The Scarecrow With a Needle
Its dusk, and Michaels return sounds like hollow stones falling in the corridora rhythm that tells Sarah, before words are even spoken, hes pleased with himself, which is never quite the same as pleasure with the world. Shes at the cooker, stirring soup as the aroma of his aftershave hangs in the air, blithely declaring his presence from the sitting room.
Sarah, wheres my grey blazer? he calls, his voice bouncing through walls, yet never entering the kitchen.
In the wardrobe. It should be hanging to the left, she replies, gentle and measured.
She tracks his search in her mind: wardrobe doors creaking, hangers briefly unsorted, then a pause.
Did you iron it?
Yesterday.
He doesnt answer. Thats as good as approval, and Sarah quietly lets out her breath. The soup is ready. She places the lid on the pot and walks to the lounge. Michael is before the mirror, straightening his collar. Sixty, but he stands squarea soldiers back, still the shoulders she once adored. In their youth, that back was reason alone.
Got anywhere lined up? she asks, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.
Department dinner at Richards. Anniversary do.
A pause stretches. She tries to keep her voice light, as a scarf in a draft.
Thought I might come along. Havent been out ages.
Michaels gaze meets hers, but only via his own glassy reflectiona glance one gives a lamp or a shoehorn.
Youre serious?
Well, yes. Ill change, brush my hair. That blue dress
He adjusts his cuff. Therell be people there, Sarah. Colleagues wives. Proper women.
Something shiftsnot in the room, but deep in her throat, heavy as wool. She cant quite grasp what he means.
So?
He turns, the look in his eyes as gentle as a snowdrift. Not angry, which is all the worse. Just the patient look of someone explaining facts to a lost child.
Look at yourself. When did you last see a hairdresser? March, wasnt it? That dressyou look like a scarecrow in it. I cant take you, please understand.
Sarah stands motionless, mind empty of thought. Mike
No, really. Ill be late as it is. Leave the soup on. Ill be back after.
He grabs his keys from the sideboard, and the jacket fits him wellshe notices that, anyway. Door slams. Then another, heavier, settles the night into place.
Sarah remains, still as a forgotten chair.
Soup scents the air. Outside, its March, all drizzle and dusk. Through the wet glass, Sloane Streets lanterns flicker, jaundiced halos in the glazing. Twenty-two years in this flat, twenty-two years of yellow lamplight.
She moves to the very mirror he deserted.
She looks, for a long time.
Grey roots pushing at tired scalp. The face of a woman whos done nothing all day, yet is already spent. Dressing gown in bobbled fleece, the cuffs pilled beyond memory. She cant recall buying the dressing gown. Seven years ago? Eight?
Scarecrow.
She doesnt cry. She just gazes, as if someone has swapped her reflection for a strangers. Not scary, nor ancientjust no one she can place. What does she love? What does she want? Why does she get up at all?
Sarah Martin, fifty-eight. Retired bookkeeper, wife, leaseholder of a small flat on Sloane Street.
Nothing more comes to mind.
She returns to the kitchen, turns off the soup, and gets into bed, though nine oclock is far off yet.
***
Michael leaves early for the university. He lectures in economics, a post he prizes, weighty and proper. He breakfasts, offers a brisk nod in thanks, and says nothing of the night before.
Sarah clears the mugs, wipes the oven, cleans the table. Her hands act by rote; her mind floats elsewhere.
She wanders into the cupboard, not sure why. A pinch of salt, perhaps, or simply because anywhere is better than nowhere.
The cupboard is large, faintly damp, always smelling of wood and some indecipherable, childlike comfort. She snaps on the light. There are pickle jars. Boxes of old boots. Piles of magazines, yellowed and fragile.
And a box on the highest shelf, untouched for over fifteen years.
She pulls up a step stool. Lifts. The box is weightier than she remembered, and it tumbles down, contents spilling loudly onto the lino.
Within, a sewing machine rests. Old. English heavy-metalblack with gold lettering. She recognises it. Mothers machine, inherited years ago, shipped down from Manchester when she and Michael moved to London. He called it clutter, and she stashed it up here, never to look again.
Sarah crouches, fingers brushing the cool metal. Not plastic. Not like now. The hand-wheel is a bit rusty, but still, with effort, it shifts. Slow, protesting, then acquiescing.
