A Single Thread Page 13

  “Why such a rule?”

  Arthur shrugged. “It is simply one of the rules of the puzzle. There’s a method to it – a mathematical pattern, if you like – that runs us through all the variations. Eventually we get back to the beginning – the descending scale, or rounds.”

  Violet frowned. Now it was like Arthur was speaking German. “Can you hear the patterns as you ring?”

  “I can, because I’ve been ringing for forty-nine years. Beginners don’t, but they learn to discern.”

  He was sixty. Violet tried not to be surprised, or … disappointed. But – sixty. He was twenty-two years older than she. If she was going to be drawn to a man, he should at least be closer to her age, and not have a wife. She shook her head to clear it of these sobering thoughts. They were just friends, now, after all. “And the people you are ringing for?”

  Arthur looked puzzled.

  “Everyone in Nether Wallop or Winchester who can hear the bells,” she explained. “They don’t know what they’re hearing. They don’t know what the pattern is.”

  “No, I suppose they don’t.”

  Violet picked at a bit of goosegrass in the hedgerow. “Isn’t it – well, a bit intrusive? For everyone to hear the bells so insistently, but not know what it is about?”

  Arthur gave her a sideways glance. “Are you suggesting we are selfishly ringing for ourselves?”

  “No, no, I’m not suggesting that.” Actually she was.

  “Perhaps we are. Would you rather we rang a tune?” His mild emphasis made Violet think of the publican at the John O’ Gaunt, and she shuddered. She did not want to be placed in the same category.

  “Of course not,” she hurried to reply. “But there are patterns that are easily recognisable. The descending scale, for instance, is not a tune but it is familiar to most people. And the sound on the quarter hours and before the hour tolls – La-la-la-laaa; la-la-la-laaa,” she sang, then stopped, embarrassed to have sung something that a bellringer of fifty years clearly knew – that indeed, everyone knew. It was like singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” to an opera singer and asking if they recognised it.

  “I know it seems peculiar,” Arthur admitted, “but we English are peculiar. We like to ring in mathematical sequences rather than melodies. However, if you pay close attention to the bells – which most people don’t do – then you may begin to pick out some of the patterns.”

  “I did, actually. When you first rang this morning I caught snatches of repetitions, but they kept changing and I couldn’t keep up.”

  “There’s something quite mysterious about the pattern of bells ringing – more so than if it were a melody, which would be too predictable. A little complexity can be a good thing. I think people sense there is a form holding it all together. Must they know what that form is to enjoy it?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  They had reached a stile along the road, and Arthur climbed over it with ease, Violet following. They had come to the edge of a field full of clover humming with bees in the flowers. “This is awfully pleasant,” she remarked as they started along a narrow track, the bees buzzing around them. “I hope the weather is this nice when I go through the New Forest.”

  Arthur glanced at her. “Have you walked there before?”

  “A few times with my family.”

  “So you know how empty it can be. Even during the summer you can go for hours without seeing anyone.”

  Violet wiped her brow, for the sun was already making her hot. Arthur had placed his finger right where she was most sensitive. Since the man in the corn, she’d been fretting about that part of her trip. She had never really liked the New Forest. It was somewhat misnamed: while there were woods, much of it was actually heathland. Perhaps there had been more trees back when William the Conqueror named it a royal forest. While woods could conceal things, Violet had always found open scrubby pasture unnerved her. It was wilder and more untended, and made her think of unruly hair or a desk with papers scattered everywhere. The disorder threatened to spill into unpredictable behaviour. But the New Forest stood between Salisbury and the ferry to the Isle of Wight, and if she was to have a walking holiday, she must go through it.

  She wondered if Arthur ever felt uneasy walking on his own. She suspected not. Men walked through the world as if it belonged to them. Though tempted to tell him of her anxiety, instead she said, “I expect there will be holiday makers there. And it’s only for two days.”

  “Have you walked on your own before?”

  “Not a long walk, no. Just to St Catherine’s Hill and back – that sort of thing.”

