Tangled emotions

Among the remarkable objects I found as I cleared my parents’ flat was a stash of textile handiwork, mainly crochet, lacework and embroideries in a wooden trunk. Some were made before I was born, and others during my childhood in the late 60s and early 70s, the tail end of a form of feminine self-care and (often) group therapy before its obliteration by the expansion of television.

My mother’s paternal aunt visited us once a week. Short, black-clad, with her face and neck the leathery texture of tortoise skin, she had the indeterminate age of “ancient” in my childhood eyes. She shuffled round in her uneven gait, and as soon as she sat on our wooden settle she pulled out a handiwork bag with her current crochet project. From odd comments by my mother and grandmother I knew that she must not have had a happy marriage.

Once during a conversation that hinted at sexual relationships she exclaimed, “Don’t even talk about it! I am revolted by my own clothes!” She continued to force her thin crochet hook into the hapless doily she was making, as if stabbing her husband’s eyes and pulling out the vile jelly. She worked frantically, in, out, in out, every now and then unraveling the diminishing yarn ball with a violent flick of the forearm. Out, I say!

When that trunk of delights was opened I found tens of doilies, antimacassars, coffee-table runners, serving-tray liners, all in the same sickly beige colour, in repetitive patterns and various sizes made into sets that could be displayed in rotation in dining rooms and reception rooms that were kept locked and dark in expectation of visitors. Weeks and months were measured in balls of yarn and made up a life of comme il faut.

From the world of beyond, the ancient aunt passed on her message: I was here, my life mattered, here is the proof.