Author: Ellen Bell

I love the imagery of sewing, particularly how it is portrayed in nineteenth-century fiction, such as in Austen’s Mansfield Park: ‘…. Mrs Grant and her tambour frame were not without their use, it was in harmony‘. Though one is never sure with Austen whether she is being playfully censorious or not. I suspect the implication is that her embroidery is in fact ‘not of use’.

Yesterday was a little tough. I sank like a souffle left out of the oven too long. And the phone kept ringing with bookings. I don’t mind, I want the work but it disturbed my equilibrium. Four today, heigh ho. Back and for but I am grateful. No writing or sewing. I need a break from both sometimes. Lots of reading instead. It feeds my soul. It is good.

We both got soaked. My boots, I’ve discovered, are leaking.

Home for a bit before out again. Feet up doing this with a much needed coffee. The studio was empty when I arrived. Perfect. And the guests were lovely. Sometimes it is OK and I can see how I am blessed. And he? Well, he never lets me down. Tireless in his kindness and appreciation. I send him my writing. I need it to be read even in its raw state.

I will heal all this. They want a 24 hr urine sample and more tests. I shall acquiesce for now.

The lilies continue to captivate us. Small things.

I caught the tail end of Wilkie Collins’ short story ‘Who Killed Zebedee?’ yesterday morning when I went upstairs to prepare lunch. I’d heard an earlier instalment the week before. It was beautifully read by Ronald Pickup. I love the way Collins weaves a story. I believe he is considered as the pioneer of the detective novel. This one is a beauty. And there was a line in it that sparked my interest, particularly at this time. It was about a cook in the boarding house where the murder had taken place. She’d left afterwards, too perturbed, like the other domestic staff to stay on. And now she was ‘supporting herself by her needle’.

I have begun the second sampler, while I await the receipt of the other one, the not so tiny stitched one. It is slow going but I felt better about it yesterday, not so clumsy and ham-fisted. And it is very striking, well to me it is. The red thread against white. Gorgeous.

It was the first time that what I had been writing had made me cry. The tunnel of it is still dark. But I didn’t know that the grief was still present. Perhaps it never leaves. I will persevere today. Another 1,000 words. Just get it down. Work is quiet after all, may as well take the opportunity to concentrate and be focussed.

He was cock-a-hoop about the Supreme Court ruling yesterday.

I got soaked this morning walking. But it wasn’t unpleasant. I love the smell of the air in the rain. The kids were still out in force as were the emergency services. Kids walking home in the rain, coatless, arms bare. Two girls walked arm-in-arm, one skinny the other wider of beam, both in tight short mini skirts, their hair plastered to their heads.

Ho hum time to work. Coffee on first. Then.

I woke from a dream in which I’d been calling out ‘Help Me’. I’d been out walking, I don’t know where but in a town somewhere and two men were coming towards me. They were what he would call toffs. They were carrying opened bottles of champagne, half drunk. They were carousing noisily. I tried to pass them on one side when one of the grabbed me and began to pour the champagne down the back of my neck. My initial thought was Oh, God I’m on my way to work and I will be wet and sticky and reek of alcohol. My second was that I couldn’t feel the liquid. I’d expected the feeling of cold, of being drenched. Nevertheless he was hurting me. He was gripping me very tightly by the arm. And I began to call out. Hearing myself say it, over and over. Help me, help me. I knew that people could hear me but they did nothing and he just kept pouring.

It made me wary when I went out early this morning. Such dreams leave a residue that can last all day. Town was full of freshers weary now after their all night revelry. Walking towards the hill that climbs behind Alexandra Hall I saw two students ahead of me. The girl turned at my approach. ‘Who is this?’ she asked turning her head to look at me. I didn’t respond but kept on walking. Her companion laughed at her. ‘You can’t just talk to random people,’ he said. I heard her behind me talking about the speed I was walking and how it looked like I was marching. She slurred a little as she spoke, her body made floppy by inebriation.