  “It can be lonely.”

  Violet shrugged.

  Arthur gave her a sad smile, which irritated her. She did not want pity. “I don’t mind being alone. I’m used to it.” She was sharp – too sharp, for he flinched. “It is a little odd walking alone out here,” she relented, and waved at the rolling green and yellow landscape around them.

  “You could always take the train to Lymington. Spend an extra day or two in Salisbury going out on walks.”

  Violet smiled. “Are you trying to organise me?”

  Arthur bowed his head. “My apologies. It’s just that I’m not sure the countryside is as open to a woman on her own as you might wish it to be. I would be concerned if my daughter were walking alone.”

  Violet’s smile faded. Bringing up his daughter reminded her that they were probably of a similar age. “I shall manage,” she said stiffly, though she wondered if she would.

  “I expect you will.”

  They walked in silence then, and after several stiles and fields they reached the Roman road. While it was not much improved, here a motor car could more or less drive along it, though there were none; people were likely at church or preparing their Sunday roast.

  Arthur gazed along the Roman road where it came from Horsebridge, five miles east. He didn’t say, but Violet knew he was looking for the corn man, Jack Wells. She had tried not to think of him as they walked, but now that she was soon to be on her own again, fear flared. To hide it she busied herself with her map, though she fumbled with the folds, taking some time to find the right section and refold it into a reasonably sized rectangle.

  “So, we are here.” Arthur placed a finger on the map with the decisiveness of a man who understood measurement and the beauty of knowing exactly where he was. He was probably always the navigator when he went walking with others. “It’s just a mile and a half straight walk along the road till you reach Winterslow and the Lion’s Head. It’ll be noon so it will be open for dinner or coffee or whatever you like. I’ll walk you along for a mile or so until we reach a path I can take back to Nether Wallop.”

  Violet nodded. They set off along the Roman road, which had trees on one side and a high hedgerow on the other. They walked quickly now, as if they were hurrying to get away from someone – which she supposed they were. The presence of the man from the cornfield somewhere behind them was strong even when he was not in sight – perhaps because he was not in sight.

  They passed through a wood, and near its edge a path turned north that would take Arthur home. Ahead in the sunlight she could see the houses of Winterslow, half a mile away. Arthur took off the rucksack and helped her to put it on. It was damp with his sweat.

  “Thank you very much for walking me this far,” she said.

  Arthur nodded. “Of course.”

  “Do you know, I’m afraid I don’t even know your surname.”

  “Knight. Arthur Knight.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr Knight.”

  “Oh, call me Arthur.”

  “And me, Violet.”

  “Violet, then.” He gave a little bow. “It was my pleasure, Violet Speedwell.” Since mentioning his daughter, they had retreated into formality, even when deciding to use first names. They shook hands, and Arthur held onto hers for a moment. “I should be glad if you could ring tonight to tell me you’ve got safely to Salisbury. Perhaps it would be best to ring the pub a
nd tell them. I’ll be there tonight for darts and they can tell me.”

  “All right. Thanks again. I’m ever so grateful.”

  “Have a good rest of your trip. I’ll see you in the autumn, at the Cathedral.”

  She nodded, then turned and walked up the road into the sunlight. When she glanced back, Arthur was standing in the road, the gloom of the wood behind him. He raised his hand and she matched it with hers. Ten minutes later when she arrived at the edge of the village, she turned back to look again. The wood was far away now, but she thought she could see a figure still standing guard in the road. Just in case, she waved.

  Chapter 12

  “YOU FINISHED THIS ON holiday? Well done!” Gilda and Violet were sitting over rock cakes at Awdry’s, and Gilda was examining Violet’s kneeler top: the first Cathedral broderer to see it. It made Violet nervous, though not as much as the inspection by Mrs Biggins or Louisa Pesel would later that morning.

