The crisp, clean piece of white cloth was handed to me with quiet reverence. I let it pass through my hands feeling its properties, the starched stiffness of a new project barely embarked on. Around the edges it was finished with lace trim much softer than the main fabric, delicate to the touch. The sensual rub of the lace pattern delicately dancing across my fingertips.
To one corner I noticed the transferred design boldly infringing on the stark perfection of the fabric. The bold blue lines seemed clumsy and intrusive against the elegance of the lace. Remembering my purpose I looked up to my grandmother.
Her face was lit half with amusement and half with impatience as she held out two rings in her hands waiting for me to take them. I took the white one first. The cold hard plastic was strange to the touch, its outer edge concave. I carefully placed the ring beneath the fabric meticulously lining it up so the transfer was in the centre.
I reached for the second ring. It was dusky peach in colour and completely unlike the first. It had the consistency of rubber, flopping comically in my hand. I noticed with some confusion that there was a small brass ring attached to its side glinting slightly in the sun filtering through the lacy net curtains.
I pushed the second ring over the first as I had been shown, trying to keep the material taut. It was messily done and I had to straighten it out before my grandmother noticed the imperfect ripples over the fabric. I lifted it to the light with my chubby childhood fingers marvelling at my success in the first task, which would one day enable me to create masterpieces like my grandmothers.
My hand dropped and I started to fidget on the sofa, the soft sheen navy fabric clinging to my legs in the warmth of the room. I fingered the space next to me where the large peacock stared back out at me through its fabric prison.
My stomach lurched as the lesson began.
2 comments:
Wow, this is great - but I want to read more. I think we can all remember that strange time with grandparents although my grandmother wasn't really into hand crafts we just went down the pub (much to my father's displeasure) but my great aunt tried to teach me to knit and I remember the needles slipping through sweating hands at her impatience. You much continue with this piece and turn it into a complete story - I feel there is much more to be said. Is this piece a first draft as it feels very polish and finished. (I hate saying these things as it feels condesending) but I feel you are using words in a more mature, more complete way than before and no longer afraid to refer to your own experience and memories to create pieces of work (oh dear, JC, your putting yourself in your work - what is the world coming too!!). Please, please work on this it has so much merit and is worth continuing.
Thanks Mog.
This is a first draft, pretty much exactly as it came out. I wrote it late last night so stopped to go to bed. I was thinking of continuing it plus maybe doing some more memory stories.
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