been sorting them when she’d been suddenly called away. The only other items on the counter were a small tray of sugar, salt, sauce, and vinegar, and a bunch of now wilted daffodils. Sandra, guiltily curious, opened the cupboard near the stove, where she found a neat stack of three saucepans, two casserole dishes with lids, and a lemon squeezer and grater.
In the sink was one dirty teacup. Sandra paused. Should she wash it or let it be? She left it.
Sandra had looked at many such units once when she was searching for an investment property, though none anywhere near so cheerful or innocent. She went back through the living room to the closed door of what she knew would be the smaller bedroom. She pushed open the door and turned on the light. Oh yes, Martha’s workroom, the room jeweled with piles of colored wool, where Martha had brought her to find the pattern books. Sandra looked around properly this time, to take it all in.
The wall opposite the door was taken up with a large window. The blind was up, and Sandra could see nothing except her own reflection. It was like being inside a fish tank. Sandra pulled down the blind and closed the curtains, then turned to look at the room.
By the window were a work table and a high-seated chair, small and straight-backed. A work chair. On the table were a couple of folded finished garments. Sandra shook them out, the man’s bathing suit, the maroon skirt Martha had been making the night they knitted together. The walls crowded with Martha’s pictures observed Sandra’s clumsy efforts to refold the garments. It took her some time to get them just as they were.
As she turned to leave, she saw that the back of the door was also covered with pictures, of animals this time, the smooth sleek lines of dolphins, the intelligent eyes of chimps, a close-up of a lion’s paw. With the door shut it would look as though a horde of animals was jammed in the doorway.
Pajamas. She had come for pajamas. Sandra left the workroom, shut the door, and entered the main bedroom. The bed was a mess from when Martha had left for hospital. Sandra stripped and remade the bed with clean sheets from a linen cupboard smelling of lavender, put the hot water bottle in the laundry, bundled up the dirty sheets, and put them by the door to take home to wash.
The pajamas, a pair of red flannelette tartans and another pair covered in whimsical small elephants, were where Martha had told her, in the bedside locker. Martha’s undies were full-bodied practical cotton, each pair folded in half and neatly stacked. Sandra wouldn’t have wanted anyone looking in her undies drawer.
Did Martha have a dressing gown? The night she had gone in to hospital Sandra had quickly grabbed her coat, but perhaps she would be more comfortable in a gown.
No hooks on the bedroom door. Sandra opened one side of the wardrobe and was flooded with the smell of mothballs. Half a dozen knitted garments, pressed and tidy on their hangers: another skirt for the exhibition, an intarsia sweater of an enormous flannel flower, a man’s V-neck sleeveless pullover in gray and blue—more garments than she had expected. A child’s sweater with a blue and red train emblazoned on the front, and—what was this? Sandra took it out.
It was a long dress. No—it was a gown, knitted in cream wool, a fine lace stitch, and somehow vaguely familiar, surely no more than two-ply. The fabric had a sheen to it, even in this dim light. In Sandra’s touch-starved hands it felt soft as petals. At the neck was a triangular insert of diamond lacework, a tiny pearl centered in each diamond. Clustered randomly over the lacework was a delicate appliqué of knitted serrated leaves and open-faced roses.
Sandra lifted the hem toward the light to examine the skirt. It was a pattern she didn’t recognize, but at the hem were more roses, hundreds of tiny roses, in the same pattern as the bodice, and edged in a kind of lace. It was the garment Martha had been making at the beach house. What had she called it? Roseheart.
This work made the o
range horse, with all its intricacies and cleverness, look coarse and clumsy.
There were no seams; it had been knitted in the round. The full skirt was knitted down from the bodice in a series of graduated increases, so that the whole garment draped to the floor with graceful simplicity. The neck was slightly scooped and lace-edged; the long sleeves, like the body, were seamless. Lace edging at the wrists matched that of neck and hem.