Theres a sharp, sweet ache in her throatthe mingle of fondness and finality that only nostalgia brings.
She was twenty the first time she sewed a dressher own hands, no paper patterns. Her mate, Kate, asked for it to wear to the end-of-term dance. Couldnt afford the shops. Sarah stitched for three evenings straight. Pale green satin smuggled down from London. Kate wept with joy; swore no one wore finer.
Others followed. Dresses. Skirts. Blouses. For herself, her mother, the neighbours. Courses at the community centre, dreams of something biggerthough bigger was always a foggy sort of idea. She only knew her fingers conjured something special. Fabric listened to her, not to others.
Then Michael arrived. Tall. Confident. That straight, proud back. He said sewing was fine as hobby, but not a real jobshe needed a secure profession. She took bookkeeping. Marriage. The move. The work, more work, and somewhere in that swell, the machine drifted upward into the cupboard.
Sarah hefts the old machine and carries it to the kitchen.
***
Her sister Margaret arrives at half eleven, as ever without calling first. Their blocks face each other across the car park, and Margaret sees no need for appointments between kin. Since her husband passed on five years ago, Margaret drops by more, perhaps too much, but Sarah secretly rejoices. She can always talk with Margaret.
Margaret enters, halting at sight of the sewing machine mid-table.
Whats this, then?
Mothers old one. Found it up top in the cupboard. Mustve been years.
Margaret hangs her coat, pours herself tea. Shes five years older, with a mop of russet hair and earrings always in, even at home, still somehow bold at sixty-three.
Whats brought it out now? she asks, settling in.
Sarah hesitates before sharing last night. Only the broad strokes, but Margaret knows Michael well enoughno subplot required.
Margaret listens, both hands cradling her mug. When Sarah finishes, silence lingers. At last, Margaret says:
A scarecrow. Did he now.
Yes.
He said it?
Yes, Mags.
Margaret sets the mug aside, the way one restrains the urge to scold a child already bruised.
How longs it been like this, Sarah?
Like what?
Just… this. Soup. Ironing. Home.
Im retired. Not much to do.
Youve been retired three years. Before that, did the same plus work. Remember how you made me that skirt? Black, with a slit. I wore it to pieces. Never found a seamstress to match it.
Sarah fingers the old hand-wheel with her thumb.
That was long ago.
Your hands remember. Listen, my birthdays next month. Sixty-four. I want a dressa proper one, not those tent things at the shops. Will you make it?
Mags
Im asking, not insisting. Will you?”
Sarah looks at her sister, then the machine. Children squeal in the playground outside, undeterred by the cold. The machine sits squat and familiar, its presence oddly calming.
I will, she says.
***
She buys oil that same day. Lubricates gears and shafts, winds desiccated thread onto the bobbinjust to see if itll run. It chugs, sputters, then pets along, lines skittering but true.
Sarah sits, watching the rows of stitches.
The next day, she catches the Number 12 bus to Camden Market, all the way up by the canal. She hasnt been in years. Fabric stalls sell crepe, cotton, worsted. She picks cloth by hand, not by eyean old skill, apparently unforgotten.
Someone mentions a fabric shop in Soho, tucked off Greek Street, tiny but good stock. She finds it after two tries. When she enters, air thick with sizing and dust, Sarah pausessomething awakening, long stored but now alive. Her mother used to buy cloth on Derby Day, always with that musty, eager scent.
A young clerk with braids eyes her kindly.
I need a fabric for a dress, Sarah explains. For a lady of sixty-three. Something decent, strong, not showy.
The clerk lays out bolts. Sarah touches and choosesa textured navy jersey, three yards (extra, just in case).
She walks home beneath new-leafed plane trees. Its warming, Aprils here, and shes already sketching the necklineMargaret favours a little flare, but nothing too open, age being what it is. Pencil-skirted, below the knee. Clean, without frills.
Sarah realises, halfway through the lane, shes smiling. Mrs. Jenkins on the second floor notices.
Well, youre certainly cheerful today, Miss Martin! Whats happened?
***
She sketches the pattern as Michael watches his game show. Measurements taken earlier that afternoon. He pops in for water.
What you at?
Pattern cutting. For Margarether birthday.
He eyes the paper. A bit of a lark, innit?
She asked for it.
You, a dressmaker! He laughs. Just pop down the shops, honestly.
She wants one made. So Im making.
