Ruminations

Grandma Ailsa

A familiar fragrance tickles my nose, a mingled perfume of old wool and dry rose petals wafting up on the flecks of dust the float around as I lift the lid of the old box in the attic.
Immediately I can see her, Grandma Alice, sitting by the window rummaging around in the depths of this simple wooden box, smiling quietly to herself as she searches for something. A needle maybe, or some thread of just the right colour – clearly I visualise her squinting up to the light, holding a length of wool to a holey sock to see if it matches before she starting to darn, or tugging at a length of elastic to free it from the other tangles inside the murky depths of the box. She and her sewing box, seldom were the two far apart, both a fixture of my early childhood.
I remember Alice sitting in a patch of late afternoon sun by her window fingers busy with knitting or crochet, or maybe she would be darning. Whatever she was doing it would always be something useful – a scarf for me to wear to school perhaps, or another school jumper because my brother had outgrown his. I would be engrossed in a book or lost in some distant daydream maybe, but if I became restless Grandma Alice would let me tidy her sewing box. I loved to do this – matching the colours; sorting the needles into sizes; putting wools with wools, sorting colours from light grey, through navy to black, and placing the reels of thread into neat lines. The order of it pleased the six year old me. We were comfortable together, my Grandmother and I. My mother, a spikey, darting sort of person would say we were like icebergs - most of what we were could not be seen as it lurked beneath the surface.
Now I lift the lid of the box fully, I peer inside at the wools and threads – sensible grey and navy, brown and black. Little bundles of wool on one side, tidy rows of thread on the other, with needles sensibly stuck through a piece of paper to keep them tidy. A thimble – I try it on my finger but it is too small; her scissors – not the little embroidery ones, but a pair of a sensible, practical size. All exactly as I would have tidied it fifty years ago.

I poke about and notice a dark, worn loop of leather that seems to be attached to the bottom of the box. Carefully I thread my finger into it and pull. I notice there are two layers to the box. Odd that I had never seen this before, I am sure that I should have remembered – perhaps not, maybe that detail has faded with the passing years, or maybe, as a child, I was satisfied with what was plainly in view.
I lift out the base and peer into the hidden compartment, my eyes opening wide in surprise as a piece of bright purple fabric springs free. I see a puddle of scarlet and yellow and green; shimmering tangles of silky fabrics, knots of rainbow coloured thread woven about with ribbons of gold and silver, plaits of silks in peacock colours. I sink my fingers into the depths of the box, freeing yet another attar breeze. Breathing in the scent I slide my fingertips though the riot of Alice’s secrets. I delight in the slip of the satin, the slide of the silk. Wrapping a stream of multicoloured threads around my palm, I lift it to my cheek and smile.
If my mother could see me now I know she would say that I look just like my Grandmother. Again the picture of Alice rummaging in her box wanders into my mind and it’s as if her quiet smile stretches through the years to explain what only she had seen then  – the explosion of colour that can be concealed beneath the sensible grey and navy sea of the everyday world.


Sallyj