  The kneeler design was similar to DJ’s: a central knot of chequered-cap acorns nestling amongst stylised oak leaves in different shades of blue, on a background of yellow. Surrounding the knot was a sea of different blue rectangles – the same blues Violet had been assigned to sort the first time she attended a broderers’ meeting – crosshatched to look as if the whole thing had been woven. Violet had thought it a handsome design when she had it at home, but now suspected it would sink into anonymity amongst the other kneelers in the Cathedral presbytery. It was not meant to stand out, she reminded herself. The whole idea of the kneelers and the cushions was to provide a consistent sense of colour and design and tone. A kneeler that stood out from the others would not be acceptable, just as a stitch that stood out was not. There needed to be overall continuity, though with individual touches. But Violet knew she would be able to find this one in the sea of similar kneelers, like a mother able to spot her own child from a playground full of pupils wearing identical school uniforms, recognising a certain run or turn of the head or some sticky-out ears as those of her own offspring. Violet knew every stitch of this kneeler. She had worked on it at night in her guest house in Salisbury, and in the familiar guest house in Ventnor. The weather on the Isle of Wight had been poor, and instead of walking out in the rain as she would have done with Tom or her father, Violet had sat inside in the bay window with a view of the stormy sea, and embroidered meticulously, unpicking stitches when she felt they weren’t exactly even. Back home she had finished it in her landlady’s front room, making the last stitches while listening to Jack Payne and His BBC Dance Orchestra on the wireless.

  “Surely you didn’t spend all of your time embroidering?” Gilda accused her. “That’s not what a holiday is for, is it? It may be what Miss Pesel and old Biggins do on holiday, because they eat and breathe embroidery. But not us.”

  “Oh, I did other things. I went walking, and I stayed in Salisbury for a few days and saw Old Sarum and Stonehenge and the ruins of Clarendon Palace. And the Cathedral, of course.” She did not mention Arthur and Nether Wallop, though she knew she should since it was Gilda who had introduced them. It would be suspicious if she did not say she’d seen him. And yet she did not. Such a decision went hand in hand with her stepping back out of sight of Arthur’s wife, and phoning the pub rather than his house to tell him she’d arrived safely in Salisbury. When she’d rung the Five Bells and spoken to the publican, he’d said in his gruff way that Arthur was there playing darts and he’d give him the message. Violet could hear in the background the thup—thup—thup of the darts hitting the board, and perhaps even Arthur’s measured tone, and her heart had contracted. She wanted to ask the publican to put Arthur on, but she couldn’t bring herself to because the man hadn’t offered to fetch him. Instead she’d been silent, and the publican had waited until at last he’d prompted her – “The message, miss?” – and Violet stammered out that she was well, her walk had been without incident, that she was staying in Salisbury and would take the train to the Isle of Wight. And to thank him.

  “Thank him for what?” the publican had asked.

  “Thank him for his handkerchief,” she’d said, and hung up.

  “Don’t mention Salisbury Cathedral to any of them in this Cathedral!” Gilda nodded in the direction of Winchester Cathedral a few streets away. “They don’t like to be compared – because they know they’ll come out the worse!”

  Violet had been dazzled by Salisbury Cathedral, in particular its ornate spire and its position dominating the skyline from all around the city. It also had a light-filled octagonal chapter house where an original Magna Carta was on display, and a stunning variety of stained glass. “I don’t know,” she said. “I admired it enormously, but it is a bit – brown inside. There’s an awful lot of dark marble. And it doesn’t have Jane Austen or Izaak Walton buried there. Or the Great West Window. Or William Walker’s diving heroics.”

  “Or the longest nave in Christendom. Or beautiful kneelers!” Gilda patted Violet’s. “What lovely, even stitching. Watch out – Miss Pesel will have you working on the history cushions before long!”

  “I doubt that. Only the most experienced broderers work on them, surely?”

  “Perhaps. But you could make some of the background of the long bench cushions, at least. Not just the borders.” Gilda sat back and sipped her coffee. “I didn’t sew half as much as I meant to this summer,” she announced. “On holiday I was too busy getting away from awful Olive. You’ve never known such a tragicomical character!”

  You have not met my mother, Violet thought.