Writing was hard yesterday. I stopped in the end, the tunnel had become too dark, too murky for me to see my way. I also struggled with my sewing. I am learning new techniques and I am slow and clumsy. I sew, unpick, sew again and unpick again. I always go for the harder option. I always have. Run before you can walk. Always. It shames me. I feel foolish. He came home and picked me up. Of course, you can get another, he says. Try the easier one first and come back to the harder one when you are more confident. I sink with it all sometimes. Yet my mind for all its sabotaging also tries to offer solutions. I stopped writing and then how to continue came forth. In Hotel du Lac the principal protagonist, the romantic novelist, Edith Hope is struggling with a particular chapter and realises that her approach is all wrong. She puts it away and then, like me, comes up with how to proceed the next day. It is so succinctly put. It’s always stuck with me.

They’d promised thunder showers. It was dry while I walked. He has gone prepared.

The lilies have only just opened after over a week. Their scent, so delicate, like pear drops fills the flat. She said it might bring joy and they did. They do.

Will she heal me?

Another dry morning though they’d promised rain. I put on my new white dress today. I look like a bridesmaid, or perhaps Grayson Perry. I get why he does it. It’s rather pleasant to be girlish, now and again. The clouds are building up in the distance. The shopping is all done. We are there at the supermarket by 6 am and all done and packed away by 7 am. We both appreciate the quiet of the store at that time. A few shelf-stackers are dotted around, mostly students and Eastern Europeans, but there is no piped muszak or indeed many other customers. The tall girl with the multi-coloured hair was at the till. She is a gentle soul, and refers to us in the Welsh way as ‘both’. I don’t mind. We pass the time of day, talk about the weather, mostly. As I did with our neighbour at 3.45 am. He was at his window smoking as usual. Does he know that my heart sinks a little when I see him there from the distance? Does he feel the same? We do the necessary. It is pleasant enough but I struggle to talk at that time, so wrapt am I in my thoughts.

I shall write for a couple of hours then return to my handwork in the hope that I can complete a little more of the sampler that I began yesterday. What slow work I made of it. It’s a gift and I want to get it right. You’re learning, he said. Yes, it feels like it.

So, to work. A bientot.

It was so distinct. I saw the snow, the footprints through it. It was an immense vista, it seemed as if I was flying above it, looking down. And moving fast, covering ground. I saw the Pergyl in snow, covered, so much so that I couldn’t make out the end. A dream landscape. It was in my dream. Wintery. And then beyond more land, more snow but with patches of green coming through. It was beautiful. A people-less scape, wild open, treeless. What it portends, if anything, I cannot say.

He was perturbed. The unsettled nature of the weather unsettled him. It was warm when I walked, too hot for all the gear I had on. Should he put shorts on or jeans, should he take an umbrella, should he put on waterproofs, and what shoes? He was agitated, poor lamb. It isn’t personal, it’s just weather.

My legs are swollen again today, it’s like walking with tree trunks for thighs, no give, no flexibility. He suggests changing the drugs. Ah, not again. I am weary of it. Shall I go to Lily for more of her strange potions? NO COFFEE and NO CHOCOLATE.

I’ve started to re-read Mansfield Park. It is a joy to re-encounter. I love the references to sewing, and how the work the characters choose to do so perfectly reflects their status, station and pecuniary needs. Such as with the lady of the house: ‘Lady Bertram was a woman who spent her days sitting, nicely dressed on a sopha, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty.’ Whether Austen means Lady B or the embroidery she is working is of little use of beauty I cannot be sure. It wobbled me reading this. My resolve is always so easily shaken. But I love how the needlework is a manifestation of what she stands for. Languorous idleness of no use or ornament. (And note the spelling of ‘sofa’ as ‘sopha’ – a new one on me. )

Town was full of what I can only imagine to be freshers. They look young enough. Virtually every bench along the Prom was occupied by couples canoodling. And vomit spattered the pavements. It is to be expected, I suppose. The seagulls, normally the bovver boys of the Prom have been eclipsed.