Sandra slipped the dress, soft and warm as a new spring day, from the hanger. She held it against herself. It was about her size, and from the mirror she could see the length was just right. She suddenly had a great longing to know how it felt to wear such a dress. Would it matter if she tried it on? It was such an intimate thing to do. Would Martha mind? This must be Martha’s sales cupboard. Such varied works. Who would have ordered this? A bride, perhaps. Had this job competed with the exhibition pieces?
Sandra’s skin craved the full sensation of that dress. Surely it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t as though she were going anywhere—she wasn’t even leaving the room.
How could plain, stubborn Martha—sick, slightly mad Martha, who didn’t dress particularly well herself—create such a garment?
Sandra closed her eyes and let the dress flow through her fingers. It felt so good, she did it several times, then held it to her face. Tears came to her eyes, though she hardly knew why; perhaps it was the baby wool, the hint of tenderness.
Suddenly music burst into the room, only a few bars, followed by silence. Sandra walked around the flat, listening at windows, but heard nothing now except the sound of cars from the main road. It was as though someone had put on a CD, then immediately turned it off. She recognized it, though, the familiar cello query that opened Invitation to the Dance. Jack had waltzed her around the kitchen to that. But Sandra had known it even before she met Jack; as a young teenager she had played the original piano version, her waltz a mechanical ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three, until the teacher begged her to give it her proper attention, to listen for the courtesy of the invitation, to be gracious in the response, and to dance with the sudden surprise of gaiety and frolic.
In a flash of irritability Sandra hung the dress back on the hanger, aware now that her own clothes scratched like sandpaper, that there was no warmth or elasticity in polyester. She opened the other side of the wardrobe. These clothes she recognized, shirts and pants, Martha’s knitted sweaters, her plain green waterproof jacket with the big pockets, and there, on the end, a faded chenille dressing gown. Clean and neat and ordinary. Sandra pulled out the dressing gown, folded it, and put it with the other things. After searching, she eventually found a plastic bag in the laundry, hanging on a hook by itself. She would take the clothing to Martha on her way to work.
MARTHA was still not responding to the antibiotics. She heard the doctors and their students having a conference outside her door. She had been moved into a room by herself.
They left and she dozed a little. The cleaner came in, pushing his trolley of mops and cloths and squirters. He smiled at her and went into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. He was a quiet worker, efficient and unassuming; Martha sensed he took pleasure in his work, in cleaning and ordering and keeping patients comfortable.
He came out of the bathroom and wiped down the adjustable meal table that swung over the bed. Martha watched him without moving. He looked at her and smiled.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Terrible,” said Martha miserably. “Hot as hell. And I have terrible nightmares.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Make me better, thanks. I’m sick of this. And I’m so tired. I sleep and sleep, but it doesn’t make any difference. Everything’s hot. Everything hurts. I’m a mess.” She felt a tear trickle down the side of her face and into her ear.
The cleaner took her hand and held it for a moment. His hands were sweet and cool.
“Dear Martha,” he said. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
CLIFF went to see his sister Joyce and asked for a large piece of wrapping paper. Joyce got out her stash of recycled, neatly ironed paper, folded down into an old shoebox.
“What do you want it for, Cliff?”
But he wouldn’t say.
She offered him some strong brown paper, suitable for a man.
“No. Something pretty.”
“How about this?” Sunflowers, large and yellow bright.
“Nope.”
“This?” It was a tricksy piece with rainbow patterns under a silver surface. Cliff had liked a bit of glitz in his youth and thought the paper beautiful, but it wasn’t what he was after this time.
“Nope.”
“What, then? You choose, for goodness’ sake. I don’t know what you want! Take whatever you like.” Cliff leafed through them.
“This one.” Pale pink. Well, you never could tell. “And I’ll be needing some ribbon.”
Joyce raised her eyebrows high at him but kept her mouth shut. She opened a cookie tin and offered him a dozen or so neat rolls of ribbon.
Cliff chose pink again, popped the ribbon into his shirt pocket, thanked her, and left. Joyce walked him through the garden to the gate and watched till he was out of sight.
Cliff waited a decent interval, then started picking roses that hung over fences. Some of them seemed determined to stay with the bush. Pity he hadn’t thought of scissors, but it was too late now. After the first half dozen he had perfected his technique, quick and efficient, so that he hardly had to slow down as he passed and picked.
