Fic: A Friendship in Stitches: Gen
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holmes_minorTitle: A Friendship in Stitches
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Summary: Mrs. Turner & Mrs. Hudson finish their quilt.
Author's Notes: For the September prompt 'stitches' & for my Ladies Bingo square G-3 'Relationship Study.'
Marie cursed the omnibus driver. She didn’t want to be late.
There was a carefully-wrapped bottle in her lap. It was Thursday, the day that she and Martha would put the final stiches to their quilt.
It wasn’t really one quilt, of course, it was two, one for each of them, but they always called it the quilt.
It seemed like they’d been working on it since the very first day they met.
That couldn’t be right, of course, but it had been over that first cup of tea that Marie had mentioned her old blue one, and then the next day, Martha had told her about that sample sale, and they’d gone together. Martha had such a good eye for colour. She’d done most of the selecting.
And they’d decided on Thursday.
And that was that.
They’d planned. They’d cut. They’d stitched.
And they talked.
About the way the world was going. About the way the world had been, once upon a time. It was nice to talk about Sugg again; it made him seem like more than a faded photograph and a discarded surname. And Martha had the most extraordinary stories to tell about her tenants.
They talked about economy and frivolity. About when they were girls, for better and for worse. They sang the old songs and a few new ones. They laughed.
They almost always met at Marie’s because there was no telling what would be going on Martha’s, but once Martha had been so under the weather that Marie had gone with pots of soup and toddy and fussed over her friend in between stitches.
Marie’s hand was the neater one, and she liked embroidering. For Christmas, she’d given Martha a square with a bit of her favourite verse, Keats, of all things, the romantic dear, stitched in lavender thread. Marie had received, in turn, a length of glorious gossamer-wing lace that Martha said had come to her through Mister Holmes, of all people, after his trip to Paris.
They complained, of course, about the prices of things and the dirt. And they drank. Gin, mostly.
Marie tucked the bottle under her arm and hurried up the stairs. She’d just had time to set herself to rights when she heard the door.
“I brought cake!” cried Martha, which they both agreed was the best way to say ‘hello.’
---
“Cheers.”
They eyed the quilt with no little satisfaction.
“It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?” said Marie. “Our story laid out right there.”
Martha hummed. “A friendship in stitches.”
The evenings when they’d been too distracted, laughing or crying or coughing, to do much. The evenings when they’d worked in silence like ants on the campaign. The talents of each and the histories. The lost loves and the perennial comforts. The crosses they bore and the joys that gave them wings.
“Oh, Martha, I don’t want it to be finished.”
Martha hummed. “We won’t be landladies forever. Something for the country?”
“Oh, a retirement trousseau?”
“Just so! I think…”
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Summary: Mrs. Turner & Mrs. Hudson finish their quilt.
Author's Notes: For the September prompt 'stitches' & for my Ladies Bingo square G-3 'Relationship Study.'
Marie cursed the omnibus driver. She didn’t want to be late.
There was a carefully-wrapped bottle in her lap. It was Thursday, the day that she and Martha would put the final stiches to their quilt.
It wasn’t really one quilt, of course, it was two, one for each of them, but they always called it the quilt.
It seemed like they’d been working on it since the very first day they met.
That couldn’t be right, of course, but it had been over that first cup of tea that Marie had mentioned her old blue one, and then the next day, Martha had told her about that sample sale, and they’d gone together. Martha had such a good eye for colour. She’d done most of the selecting.
And they’d decided on Thursday.
And that was that.
They’d planned. They’d cut. They’d stitched.
And they talked.
About the way the world was going. About the way the world had been, once upon a time. It was nice to talk about Sugg again; it made him seem like more than a faded photograph and a discarded surname. And Martha had the most extraordinary stories to tell about her tenants.
They talked about economy and frivolity. About when they were girls, for better and for worse. They sang the old songs and a few new ones. They laughed.
They almost always met at Marie’s because there was no telling what would be going on Martha’s, but once Martha had been so under the weather that Marie had gone with pots of soup and toddy and fussed over her friend in between stitches.
Marie’s hand was the neater one, and she liked embroidering. For Christmas, she’d given Martha a square with a bit of her favourite verse, Keats, of all things, the romantic dear, stitched in lavender thread. Marie had received, in turn, a length of glorious gossamer-wing lace that Martha said had come to her through Mister Holmes, of all people, after his trip to Paris.
They complained, of course, about the prices of things and the dirt. And they drank. Gin, mostly.
Marie tucked the bottle under her arm and hurried up the stairs. She’d just had time to set herself to rights when she heard the door.
“I brought cake!” cried Martha, which they both agreed was the best way to say ‘hello.’
---
“Cheers.”
They eyed the quilt with no little satisfaction.
“It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?” said Marie. “Our story laid out right there.”
Martha hummed. “A friendship in stitches.”
The evenings when they’d been too distracted, laughing or crying or coughing, to do much. The evenings when they’d worked in silence like ants on the campaign. The talents of each and the histories. The lost loves and the perennial comforts. The crosses they bore and the joys that gave them wings.
“Oh, Martha, I don’t want it to be finished.”
Martha hummed. “We won’t be landladies forever. Something for the country?”
“Oh, a retirement trousseau?”
“Just so! I think…”
no subject
Date: 2018-09-09 03:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-09-09 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-09-09 09:15 pm (UTC)My favourite bits:
It was nice to talk about Sugg again; it made him seem like more than a faded photograph and a discarded surname.
About when they were girls, for better and for worse. They sang the old songs and a few new ones.
They almost always met at Marie’s because there was no telling what would be going on Martha’s, but once Martha had been so under the weather that Marie had gone with pots of soup and toddy and fussed over her friend in between stitches.
For Christmas, she’d given Martha a square with a bit of her favourite verse, Keats, of all things, the romantic dear, stitched in lavender thread. Marie had received, in turn, a length of glorious gossamer-wing lace that Martha said had come to her through Mister Holmes, of all people, after his trip to Paris.
“I brought cake!” cried Martha, which they both agreed was the best way to say ‘hello.’
The evenings when they’d been too distracted, laughing or crying or coughing, to do much. The evenings when they’d worked in silence like ants on the campaign. The talents of each and the histories. The lost loves and the perennial comforts. The crosses they bore and the joys that gave them wings.
no subject
Date: 2018-09-09 10:03 pm (UTC)BTW, have you read Neil Gaiman's short story "October in the Chair"? I read it this afternoon in an anthology of modern ghost stories. I seemed like a Frankles story (anthropomorphism).
no subject
Date: 2018-09-12 09:10 pm (UTC)