He shrugs and leaves. Sarah returns to her drawing. Shoulder seam, bust line, Margarets waistforty-one inches, always broad-hipped, so she mentally folds the curve for a better fit.
She works late, unaware the hours have slipped by. Theres no television tedium now, just the silent thrill of creation.
***
The dress takes a little over a week, not because its difficult, but because Sarah refuses to rush. Every seam is checked, unpicked, re-sewn if it wanders. Her fingers find their own memory. By the third day, she no longer thinks about holding the cloth; by the fifth, shes in rhythm. The machine hums, the kitchen shrinks, glowing warm.
Michael objects, as ever. Complains about lint. Moans shes disrupting his marking. Grumbles about dinnerpasta again, why not make cottage pie?
She boils potatoes next day, mind half on the cooker, half on a sleeve shes basting. She feels no friction between tasks, as if all things are now one.
On the tenth day, the dress is ready. It hangs on a padded hanger, simple and sound, its navy collar folded just so.
She calls Margaret round.
***
Her sister arrives, winded, coat unbuttoned.
Lets see it.
Sarah hands the dress. Margaret studies it, ducks into the bedroom to change. Sarah waits, tea in hand, staring at the garden, where a ginger cat chases nothing.
Sarah? Margaret calls, voice odd.
She enters. Margaret stands before the floor-length mirrorSarahs enemy. The dress fits. Not just fits; renders Margarets figure steady, dignified, somehow lighter. The navy suits her russet hair.
Good Lord, Margaret breathes. Sarah!
What?
Youve made me look ten years younger. Do you even see what youve done?
Its a decent cut
Cut! Sarah Martin, youre a marvel. Ive never seen better. Listen, Ill tell Zinashes had a skirt botched three times over. And Val Jenkins, shes always moaning about the shops. Can I send them round?
Sarah wants to say noonce is enough. But something, or someone, inside her says otherwise.
Let them, she replies.
***
Zina appears days later, skirt under her arm. Wool. Baggy in the waist. Sarah measures and pins as needed: Come back on Thursday.
Its done well. Zina spins, delighted.
Could you make a dress? she asks.
Certainly.
How much?
Sarah pauses. She hasnt thought of moneyMargarets was a gift, Zinas skirt a neighbourly favour. But business has called its name.
Ill let you know once I see what you want, she says.
Zina departs pleased. Alone again, Sarah sits at the kitchen table with pen and paper. Writes and crosses double figures, then settles: alteration, large alteration, simple dress, dress with lining.
She looks at her price list and finds her unease replaced by something rooted, solid, like standing with bare feet on turf.
***
May brings Val Jenkins; then Vals friend, name unremembered; next, Mrs. Doyle downstairs needing a blouse. Sarah moves the machine nearer the windowbetter light. Buys proper threads, several needles. Returns to Soho for more cloth, just in case.
Michael notices. He cant escape it nowkitchen clatters with fabric, pattern sheets line the counter, strangers phone expecting Miss Martin. One night, over dinner:
Who was that woman yesterday?
A client. Shes ordered a blouse.
A client, he sneers. Got yourself a workshop, have you?
Not yet.
Not yet. He abandons his fork. Sarah, this is absurd. I teach at a universitymy colleagues live nearby! We dont need a parade of old bags and incessant clack-clacking
Its hardly noisy.
Thats not the point
What is, then, Mike?
He doesnt answer. Eats instead. Once, Sarah wouldve dropped her gaze, thinking of anything else, letting the moment wash over. Tonight, her head stays up.
I have orders. Im working. Thats good.
Youre retired. No need for orders.
I need them.
He looks up, surprised by the resolve. Then, Just dont let it get in the way.
She wont ask, in the way of what. He does not clarify.
***
June. Margaret, lively as ever, arrives with gossip.
Theres a job for you. You know Sally Thornton over by the post office? Her nieces getting married. Not a white dressshes forty-two, wants cream, smart and elegant. Will you do it?
Sarah reflects. A wedding dress is more. Big money, lots of fittings, dear fabric. Shes never done one officiallyonly, perhaps, occasion dresses in her youth.
Let her come by for a chat.
Sallys niece Rachel visits next: calm, cropped hair, direct. Explains what she wants. Sarah listens, asks questions, jots measurements.
