Backstitch

Back then, she’d not seen her mother’s hurt. But she could see it now, in sharp relief

- Fran Tracey

Sally knew that guilt was a wasted emotion. But still, not always an easy one to dismiss.

“Ouch.” The needle got her finger. Satin was perfect for the project she had embarked on, but tough to hand-sew with. She’d need to speed up if she wanted to get it finished in time. Once she’d cleaned up her finger, she was determined to get into some kind of rhythm.

Biscuits might help. And a cup of tea. No, coffee, something stronger. Maybe the radio? Less distracting than the TV. That was how she’d sewn into her finger in the first place.

A dress couldn’t be too tricky, surely? You just had to follow the instructions. She’d chosen a simple style and pattern.

She thought of her mum.

How, when Sally was little, her fingers, now arthritic, used to whizz a needle through fabric. How a dress or costume would be finished in no time at all. Or so it seemed. Started on the sewing machine, finished by hand, as she was doing now. She was glad they’d taught them how to thread a machine and create a straight line at school. And also glad she’d been able to dust off the machine her mum had given her when she’d downsized.

“It may come in handy some day,” she’d said. It had lived in the loft, until now.

This was taking forever. But, now, listening to music with crumbs on her lips, she was getting into a rhythm.

“Really, Mum? You’re making it from scratch?”

Jodie’s face had suggested that she wasn’t sure it was a good idea, didn’t have faith her mum could achieve the desired result. Which made Sally even more determined.