Here comes the rain.

I’m not sure what the ethics are about writing about her. She is never named. She is protected. And I can’t imagine she’d ever read this. The details are true but who would recognise them? I sometimes write of our encounters because I want to remember them, to cherish them. I am fond of her. I care what happens to her, though we’ve never met. I just call her once a week to see how she is. It was a volunteer thing initially, a telephone befriending thing, but then they stopped doing it and I continued. I’m not sure what she thinks of it, really. But she is so much better. The first time I called she had to ring off because she was having a panic attack. She is sensitive to life, as indeed am I. Her arena is small, a farming village in the hills somewhere. She lives with her daughter. I don’t know her age but she doesn’t work. Not anymore, if she ever did. There was a husband but he is long gone and I think she raised her child single-handedly. We talk of inconsequential things. Her cat and her new kittens. Her health. Her daughter’s job at a school. I fell again, she told me yesterday. Oh, no. She is bruised and shocked and more and more wary of walking out on her own, which she does every morning. Her voice changes a little when she says goodbye and thank you, always thank you. Her gentle Welsh burr becomes a little posher, self-conscious as if she’s suddenly realised that she’s chattered away and reigns it in. Sometimes she gets my name wrong. It doesn’t matter. I am a mere conduit. A voice of concern, of care. My name, my life doesn’t matter. Be steady. Be steady you dear thing.

He got angry. His anger can feel terrible to me. He climbs the stairs up the kitchen to apologise. There is nothing to apologise for. I understand it is because he is scared, worried. He spat out his bile. It doesn’t matter, my love. You can trust me. I will not do anything foolish. It was the letter that started it. The letter from the hospital. They want me to have an MRI scan of my heart. It is wild-goose chase I fear. But I will succumb. Don’t do it for me, he says. Do it for yourself. Do I want to do it? Not at all. Will my head have to go in? The idea freaks me out. Like being in a tight tunnel. I must be brave.

House all cleaned and washing hung. I shall sew and think today, iron later. It is enough. No news. My breath is held my love. x

They came, the two of them and the book. The skill I wish to acquire is a daunting one to pursue. I’ve never really been trained at anything, everything I have made and done has been by trial and error, a kind of borrowed, hot-potch of things mostly using inappropriate and impossibly fragile materials. I have no recognised skill. Now I want some. I want to do things well, with finesse and then use that finesse to subvert to make small things that upend expectations. Mine mostly. For I make, write and work for myself now. I have no (or at least try to smother) any further pretensions to fame or fortune from what I do. I am content to languish in this far out place and turn inwards.

I walked out alone yesterday afternoon as he was out seeing old friends. I lay on a bench on the Coll fields in my underwear and tried to fight of sleep. I could hear the children in the primary school playground next door. Two women sat on the steps, one of them eating her lunch. A butterfly fluttered above the grass. A man walked past me, too close, as I dozed. I woke at the sound of his steps on the gravel. Had I been sufficiently covered up? I felt a little exposed alone. I’m used to him being there. A protection. A guard against the outside world. The sun was glorious. It heals me. I need some healing. I went to far. ‘Bull at a gate’ he calls me. I need to let it rest. Not do too much. So be it. This morning I can acquiesce, yesterday I couldn’t. Work times two today, so I will snatch some time preparing the samplers.

It’s today. I think of little else. Is she scared? Is she excited? It’s a massive thing that we somehow slot into our lives. A joyous one for some, shattering for others. I hope that this time is calmer for her. Keep her safe. Please.

A beautiful day for it. The sky is clear. When we drove home from Tesco’s it was pink.