They sit tea-side at the kitchen table, and Sarah realisesshes interested. Not just in the work. In Rachel herself, in her wishes, in the puzzle of style and statement. Its alive.
Ill do it, Sarah says.
They agree a priceRachel nods, unbargaining.
See you next Wednesday for the first fitting.
When Rachel goes, Sarahs hands shakeexpectation, not fear.
***
Michael is in a moodshe doesnt discern why. Shes stopped scanning for signs. He arrives late, slings his briefcase by the rack. Sarah is busy with Rachels delicate lining, hunched over her work.
Sarah? His voice comes from the lounge.
Yes?
Wheres dinner?
On the stove. Chops and mash, under the lid. Still hot.
Silence. Then footstepsthen him, framed in the kitchen door.
Couldnt you set the table?
Im working, Mike.
Working. He eyes the machine. Come on, set the table.
Sarah finishes her seam. Twenty seconds, no more. She folds the fabric aside.
And just then, calmly, the realisation lands: she wont go. No fury, no script. Just a clear, lucid thought.
Mike, she says, the plates are in the cupboard; chops are on the hob; breads in the bin. Youll find them.
He squints.
What?
Ill join you when this bit is donetwenty minutes. Its an important part.
Silence settles; the neighbours telly mumbles through the wall. A moped groans by.
Youre serious?
She meets his eye, spine straight, fearless.
Yes.
He stands for three seconds. Then turns and disappears; his door bangs soon after.
Sarah resumes stitching.
They dine in separate rooms. She listens to him clatter in the kitchen. Later, she eats alone, mug in hand at the window. Outside, dusk hovers in pearl and silver; summers almost white nights here in London, not quite like up northyet close.
She feels good. Peculiarly, quietly good. Empty only in the best sense, as after moving past something immense.
***
Rachels fittings go splendidly. The dress delivers its promise: creamy silk, long lines, sleeves at three-quarters. At the third fitting Rachel stares at her own reflection.
Ive never looked right until now, she murmurs.
This dress fits you, Sarah says. You dont fit it.
Rachel smiles.
Ill tell everyone.
Glad for it.
When she leaves, Sarah remains, thinking of workshops. Margarets floated the idea for monthsshes always brushed it off. Not now. She calculates: what shes made in two months; rent on a tiny shop, maybe on Brewer Street, or cheaper outside the centre; does the sums againyes, it works, not grand, but enough.
***
She never plans The Talk with Michaelit comes in late July, after shes inked a lease for a room above a coffee shop, three windows facing the high street. Paid out of her orders accumulated.
Michael learns via grapevineMrs. Jenkins in the lift. Your wifes opened a sewing place! Were all so happy. He confronts Sarah pointedly.
She admits. Rented a workshop, for convenience. To keep the flat clear.
He stands, then unexpectedly sitsnever his habit during words.
At your age, honestly? he scoffs. Fifty-eight, opening a sewing shop. Its laughable.
Not to me.
The rents and billswherell you get it from?
I earn enough.
Silence. Long. Sarah looks him in the eye, unblinking.
Youre different, he finally mutters.
Probably.
Its not for the better.
Thats for you to believe.
He stares, then leaves. Its a phase. Youll see.
Well see, she says.
***
She names her shop The Skylight. Cosy is too feeble, Studio is dry, but Skylightit came when sunlight poured through those three high windows.
She paints the walls white, sets her old machine on a big desk by the glass, shelves for fabric, a standing mirror, a rail for finished things. Margaret brings potted violets.
Put violets in the window, she prescribes. Women should feel cheered.”
Sarah does. It helps.
Her first customer turns up early Augusta stranger, sent by Rachel, coat sleeves too long. Sarah alters them in an hour; the woman leaves content, promising to return.
She does. And others follow. Soon, Sarah has bookings two weeks deep.
***
Sarah changes. She sees it in the mirrorand others mention it as well. Shes been to a posh salon on Dean Street, not the discount type near the station. The stylista young woman named Lucysays, Youve got a beautiful bone structure. Lets do a sleek bob. They cut it through, streaked with silverSarah doesnt dye it. Unexpectedly, it suits her.
She sews clothes for herself for the first time since she was thirty. A loose linen blouse, soft grey, with a neat collar, worn on the shop floor. Mrs. Doyle, bringing her coat for repair, asks, Where did you buy that, Sarah Martin?
Made it myself.
