"A Single Thread", "The Hating Game"

Tracy Chevalier made a solid offering in the grand tradition of the spinster novel, (as opposed to the 'marriage novel'.) It is an untaxing, soothing read, with the obligatory lesbian affair and proto-feminist sensibilities. As it happens, I have a soft spot for both embroidery and bellringing.

• It was impossible to imagine that such bad behaviour could have taken place in so solid a building, where they were now obediently reciting the Lord’s Prayer. But then, it had been impossible to imagine that solid old Britain would go to war with Germany and send so many men off to die. Afterwards the country had been put back together like the Great West Window – defiant and superficially repaired, but the damage had been done.
• “Of course you don’t. Why do we attract so many volunteers who have never held a needle? It makes our work so much more time-consuming.”
  “Perhaps you could think of me as a blank canvas, with no faults to unpick.”
• Over the centuries others had carved heads into the choir stalls, or sculpted elaborate figures of saints from marble, or designed sturdy, memorable columns and arches, or fitted together coloured glass for the windows: all glorious additions to a building whose existence was meant to make you raise your eyes to Heaven to thank God. Violet wanted to do what they had done. She was unlikely to have children now, so if she was to make a mark on the world, she would have to do so in another way.
• Arthur was holding out a handkerchief with quiet understanding. Even almost fourteen years after the War’s end, no one was surprised by sudden tears.
• “We are not knitting, actually,” she said. “We’re doing canvas embroidery. The contemporary version of spinning, you might say.” At Olive’s puzzled frown, she added, “Spinning wool. That’s where ‘spinster’ comes from.”
• 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.
• “What exactly is a peal?”
  Arthur pointed above them. “There are twelve bells up there. Each time they all ring one after the other is a round, or a change. You remember from Nether Wallop? Now, you know one round that is familiar – the descending scale. Imagine that you are ringing eight bells and you ring that scale. Next you switch the order of two of the bells – say the first and second bells – so that change is slightly different from the last one. Then you switch two more, or two pairs at the same time. Each time it sounds slightly different.
• Evelyn prided herself on being unflappable, and had managed to keep herself tidy and contained during her first two pregnancies. This one, however, seemed to burgeon beyond her, and Violet caught her looking wild-eyed and bewildered, a queen whose subjects are unruly for no reason.
• “I have always admired bells,” Dorothy said. “They bring a space to life.”
• Even so she developed chilblains on her fingers. They made her think of the ringing chamber and what Keith Bain had said about the cold up there. The men ringing would be getting chilblains on their toes.
• Gilda was popular with the other women, so there had been more of a sense of betrayal, that they had invested in someone they could no longer trust; whereas Dorothy had always been a mystery, so was harder to judge.
• “Father always said fishing is about not fishing as much as fishing.”
  “Indeed. And about not thinking. We all need to do things that take us out of ourselves.”
• They stood, and it could have been awkward, yet it wasn’t. The touch of their hands had communicated something concrete that Violet would always feel and treasure, whatever happened. It was like being given a coin that you could hold in your hand and feel its metallic solidity; and, spend or not spend, you know its value.
• She thought of all the pieces of Winchester she had gathered together over the past fifteen months – her room at Mrs Harvey’s, the office with Maureen, the broderers, Louisa Pesel, Gilda, Dorothy, the bellringers, Keith Bain and, most of all, Arthur. They were small and perhaps insignificant on their own, but placed together they made up a life of sorts.
• She rarely said their names aloud in front of her mother. They gazed at each other, the staircase between them somehow making it easier to be honest.
• Spinsters are more reliable –” he did not notice Violet grimace – “but they are likely to be off looking after their Aged Ps, aren’t they?”
  Violet looked at him. Not even referencing Dickens softened that blow.
