Heather D Haigh
fiction
More Darnin’ than Cloth
Written by Heather D Haigh
November light, cold and grey, struggles through a veil of grime on a small, mullioned window. Alice might say she’d clean the glass if she had time, between laundry, mendin’ and cardin’; she might say there never is time. Truth is, she prefers to leave it be, prefers to cast an eye towards her ‘usband, without watching too closely. Ezra is chopping wood. Alice knows full well, without pressing her nose to the window, how clumsily he swings the axe, how the mishits cause wooden shards to ricochet towards his face, how he presses his boot beside the blade when the axe sticks, to wrestle it out. She can hear ‘im whistling as he works—because this is man’s work, and this he CAN do. She fingers her silver wedding band and sighs.
Alice goes through to the workroom and takes up the darnin’ knob. She can’t get out of the habit of calling the back room the workroom, even though their rusting iron bed now sits in place of the loom. They always slept better in the scullery, but now the racks of dryin’ shirts sit steaming where once Ezra and Alice curled up cozy. Where they’d listen to the tickin’ of the coolin’ range as night settled in. She loathes the rows of danglin’ sleeves and stiff, starched collars. They remind her of the stiff-starched overseers who have their pick of fine linen each mornin’, and their pick o’ fine men. She sits on a chair by the bed, not by that cursed window. The window that looks down into the valley and over that bloody soot-stained mill. She doesn’t want to look at that damned chimney belching out smoke that smothers the hills like a funeral pall. Doesn’t want to regard the blackened roofs huddling by the stream, beams sagging in resignation. Doesn’t want to think about leaving their cottage to crumble and sink into the soil, to vanish beneath the sod. A fierce draft shrieks under the splitting, weather-beaten door. Alice pulls a frayed, well-patched shawl around her shoulders. She needs no reminders how harsh it is out there.
If only she could watch their donkey and cart winding its way down the path, a bolt from their loom, bound for cloth hall, and Ezra clacking the reins with both hands. He’d pause at Colley Bridge and hang the cloth to stretch while he unwrapped bread and cheese and scanned the wide blue sky. She longs to see him tossin’ crumbs to ‘edge sparrows while stroking ‘is hair back from his brow. She recalls how she’d knead the knots from Ezra’s shoulders at the end of each day. How he’d flop onto his back and pull her to him, how his arms would wrap around her, strong and solid. She misses these things so much, it makes her ache to the marrow.
She never looks at that path snaking through the hills anymore. Not since the day she watched Ezra carried up it in his own cart, two men either side, a grimness to the set o’ their shoulders, dark looks upon their faces: dark as iron and coal, dark as the forge of foul fortune, dark as mournin’. Wilson’s lad rode the cart with Ezra, bent over him while Alice watched and prayed. But prayers can’t unravel what’s woven. If only the spinner hadn’t jammed, if Ezra hadn’t been the fool who tried to fix it, if only he’d pulled away quicker. She’s glad there’s no room for a table in the workroom now, couldn’t bring herself to replace the one they burned—the rough plank table where the men laid Ezra after carrying him in, his face grey and clammy, eyes wide and glassy, a cloth around his forearm, soaked red. They bade her find a strap for him to bite on. The belt he now struggles to fasten.
They never told her what happened to the part of him that was lost.
She never asked.
Alice holds up Ezra’s socks. This pair is more darnin’ than cloth. They’ll do for bed; neither the roof nor shutters will be mended this year. Alice and Ezra will press their backs to one another for warmth, her ‘usband not admitting he favours a certain position to ease the pain. Only—last night—there was a heat she didn’t welcome, a heat in that arm, a sickly-sweet scent she hopes she imagined, a sheen on his brow that she prayed was from the day’s labours. She wouldn’t uncover him to check, daren’t wake him. Instead, she pushed herself close and listened to the rhythm of his breathin’.
It made her recall summers where they lay upon the covers, the scent of cowslips drifting through the open window, his head propped on one hand. He’d stroke her face, her shoulders and her breasts with the other. A crooked smile would play at his lips, and he’d tell her how the Lord had blessed him with the bonniest lass in Yorkshire. His eyes would shine bright, and he held his head high when he said it.
Even after the accident, he’d have no truck with doubtin’. “Can’t keep a good man down,” he said. “Don’t fret. God will show me the way. A man with one arm can still chop wood, though it takes a bit longer. I can bring in a bit from cartin’ and a bit from firewood.” She didn’t want to spoil his mood by saying how little those bits might be, but the sinking in her guts turned to an emptiness that gnawed.
Later still, he said, “We’ll just have to cut our cloth to fit.”
She didn’t say there was nothing left to trim. She remembered the pride in his eyes when they’d been wed a mere six months and he took his first piece of cloth to trade, a full thirty yards of finest hand-spun wool. Fit for any gentleman’s cloak. Fine gentleman that have no use for him now.
He clutches onto that pride as he rides to t’mill one-handed. They’ll have something for me tomorrow, he says. Tomorrow. Next week. Keep the faith, he says. She learned to swallow the resentment at him feeding good roots to the donkey in winter while their own bellies grumbled, but now, she notices even Ezra eyeing the scrawny beast side-on. The mill owners have their own cart men, and those men can load and unload twice as fast as Ezra. Ezra can pick up the odd day moving folks down to town, Folks that can no longer make the rent on a place big enough to hold their own loom, but by the time they’ve admitted defeat, they’ve little left to offer him. Last week he brought back a scrawny hen with not an egg left to give. A day’s work for a pot o’ soup and a few feathers for their pillows.
Alice hears the snick of the woodshed door and goes to fill the kettle. She’ll busy herself at the opposite end of the scullery, so she doesn’t have to watch the soap scudding around the sink as it slips from his armpit. So, she doesn’t have to bite her lip and resist the urge to lather her hands and run them over his flesh. Like she resists the urge to hold the nail for his hammer or offer to put a poultice on his blackened toenail. Like she turns away when he struggles to fasten his clothes. But she makes herself look only into his eyes when he flicks his trouser buttons open with one thumb.
Sundays are different o’ course. A good wife helps her husband smarten himself for church. Hers is the task of tacking his flapping sleeve neatly across his chest. We’ll trust in God, Ezra always says.
Alice fingers her wedding band again, slips it off, and drops it into her pocket. The Lord could do with a little help from the apothecary.
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I found this to be a beautifully restrained story of love, pride, and quiet endurance. The atmosphere feels vivid and lived-in, and the prose carries a deep emotional undercurrent. What stayed with me most was the silence between the characters — heavy with devotion, grief, and unspoken fear.
This story took me on a journey... so many emotions. And so visceral. Very well done.