You should sew for yourself too. It looks wonderful.
She does. Gradually, her wardrobe shifts. Not all at oncebut what doesnt suit, she no longer wears. By October, she dresses differently. Not younger. Sharper.
Michael, of course, notices. Sometimes, over tea, he sits quietly, drawn to her unwittingly. But the tension has gone. She cooks, cleans, but its only part of life, no longer the whole of it.
***
In October, three women visit the shopwives of Michaels colleagues. Sarah doesnt realise at first, until one mentions Richard from the department.
She books them in. Afterwards, she smiles and, on returning home, says nothing.
***
Winter is brisk and busy. She doesnt count the hours or mark weekends. The Skylight is toastyher landlady installed a good radiator after one polite ask. Clients come and go; Margaret is nearly daily, drinking tea, lending hands. Sarah pays her nowat first Margaret resists, then quietly accepts. Money talk is new terrain.
By February, Sarah hires an assistant, Anna, twenty-ninea careful stitcher, ex-factory girl. Sarah teaches as her mother once did: hands rather than words.
March againtwelve months since Michaels scarecrow snarl. Sarah stands at her own workshop window, watching High Street life. Sun melts puddles, jackets flap open. It is a good, calm morning.
Anna is at the cutting table.
Miss Martin? she calls. Theres someone for you.
Sarah turns.
Michael stands in the doorway.
She doesnt instantly recognise himnot from change, but from the strangeness of seeing him in her space. At home, they live side by side, rarely colliding, meals together here and therebut never in her new light.
Mike.
Hello. He does not loom. His voice is levelthe punch is gone.
Anna, Sarah says, take a break, will you?
Anna steps out. Michael gazes around: the three windows, the violets, garments neatly arrayed, the old machine gleaming by the sun. Everything shes made, just so.
Its nice here, he says awkwardly. He clears his throat.
Sit down, Sarah gestures, moving some fabric.
He lowers himself, for once no master of the space. She remains by the window.
I just he begins, stalls.
Yes?
Youre not home much. Not really.
I know what youre getting at.
He looks at her, unfamiliar and uncertain. She realises suddenlyhes aged. The shirt is barely pressed, cheeks a touch tired.
Sarah he starts, its not the same at home. You understand?
Whats not?
Dinners Its disorderly. Im bad at it.
She says nothing.
I was thinking, maybe you could
She moves to the sewing machine, strokes the thread, feels its old steadiness.
Mike, do you remember what you said, a year ago? The scarecrow.
He says nothing.
I watched myself in the mirror after that. For a long time. I didn’t know who she was. Not ugly, not old. Just empty. I was living, but I wasnt there at all. Dyou understand? I wasnt anywhere.
Sarah
No, listen. Im not blaming you. This isnt about fault. But Ive learned something at last. Theres so much in life I care for, that makes me myself. And I actually enjoy myself. Do you get it?
He looks at her, really looks.
So you wont
I dont know, she answers honestly. Not thinking of it now. Im thinking of the dress due Friday. Of teaching Anna a new stitch. Of the fabric that hasnt turned up.
All of this it fills your mind.
It does. And I like that, she says, quietly. Im sorry, Mike.
He rises slowly, then lingers at the door, not turning back.
Just leave some stew or something, he mutters. I cant get it right like you.
Sarah doesnt reply. Hes gone.
She stands at the window, watches as he drifts down the streeta grey coat, hat, hands deep in pockets, that straight back, now farther away, round the corner, vanishing.
Anna peers in.
Shall I come back?
Yes, yes. Bring that blousethe hem you started yesterday. Show me how youve finished the cuffs.
Downstairs, a new client enters; her voice floats upwarduncertain, tentative, as it always is the first time. Sarah listens, hears herself in that tremulous hope.
Miss Martin? Anna calls. Vera Halls here by appointment.
Send her up. Im coming.
She checks her needle, ensures the threads right. The old machine waits, poised. The sun in three windows spills a honeyed, busy light.
A woman about her age comes in, shy beneath her coat, eyes flicking to the room, the fabrics, the machine.
Good morning, Sarah says. Please, sit down. Tell me what you need.
The woman settles, her story at first hesitant, then bold. Sarah listens, seeing already what might be builtfabric, fit, the fall of the hem. Her hands remember it all.
She picks up her pencil and begins to sketch.