  “But how was it, being all on your own on holiday?”

  “It was – fine.” Because it had been, apart from the man in the corn. Violet had seen interesting things and gone interesting places and not felt too lonely. Only at supper was it sometimes hard, when she was surrounded by people eating together and chatting and casting pitying looks at her. She tried bringing a book to the table but it was too clear a signal of attempting not to care and caring dreadfully. A newspaper or magazine was better, as long as she didn’t read it in too absorbed a manner, but glanced at it casually. Sometimes curious people at neighbouring tables struck up conversations. It was not always pleasant: the women often seemed threatened; the men, amused. “Where are you going? All alone? Gosh! Isn’t it lonely?”

  Violet never admitted that she was lonely, instead brightly claiming she was meeting all sorts of people and having the gayest time. She did not tell them about the nights she sat in her room, smoking and reading Trollope or embroidering or searching her guidebook for one more hillfort she might walk to or church she had not yet visited. Salisbury was new enough to her for there to be plenty to do. But she had been to the Isle of Wight so many times before and could revisit old haunts such as Carisbrooke Castle or the folly at Luccombe Chine only so many times. She began to sleep late and go to bed early, and go to the pictures during the day when it rained. One afternoon she saw Self Made Lady, about a fashion designer whose secret admirer was a boxer. It was so silly – so far removed from what it really was like to be self-made – that afterwards to cheer herself up Violet went to a hotel and sat with a sherry, waiting. No one came. Perhaps potential men sensed her heart was not in it.

  The next day she returned to Winchester a few days early – though she did not tell Gilda this, nor Tom or her mother. Especially not them. Instead she presented her walking holiday as a triumph marred only by blisters that forced her to take the train through the New Forest part of the trip. “Oh, I’m glad, old girl,” Tom had said, clearly relieved that abandoning his sister had not damaged her. Violet wondered afterwards if perhaps she had overdone her enthusiasm and they might expect her to take her holidays on her own from now on.

  Only Marjory seemed to have missed her. When Violet visited them one Sunday in early September, her niece ran to show her the embroidery she’d done while on holiday. It was a tangle of skipped stitches and twisted wool, but she had managed the basics, and the stitches were recognisable. Violet praised it extravagantl
y and promised to teach Marjory more after tea.

  Mrs Speedwell was more sanguine than Violet had expected about her holiday in Hastings. “Oh, the weather was dismal,” she declared when asked, almost gleeful. “But it was good to make a change.”

  Violet opened her mouth, then stopped. Had her mother not enjoyed the family trips to the Isle of Wight? She had never said. Perhaps they had never asked her. Violet always assumed Mrs Speedwell would be the first to want to maintain a tradition.

  Her mother asked no questions about her daughter’s own trip, and though Violet hadn’t expected her to, it hurt nonetheless.

  Gilda made up for it at Awdry’s with lots of questions. Only one unsettled Violet. “So did you meet anyone?” She smiled slyly, tapping her coffee cup.

  “I met many people.” Violet knew what Gilda was really asking but chose to dodge it.

  “You know – someone … interesting.”

  Violet went pink, and for a horrible moment she thought Gilda already knew she’d seen Arthur.

  “You did meet someone!” Gilda cried, delighted at Violet’s embarrassment.

  “No – no, I didn’t.” She wondered if she should tell her about the sherry men, to distract her.

  “You did.”

  “No – I—” To cover her embarrassment about Arthur, Violet found herself telling Gilda about the man in the cornfield, though she hadn’t meant to tell anyone; she was trying to put that episode aside. She left out the part about seeing him again at Nether Wallop, and she did not use his name. He was simply the man in the corn.

  “Rotter!” Gilda muttered in sympathy, getting glances from customers at neighbouring tables. “Men can be so awful.”

  “But never mind about that. That’s done with.” Violet wrenched the conversation onto another track. “What about you? Did you meet someone at Swanage?” It was not the sort of question she would normally ask of a friend Gilda’s age, freighted as it was with inappropriate expectations and certain disappointment.