The Quilting Circle – Part 1: Log Cabin Pattern

The quilting circle met every Thursday in the basement of the Congregational church, under a single flickering light and a row of folding tables covered in fabric. Beatrix had come to it in September, three months after the funeral, because her sister had insisted that sitting alone in the farmhouse was not good for anyone.

She had expected a room full of women her mother's age, discussing grandchildren and the price of thread. She found that, and one man.

He was sitting at the end of the table with a square of blue calico in his lap, a needle in his right hand and an expression of quiet despair on his face.

"That's a dreadful seam," said Beatrix, before she could stop herself.

He looked up. He was tall and rawboned, with white hair cut short and the leathery hands of a man who had spent forty years on a dairy farm. His eyes were a faded, merry blue.

"I know," said Walter. "My wife always did the seams. I'm learning from the wrong end."

"Then let me show you the right one."

She sat beside him and took the needle from his stiff fingers, slowly, the way she had once taught her daughter. Her hands were steady. His were not.

"You're very patient," said Walter.

"I'm very tired of watching men do things badly," said Beatrix, and he laughed, loud and surprised, so that the women at the other end looked up and grinned.

Over the weeks, he came every Thursday. He never finished a square, but he always brought a flask of coffee for the group and a tin of molasses cookies that his neighbour's wife had made and he insisted he had baked. Beatrix started saving him the seat next to hers.

"You don't have to keep being kind," she said, one evening, when the others had gone home.

"I'm not being kind," said Walter. "I'm being selfish. You're the only person in this room who doesn't ask me how I'm holding up."

"How are you holding up?"

He was quiet for a moment, turning a square of calico between his fingers.

"Badly," he said. "I still set two cups out in the morning. And I cook for two, and then I eat the spare on the porch because I can't bear to throw it away."

Beatrix's throat tightened. She set down her needle.

"Can I ask you something?" said Walter.

"Yes."

"Would you let me come to the farm on Sunday, and eat my terrible soup, and tell you about my wife, and listen to you tell me about yours? Only if you want to."

Beatrix felt the old sadness and something new rise up together, bright and unsteady.

"Yes," she said. "But only if you promise to let me teach you the log cabin pattern, properly, with the right needle."

"Deal," said Walter, grinning. "Green?"

"Green," said Beatrix. "Very green. Now stop stabbing that poor square, Walter, and hold the needle like a gentleman."