In the parklands Cliff sat on a bench to organize his bouquet. They were good roses, more than thirty of them, better than any florist job. He bunched and rebunched the roses till the arrangement suited him, then folded them into the pink paper. The ribbon was too long, but he made a drooping bow and carried them in the crook of his arm through the city streets to the hospital.
When he got there Martha was sleeping, though she looked restless. Cliff meekly left his roses at the foot of the bed. As he was leaving, a man came along the corridor and spoke to him.
“Would you like to put those roses in water?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Cliff, and went back and picked them up again.
The man led him to a small kitchen with a cupboard full of glass jars.
“Take your pick,” he said.
Cliff chose a wide-mouthed sturdy jar and took some care arranging the roses. The man watched him until he was nearly finished, then spoke again.
“You must have a beautiful garden.”
Cliff looked him in the eye.
“I do,” he said. “Adelaide’s a beautiful place this time of the year.”
The man laughed.
“It surely is,” he said. “Nice to see someone enjoy it.”
MARTHA was still hot. She had heard Cliff put the jar of roses on her bedside cupboard but had kept her eyes closed until he left. It was too much effort to talk. There was a heat deep down inside her belly somewhere, and it was burning her up, burning her inside out, and if the hospital wasn’t careful it would get burnt up too. She wasn’t sweaty anymore, she had no moisture left; it had all cooked out of her like herbs in the oven. She was going to shrivel up like a burnt black sausage and be no good for anything, no good for anything at all. The next time they came to take her temperature they’d find nothing but a little pile of gray ash with a few sticks of bones, like Mary Sherbet said happened at the crematorium. Poor old Martha, they’d say, all burnt up for want of water. Shriveled herself to death, all those mistakes just like kindling. Spontaneous combustion.
And then she saw the cleaner at the foot of the bed. His appearance had altered, but she knew who he was, all right. Through her feverish eyes he was as hot and burning as she was, but it was different for him, he wasn’t burning up, he was just burning, white-hot, a steady flame that she wouldn’t normally look at because it was light to burn your eyes out. But they were burning anyhow, so what the heck, she might as well get it over with. As he c
ame closer she could smell his fire; it was hot and sweet and roses somehow, ashes of roses. He was even hotter than she was, his heat was crackling her up inside and out, burning her senses, her common sense, her sensibility, to big black cinders. This was it, then. This was the end. With a huge sigh of relief she gave herself up to whatever was coming next. He leaned over her. She felt the incandescence crackle into her hair, face, body, her dry hands fluttering on the sheet like autumn leaves. Breathe it in, breathe it in, breathe it in. Fire to consume everything.
With his kiss the whole room exploded into flames.
MARTHA, lying on her left side, opened her eyes. Something was missing. Without moving, she felt around inside herself for what it was, like a tongue looking for a rotten tooth that had been extracted. On the pillow next to her face was a hand. It was a left hand, she noticed, the thumb extended toward her. If it was her hand, perhaps the thumb had just slipped out of her mouth; she felt so like a baby waking up from a deep, contented sleep. The thumb moved slightly. Yes, it was her hand, and her thumb, she was making it move, just a tiny bit, like that. The hand was lying on a cotton pillowcase, and the pillow was comfortable, soft but firm, perfect. She was cozy and warm and comfortable and everything was absolutely dandy.
WHEN Sandra came into the hospital late the next day with another set of clean pajamas, Martha was sitting up in bed eating a boiled egg. The IV tubes were gone.
“Look, all better. Going home tomorrow.”
Sandra was astonished at the change. She didn’t know what to say.
“This tastes good. Had a sandwich for lunch, and now I’m allowed this.” Martha tapped the egg with her spoon. “They told me I didn’t eat for five days.”
“How do you feel?” asked Sandra.
“Good. Really good. I’d go home now, but they want to clear it with the doc in the morning.”
On the flower shelf was a big bunch of roses.
Knitting Page 17
