In between the decorating and the cooking, the wrapping and the tidying, there has been a flurry of sewing in this house. It had been a slow start to the season, with nothing but a woollen skirt completed until the day Ilse and I sorted the fabrics, but since then I have not stopped.
We finished her quilt first, then mine. There was a rush of pre-Christmas sewing: dolls’ dresses, a hat, an armful of bags, a quilted table runner – all squeezed into odd moments between the festivities. Sometimes I cut the fabric in the evenings and left it out ready for a morning burst, and like the shoemaker I was amazed to see so much come together.
Since Christmas day there has been more rhythm to it. I work at my machine all afternoon until evening comes, then finish each piece, by hand, close to the fire.
I’ve not been alone. Ilse and Seb are by my side more often than not, also stitching. A cross-stitch kit, received on Christmas day. Pouches for treasures old and new. A flag, ready to fly in an island camp for the latest game of let’s pretend.
I love sewing with children. They make whatever their world demands, with confidence and considerable skill, and with none of the doubt of adults. When things don’t go to plan, the plan changes. And no matter how much help they receive, they have always made it all by themselves.
So while they sewed flags and pouches, I worked my way through a pile of offcuts, making shoppers and potholders, pencil cases and peg bags. Even the tiniest scraps were made into bookmarks and little pockets, just waiting to be filled with next summer’s lavender. And despite the odd thing being claimed by someone or other – and who could deny their littlest girl a mummy-made pencil case? – I have a shelf full of presents and empty of remnants.
We are getting back into the swing of it, my machine and I. We are ready now to tackle the next round of sewing: a summer frock for each of the girls and myself, and new shirts for Seb. I have a dress, passed on to me by my friend Miss Stevens, waiting patiently for alterations. There’s a new-to-me chair which needs upholstering. Bigger projects for when the children are back at school, to fill the quiet of the house.
Because this is the time for sewing. For emptying the shelves, ready for new fabrics in the new year. For ensuring that we are all ready for spring, with something fresh and light and floral. I have until April, when the weeds start to overtake my seedlings. When my machine will go to rest in the cupboard for the whole long summer. When the only sewing I might do is by hand on a garden bench, in odd moments of slanting northern sunshine. There are so many other places to be in summer, so many other things to do.
I fastened the last thread on the last gift yesterday evening, and found that I needed to pause. To pause, but not to stop. I took up the seed catalogue instead. I think I’ll spend the day in the garden, today. But I won’t stay out there too long. I’ll be back soon, at my machine, not too far from the warmth of the fire and the explorers’ camp behind the settee. I have sewing to do.— December 31, 1930