• Instead I am reclaiming it for its true meaning. It is not the Nazi Party that gets to decide for me what interpretation to place on the fylfot. I call upon the long history of the symbol; that is what is important to me. I hope that once people see the fylfots, they will think of them every time they sit in the choir stalls, and connect them to the Cathedral and to the Bishop of Edington rather than to German fascists. The Edington sculptor used the symbol in all innocence. I have used it as an act of subversion. A single thread can make quite a difference.”
• Violet understood her sigh. When a woman wants a cup of tea, usually she has to make it for herself, and for the others around her. There is no better taste than a cup of tea someone else has made for you.
• Aut viam in veniam aut faciam. Hannibal: I will either find a way or make one.”
• It was an intent gaze, focusing on the rope and the bell and each other. It was a little like being on a seesaw with someone, carefully balanced as long as each paid attention to what the other was doing, as well as to the seesaw. For a short while she felt completely in step with Arthur and the rope and the bell.
  She was so intent on what was happening with the rope that it took a few minutes for her to become aware of the sound of the bell above them, making its singular music. Only then did she understand in the most visceral way that pulling the rope was creating this sound. “Calling all sinners,” she murmured, and smiled at Arthur.
• She closed her eyes and pictured Jean Knight the only time she had seen her, a striking figure with her hair loose and her face drinking in the sun. Forgive me, Violet thought. Forgive me for making my life from the ruins of yours.
• She was still holding the needle case. Under her fingers was the even pattern of embroidered canvas – the careful, mangled stitches made by her niece who loved her. The feel of those confident stitches snapped Violet back into the moment.
• She tucked a small white pillow with the initials AK embroidered in the corner under the covers; she had made it from Arthur’s handkerchief. “Welcome to Winchester, little one. Sic parvis magna. So great and so small.”
• Gilda and Dorothy supported Violet with their salaries. Since they did not have to pay rent, they just about managed, with Violet looking after them, the house, and Iris. It was an eye-opening arrangement, much discussed by the neighbours behind their backs, and more than once Violet had heard them referred to in hissed tones as the “house of sin”.
• So many people had unknown stories lurking: a husband gone, a surprise baby passed off as a brother or sister, a misplaced passion, a lost wife. Maybe one day Violet would hear Mabel’s. How to navigate through life carrying such things without them making you sad and bitter and judgemental – that was the challenge.
• High above them a single bell began to ring – tentative at first, like a mistake, then clanging and urgent, like the ringing she and Arthur had done together at Nether Wallop. Calling all sinners.
  “That’s Arthur,” Maureen whispered, sidling up to her. “Keith went up to tell him the christening’s finished. It’s his gift to Iris.”

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The sexual chemistry/tension in Sally Thorne's romantic romp is quite over the top but still on this side of enjoyable. The setup isn't novel: the strict doctor dad provides a target for the heroine's verbally triumph at the final climax and the romantic leads work in publishing. The timeline is quite compact.

• After an hour-long brainstorm that was filled with so much hostility the interior designer’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears, the only word Helene and Mr. Bexley would agree on to describe the new aesthetic was shiny. It was their last agreement, ever.
• Imagine it’s two minutes before the biggest interview of your life, and you look down at your white shirt. Your peacock-blue fountain pen has leaked through your pocket. Your head explodes with an obscenity and your stomach is a spike of panic over the simmering nerves. You’re an idiot and everything’s ruined. That’s the exact color of Joshua’s eyes when he looks at me.
• We’re evenly matched, but we are completely at odds.
• His eyes scanned me from the top of my head to the soles of my shoes. I’m only five feet tall so it didn’t take long. Then he looked away out the window. He did not smile back, and somehow I feel like he’s been carrying my smile around in his breast pocket ever since. He’s one up. After our initial poor start, it only took a few weeks for us to succumb to our mutual hostility.
• My clever fib was a tactical error. I study him but can’t tell where his face ends and the lie begins.
• “This is unprofessional.” He glances at the ceiling for inspiration before finding it. “HR.”
  “Is that our safe word? Okay.”
• We stare so deep into each other’s eyes we join each other in a dark 3-D computer realm; nothing but green gridlines and silence.
