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    A Single Thread: A Novel
    A Single Thread: A Novel
    A Single Thread: A Novel
    Ebook357 pages5 hours

    A Single Thread: A Novel

    By Tracy Chevalier

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    "A buoyant tale about the path to acceptance and joy--beginning, like all journeys, with one brave step."--People

    "The best-selling novelist has done a masterful job of depicting the circumstances of a generation of women we seldom think about: the mothers, sisters, wives and fiances of men lost in World War I, whose job it was to remember those lost but not forgotten."--Associated Press

    A BEST BOOK OF 2019 with The New York Public Library | USA TODAY | Real Simple | Good Housekeeping | Chicago Sun Time | TIME | PopSugar | The New York Post | Parade

    1932. After the Great War took both her beloved brother and her fiancé, Violet Speedwell has become a "surplus woman," one of a generation doomed to a life of spinsterhood after the war killed so many young men. Yet Violet cannot reconcile herself to a life spent caring for her grieving, embittered mother. After countless meals of boiled eggs and dry toast, she saves enough to move out of her mother's place and into the town of Winchester, home to one of England's grandest cathedrals. There, Violet is drawn into a society of broderers--women who embroider kneelers for the Cathedral, carrying on a centuries-long tradition of bringing comfort to worshippers.

    Violet finds support and community in the group, fulfillment in the work they create, and even a growing friendship with the vivacious Gilda. But when forces threaten her new independence and another war appears on the horizon, Violet must fight to put down roots in a place where women aren't expected to grow. Told in Chevalier's glorious prose, A Single Thread is a timeless story of friendship, love, and a woman crafting her own life.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Books
    Release dateSep 17, 2019
    ISBN9780525558255
    Author

    Tracy Chevalier

    Tracy Chevalier is the author of eleven novels, including A Single Thread, Remarkable Creatures and Girl with a Pearl Earring, an international bestseller that has sold over five million copies and been made into a film, a play and an opera. Born in Washington DC, she moved to the United Kingdom in 1986. She and her husband divide their time between London and Dorset.

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    Reviews for A Single Thread

    4/5

    312 ratings38 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Very detailed descriptions of the needlework, the bell-ringing, the walking tour* the human r'ships, the historical information. One has to like learning to like this, as the only actions seem contrived & egregious (the stalker esp... blech). But isn't that why we read Chevalier in the first place? Not-quite regular people living not-quite ordinary lives in times other than our own.

      I did almost give up right at the beginning when the author said "Women always studied other women, and did so far more critically than men ever did." After all, I don't think that's true. It's not for me. Turns out that it's our mc thinking that, before she's experienced all her personal growth and gaining self-confidence.

      *The first few pages of that section were my favorite of the book... too bad there weren't more of them.
    • 4/5
      Very good story but slow-moving. Interesting; Based on actual guild.
    • 4/5
      Having been to these cathedrals and admiring the cushions, this was a great background info. Strong women in a difficult time.
    • 5/5
      I absolutely loved this book. A female lead I could get on board with, embroidery, bell ringing and pre WW2 life. I'll definitely read more by this author.
    • 5/5
      While there are lots of books about women during World War II and some set during World War I, there aren't many that I know of that are set in the time between the two wars. So many men were killed during World War I that there was a surplus of women. Tracy Chevalier has written a book that tells about the lives of these "surplus women".

      Violet Speedwell's older brother and her fiancee were killed in World War I. So at age 38, when most women her age would have expected to have a husband and children, she was still living with her parents. She worked in the office of an insurance company as a typist and she occasionally went to a hotel bar and picked up a man to meet her physical needs. This was acceptable when both her parents were alive but after her father died she found her mother's constant criticism to be more than she could take. She took a job with the same company in Winchester, a city not too far from her home in Southhampton but far enough to get a place to live in Winchester. She soon found that, although her salary had been enough when she lived at home even though she gave a substantial portion of it to her parents, in Winchester it was very hard to make ends meet. Her room included breakfast but she had to provide other meals and soon she found her rations were meagre. It was not a very promising existence. Then, one day, she stopped into the Cathedral while out on an errand from work and learned about the Winchester Broderers. This group of women were responsible for making kneelers, cushions and other items to adorn the cathedral. One woman, Gilda, befriended her and convinced Violet to become a member of the guild. Soon, Violet is learning all the stitches and working on her own projects. Gilda also introduces her to an older man, Arthur, who was a bell-ringer in the cathedral. Instantly, there is a spark between him and Violet but, since he was married and lived in a village some distance from the city (with the charming name of Nether Wallop), there didn't seem much likelihood of any further relationship. That changed when Violet took a walking tour for her annual vacation and stayed over in Nether Wallop. Arthur remembered her from their initial introduction and spent an evening in the pub with her, talking and playing cribbage. A menacing man Violet had met during her walk that day turned up at the pub. Violet expressed her unease about him and Arthur, the complete gentleman, offered to walk with her the next morning for a while. Over the next year Violet and Arthur would often meet in Winchester for a meal. On one occasion, he took her up to the bell chamber to show her how the bell-ringing worked. These visits and her embroidery work, together with her friendship with Gilda,were the highlights of her life. But there were problems too. Gilda was in a lesbian relationship with a schoolteacher and when the school learned of this, her lover was dismissed. The man from the previous summer who had frightened Violet started turning up in Winchester. And her mother, on her own in Southhampton, had a stroke and it fell to Violet to care for her. She was determined not to let this uproot her life as an independent woman. Fortunately, she was able to get these issues sorted out satisfactorily. When the book ends Violet's life has changed again but it seems like it will be a good existence.

