The sewing machine, p.1
The Sewing Machine, page 1
About the Author
Natalie Fergie is a textile enthusiast, and has spent the last ten years running a one-woman dyeing business, sending parcels of unique yarn and thread all over the world. Before this she had a career in nursing. She lives near Edinburgh.
The Singer 99K, which was the inspiration for this novel, has had at least four previous owners. It was bought for £20 from someone who lived in Clydebank, just a stone’s throw from the site of the factory where it was made a hundred years earlier.
It’s quite possible that there are another eight sewing machines in her house.
She blogs at www.nataliefergie.com and can be found on Twitter as @NatalieSFergie.
Praise for The Sewing Machine
‘An extraordinarily accomplished and beautiful debut novel woven with historical detail.’
—Rachael Lucas, author of Wildflower Bay
‘The Sewing Machine tenderly evokes the true value of the personal heritage we pass down, through generations and beyond families, with the objects that we love. Illuminating our shared history through the private histories of four remarkable women, this is a hopeful and poignant debut that lingers long after the final page.’
—Helen Sedgwick, author of The Comet Seekers
‘Reflects the social attitudes of each generation she focuses on, and this venerable warhorse of a sewing machine witnesses the struggles that, from the factory worker of 1911 to the blogger of 2016, are essentially the same: work, bereavement, identity and the uncovering of family secrets. In a way that befits the subject matter, Fergie adroitly weaves it all together in a tapestry of strong characters and accomplished writing.’
Alastair Mabbot, The Herald
The Sewing Machine
Natalie Fergie
This edition first published in 2017
Unbound
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All rights reserved
© Natalie Fergie, 2017
The right of Natalie Fergie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-911586-24-1
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-911586-04-3
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For Gavin
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With grateful thanks to Sarah Sandow
Contents
About the Author
Praise for The Sewing Machine
[Dedication]
Super Patrons
[Frontispiece]
Dear Reader Letter
Apprentice
Jean
Connie
Fred
Jean
Connie
Fred
Jean
Connie
Fred
Jean
Jean
Connie
Fred
Jean
Connie
Fred
Jean
Connie
Fred
Jean
Connie
Fred
Jean
Connie
Fred
Fred
Jean
Connie
Fred
Fred
Fred
Jean
Ruth
Fred
Jean
Jean
Ruth
Fred
Ruth
Connie
Ruth
Fred
Ruth
Fred
Ruth
Ruth
Annie
Connie
Fred
Fred
Fred
Fred
Fred
Fred
Fred
Acknowledgements
Patrons
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Apprentice
Summer 2010
Edinburgh
*
Secrets are hidden in the fabric and creases of the old hospital. They turn up on a daily basis, but
The joinery apprentice is tired and hungry. It’s been hours since he ate his packed lunch – provided by his mother every day without fail – and he just wants to get home. Unfortunately, the foreman has other ideas and has been on his case all afternoon, giving him irritating bits and pieces of work to complete which amount to very little. The last task of the day is a perfect example of this and once again it means he is working on his own. When he thinks about all the people who died in this place it makes his skin wrinkle. He was born a stone’s throw away in the Maternity Pavilion, one of the first buildings to be torn down, but feels no loyalty to it. The rest of the site is being repurposed, transforming it from a grand Victorian infirmary into an upmarket lifestyle location stuffed with photogenic cafés and shops, and with apartments he will never be able to afford without a serious win on the lottery.
The long medical wards overlooking the Meadows are being converted into flats, and glass-walled towers infill the spaces where once there were closely-mown lawns or, more recently, semi-permanent Portakabins for Clinical Chemistry and Medical Physics.
On Lauriston Place the stone buildings of the Surgical Hospital are empty. The blind-windowed turrets, which used to be home to bedpan washers and baths, are still infested with silverfish. Here, the planned renovations have barely started and the black-and-white chequered corridors are almost silent, no longer trafficked by trolleys and wheelchairs and the occasional high-tech bed with bleeping alarms and flurries of anxiety. The aromatic blend of morning porridge, disinfectant and visitors’ flowers has been replaced by plaster dust, and essence of decaying pigeon.
In the former Orthopaedic ward, the smell is of old timber as the fittings are removed. The apprentice has been told to dismantle the small walk-in cupboard which once housed the ward telephone. It doesn’t seem like a joinery job to him – it’s more like demolition – but he doesn’t question the instruction. One of the first things he learned in this trade, before anyone even showed him how to use a chisel, is that there is no merit in being a troublemaker.
On the soundproofed wall of the booth is a printed card, barely held in place by amber Sellotape.
FIRE 3333
CARDIAC ARREST 2222
He shivers at this brutal reminder of mortality.
Just below chest height is an empty shelf, strung with disconnected telecoms cabling. He bashes the wood from below with his fist. More dust. He should be wearing a regulation face mask but it’s nearly knocking-off time and he can’t be bothered to go and get a fresh one. He puts the curved claws of his hammer into a gap in the simple frame, which has held the shelf up for fifty years, and holds his breath as he levers it downwards.