He is my wise one. I needed to listen to him and I did, lying stretched out on a bench on the Coll field, my face in the sun falling in and out of sleep and all the time his voice guiding me. He is my shaman. I am blessed. I want to absorb all the love and sagacity he has to give me before he leaves me. Who knows when that will be. I think of it sometimes as I walk. When will he decide to go and how will it be? He takes such care of me and I relish and appreciate every gesture, every touch, every kind word.

I have much to do. My first coffee has been drunk. But I shall write now. That’s it. And do it because you want to, because you’ve been given this opportunity to do so. Relish it, if only for its purging.

I can’t always explain my compulsion to do it. Germaine Greer asked in her article for The Guardian in 2007 why women wasted their time on it, describing it as ‘heroic pointlessness’. Why didn’t they just paint? she asks. Is this where my doubt, my discomfort about it comes from? I need to do it nevertheless. There is an inner quality to it, a domestic, interior-ness that painting doesn’t possess. I am doing it for myself, as no doubt those women throughout history have done. There is something so fundamental to it. I stand on the shoulders of those women, I sit amongst them. And yet I do not have their skills, my hands cannot do what theirs could do, almost without thinking. I want to learn. Do you hear me, I want to learn and then see where it takes me. I want to subvert too, but the skill must be gained first. Always. To that aim a parcel came yesterday. I open it and the red thread is luscious, a thick coil of it. So many new stitches to learn, my back tenses at the thought of it. Stain the linen with tea they suggest. I don’t think so.

A beautiful morning. Ah, but there was so much to do. I chase my tail most of the time. But the walk was worth it. The moon is still out casting its silvery beams and no wind, everything so quiet. A few stragglers and Chicken Lickin’ was open emitting its salty smells of roasted meat and one man slept in the shelter. How must it be to succumb to sleep en plein air with no protection from the cold, wind, rain or none-too-kind strangers? He was lost in his sleeping bag, a blue, headless form.

Ah, I’m late. Time to make coffee and get down to writing. It is hard going at the moment. I have to lift myself to reach it. Up those big stairs. I will keep at it. It will become clear where I am going. I am sure. I think.

I love what I learn from crosswords. Did you know that a Talbot was a hunting dog. Extinct now, apparently. Nice, eh?

What a lovely day it was yesterday. And I’d sunk a little in the morning. All that mizzly rain and dreary grey and yet when we got there the sun came out and we sat in it. Gorgeous. Everyone else there was about a hundred and five. Suits me. Suits him. Gentle lounging. And those silver coffee pots. As we left I saw a kitchen porter outside the back kitchen door polishing them. Silver pots on a white doilied-tray (should be linen but I’ll forgive them). Though one of the waiters left something to be denied with his, ‘well, that’s you done!’.

We did crosswords, with the woman doing the hotel puzzle (laid out on one of the desks in the ‘adult lounge’ (think of that, what a bliss, no muzak no kids)) once interjecting. It’s the only one I knew, she said. I watched her. She tutted when she tried a piece and it didn’t fit. I’ve only managed three, she said when we left to go. Me with my hand on her shoulder. I’d watched her. Her jowls, the bracelet of semi-precious stones around her wrist, the elastic-waisted jeans with her ‘pretty’ flowered-print blouse tucked in. Her eyebrows with their black tints (mannish) and the curls at the back of her head. And her husband on the sofa in the corner doing the Daily Mail crossword before throwing it down. I’m going to get my book, he said, as he hobbled towards the glass door, there are too many pop stars. Do you want anything from the room? His ankles were tiny (I have an obsession with ankles due to the fact that I’m frequently losing mine) and he wore beige socks in deck shoes. Many of the guests sat in the sun reading papers and drinking coffee. One of the waitresses, a sweet tall girl in black culottes, had the word ‘trainee’ emblazoned on her chest. She blushed when she made an error. It takes me back.

The moon was joy this morning. It lit up the Perygl and the roofs as I returned. They looked like mother-of-pearl. Nacre. It shone in my studio. A blessed silver light.

A day in which I felt something akin to joy. Thank you.

And all the way home I kept thinking about those red stitches.