• The Kissing Game goes like this, Shortcake. Press, retreat, tilt, breathe, repeat. Use your hands to angle just right. Loosen up until it’s a slow, wet slide. Hear the drum of blood in your own ears? Survive on tiny puffs of air. Do not stop. Don’t even think about it. Shudder a sigh, pull back, let your opponent catch you with lips or teeth and ease you back into something even deeper. Wetter. Feel your nerve endings crackle to life with each touch of tongue. Feel a new heaviness between your legs.
  The aim of the game is to do this for the rest of your life. Screw human civilization and all it entails. This elevator is home now. This is what we do now.
  Do not fucking stop.
• I’m missing out on a pale yellow shirt today. It’s the color of nursery walls when the unborn baby’s gender is a surprise. It’s the color of my cowardly soul.
• “Let’s put our weapons down, okay?” He raises his hands to show he’s unarmed. His hands are big enough to encircle my ankles. I swallow.
  To hide my awkwardness, I mime taking a gun out of my pocket and toss it aside. He reaches into an imaginary shoulder holster and takes out a gun, putting it on his planner. I unsheathe an invisible knife from my thigh.
  “All of them.” I indicate under the desk. He reaches down to his ankle and pretends to take a handgun out of an ankle holster.
  “That’s better.” I sink into my chair and close my eyes.
• They begin bickering about my symptoms. To my ears, they sound like guys talking about sports, and the city’s current viruses are the teams.
• “Lucinda,” I whisper archly. He turns away to smile, but I catch his sleeve.
  “Don’t. I’ve already seen it.” I’m never getting over his smile.
  “Okay.” I can tell he’s confused. He’s not the only one. I’ve been staring at Joshua for so long, he’s become a color spectrum unto himself. He’s my days of the week. The squares on my calendar.
• I spot a little origami bird made of notepaper I once flicked at him during a meeting. It is balanced on the edge of the bookshelf. I look at his profile in the kitchen as he arranges two mugs on the counter in front of him. How strange to imagine him putting my tiny folded scrap in his pocket and bringing it home.
• It’s possible our size mismatch has added a friction to our interactions during our working hours. I’ve always tried to make myself stronger in the only way I can: my mind and my mouth. I think he’s converted me. I think I’m into muscles now.
• “Quite a pounding little heart you got there. And a raging case of Horny-Eye. I think it’s quite serious.”
  “Will I die?”
  “I prescribe complete couch-rest under my supervision. But it’s touch and go.”
  “I’d make a sleazy joke about your bedside manner but it would be a little redundant at this point.”
• “I want to know what’s going on in your brain. I want to juice your head like a lemon.”
  “Why do you even want to know anything about me? I thought I was going to be your one glorious bout of hate sex to cross off your list before you settle down with some Mr. Nice Guy.”
  “I want to know what sort of person I’ll be using and objectifying. What’s your favorite food?”
• You’ve got to hand it to Josh. For a prickly pear, he commits completely to a hug.
• I am acutely aware of how many people keep taking little peeks at us. “You need to tell me why everyone’s looking at me like I’m the Bride of Frankenstein. No offense, you big freak.”
• We sit in silence for a moment before he speaks again. “The worst thing is, I keep wondering what I’d be now if I’d stuck with medicine.”
  “I’ve got so much inside me I have no idea about. I’m like the mayor of a city I’ve never seen.”
  He smiles at my phrasing. “If you knew the kind of little miracles happening every moment you breathe in, you wouldn’t be able to handle it. A valve could close and not open; an artery could split, you could die. At any moment. It’s nothing but miracles inside your tiny city.”
• “I’ve never seen you in red. How come every color in the flippin’ rainbow suits you?”
• Elaine, it was a pleasure, I loved meeting you. Mindy, Patrick, congratulations again and enjoy your honeymoon. Sorry I made a scene just now. Anthony, it’s been real.”
  I stand up. “Now we screech out of here like Thelma and Louise.”