The tongue-and-groove panelling creaks under his effort and then comes away suddenly, forcing him to take a step backward to evade the swords of splintering timber. He waits for any small, furry creatures to scurry away in search of a fresh hiding place. Goodness knows how the mice survive here now, he thinks. It’s not as though there’s any food for them.
He nudges the pile of debris with a steel toe-capped boot. Nothing. Mummified rodents are almost worse than live ones, but he wants to be sure and gives the mess one last scattering kick before he bends over to investigate properly.
At the bottom of the heap is a Manila envelope. He picks it up and tries to read the address but the strip lights in the poorly lit corridor are broken and it’s impossible to make the words out. He abandons his half-completed task and opens the door opposite, marked Doctor’s Office.
Like the rest of the hospital, the room seems to be inhabited by new life and there is a rustle from the corner as he walks in. The tall windows are festooned with cobwebs and one of the blackout blinds is falling off its roller. He holds the envelope up to the compromised sunlight and wipes the green stamp carefully with his thumb. Twelve pence. He wonders how long ago the postage for a letter was twelve pence, and peers again at the address, trying to decipher the handwriting.
As he stands there he hears the main ward door open, and he stiffens as the foreman shouts to ask if he is finished yet. He instinctively puts his hand in front of his mouth to muffle his reply and conceal his rule-breaking, but decides not to respond. The last thing he needs is a health and safety lecture.
He listens until he’s sure he is alone, and then pulls out a chair and sits down at one of the desks. He sets the envelope on the surface in front of him and starts to go through the drawers, but they yield nothing more than blank sheets of paper and dried-up ballpoint pens. Disappointed, he lifts the handset of a push-button telephone and sits up straight.
‘Yes, this is the doctor speaking.’
And then he remembers his meeting with the careers advisor at school. He replaces the receiver carefully. ‘In your dreams, pal. No chance of that,’ he says.
He gets up from his seat to have a closer look at the cabinetry and the abandoned equipment. The X-ray viewer is a familiar feature of TV dramas and he walks over to investigate, flipping the switch beside it. There is a loud buzz and it flickers into life. He cannot turn it off fast enough.
On the blackboard beside the door, someone has written
GOODBYE 1st MAY 2003
in white chalk. He pulls out his phone and takes a photograph of the message to show to his mum.
The envelope is still lying on the desk and he picks it up and shakes the dust off it before stashing it in one of the many pockets in his work trousers. After a final look around the room, he heads out of the ward, back along the chessboard corridor to the exit, and out into fresh air. He leaves his hammer behind, certain that he’ll be back on Monday to finish the job.
It’s not until he is sitting on the top deck of the bus that he remembers his find. It had been drummed into everyone on their first day at the hospital that all such items must be handed in at the Site Office. As he gets off the bus near his girlfriend’s flat, he sees her and shouts her name. She looks up and smiles. The red pillar box is six paces away and with barely a pause he pulls the letter out of his pocket and posts it, before running to meet her and wrapping her in his arms.
It’s Friday night and the weekend is already looking good.
Jean
21 March 1911
Singer Factory, Clydebank
*
‘There is going to be a strike!’
Jean heard the words as they flowed around her, nudging at the edges of her attention. She tried to put them aside. From across the workroom, the foreman watched her. Every so often he took the pencil stub from behind his ear – an action out of kilter with his recent promotion – and made a mark in his new notebook. Until a few weeks ago he had been one of them, and she wondered if he had realised how much things would change when he took on the new job.
The long workspace resembled a schoolroom for a hundred and twenty pupils with individual tables arranged in groups of eight or ten. No one knew why it was called the Testing Flat, any more than they knew the reason why the needle-making room was called the Needle Flat. It had always been that way.
To many of the women in the workshop, the foreman was still the little boy with the sticking-out ears who once lived at the poorest end of town. He was the child to whom they had given thick slices of bread when they saw him playing with their sons in the street, the lad who always smelled of stale pee. They weren’t bothered in the slightest about his new position, but he wasn’t part of their group anymore.
He cleared his throat and spoke decisively and formally, as he had been instructed. ‘Can you not test this machine, Miss Ferrier? Is there a problem?’
Jean resisted the need to push her shoulder blades down and together, to stretch her neck and ease the stiffness of four hours sitting at the bench. She knew, because she had been counting, that this was the seventh machine that morning that had needed more than a twist of the tension screw to the right or left by way of final adjustment, and she speculated whether they were being given to her on purpose.
She didn’t waste time looking up but kept her eyes on the machine. ‘It’s the needle; I just need another one.’
He tapped his important new watch. ‘You need to work more quickly, this is unacceptable.’ Satisfied with his instruction, he walked away in search of a different victim.