      Although Violet and Gilda and some of the other broderers named in this book are not historical figures they are based upon the numerous women who worked from 1931 to 1936 to fill the cathedral with needlework artworks. One of the chief broderers, Louisa Pesel, did exist. From the Needleprint Blogspot I learned "Working with 160 other embroiderers, she created: 365 kneelers for the congregation; 32 choir kneelers; 60 stall cushions; 17 bench cushions; the lectern carpet; the litany kneeler; the communion rail edges; the borders for the curtains of the bishop's throne, 56 festival almsbags (14 for each of the 4 seasons) and 40 named almsbags!." I've never been to Winchester but if I am ever in the vicinity I certainly intend to visit the Winchester Cathedral.
    • 5/5
      The entire plot of this was just a bit too "sweet"; however, listing to the audio version with an excellent reader with wonderful English accents made the story. Violet is thirty plus, single, living with her overbearing mother. She has lost her brother and her fiance to WWI. Violet's brother Tom has a family and although supportive of Violet, expects her to take care of Mother.

      Violet takes the bold move to Winchester, twelve miles away. She has a job as a typist and becomes involved with the "broiders" - the women who embroider the kneeling pads and cushions for the cathedral. Here she meets Gilda who becomes her friend and learns of Gilda's relationship with Dorothy. Women together were shunned and when Dorothy loses her job as a teacher, Violet is able to help. Violet also meets Arthur, an older man married to a depressed woman.

      The repressed feelings, the emphasis of propriety, and the English customs play such a large part in the story which ends a bit too pat, but still a good story. (Not sure I would have liked it quite as much if I had read).
    • 4/5
      I don't know if Tracy Chevalier has ever been described as a literary novelist, yet her historical novels, especially “Girl with a Pearl Earring” and “The Last Runaway,” certainly approach that standard of excellence. And so does her 2019 novel, “A Single Thread.”

      Violet Speedwell lost both her fiancé and her brother in the Great War. Now in her late thirties, with single men her age scarce in England, she reluctantly settles into a spinster's life. She moves to Winchester to escape her oppressive mother, takes a job as a typist and joins a group of women embroidering kneeling cushions for Winchester Cathedral. It is far from the life she had imagined for herself, yet gradually she begins to make it her own — if only her mother's declining health doesn't force her to return home.

      Then one of her new friends turns out to be a lesbian, compelling Violet to get involved protecting her and her lover and placing her reputation at risk. And she begins a relationship — more than friendship, less than a love affair — with Arthur, a married man 22 years her senior who is one of the bell ringers at the cathedral.

      These various factors, including her mother's declining health, could easily ruin a life that already seems in ruins. How Violet manages to turn her trials into triumph will satisfy most readers, except perhaps for those looking for something a bit more literary.
    • 3/5
      Book on CD narrated by Fenella Woolgar


      From the book jacket: 1932. Since the Great War took both her brother and her fiancé, Violet Speedwell has become a “surplus woman,” one of a generation destined to remain unmarried after the war killed so many young men. Yet Violet cannot reconcile herself to a future spent caring for her grieving mother. Setting out for Winchester she finds both a job and a room of her own in a boardinghouse. Violet also falls in with the broderers, a group of women charged with embroidering cushions and kneelers for the grand Winchester Cathedral. She finds friendship in her new circle, fulfillment in the work they create, and love.

      My reactions
      This is a selection for my F2F book club. I have read and greatly enjoyed other works by Chevalier, so was looking forward to it. But I come away a little disappointed.

      I suppose if I had read the jacket blurb I’d have known there would be a romance and my expectations would have been different. But I really wanted to know more about the cathedral, its history, and the work of the broderers.

      Chevalier managed to include issues of the era’s expectations (or lack thereof) of women, and a lesbian couple’s struggles to find acceptance. She also includes the beginnings of the Nazi party with Hitler’s rise to power and hints at what is coming.

      I really liked Violet, and several of the women she came to know and befriend. Her landlady was a peach, and Miss Pesel was a treasure. I thought she treated Violet’s relationship with Arthur fairly, and realistically. But I wish the author had left out the romance.

      Fenella Woolgar does a marvelous job narrating the audiobook. There are many women characters and she managed to give them sufficiently unique voices so I was never confused about who was speaking.
    • 5/5
      Enjoyed this more than I expected. The pursuant, Jack Wells, is so contrived and his encounters with the main character Violet Speedwell so unlikely that it showed its flaws starkly, but sometimes I quite like that - as with Ian McEwen's plots. Chevalier's own plot in this book is a bit wayward, but it was a great romp to relax with and read when I was laid up in bed for a day. It's the second book Ipicked up for its embroidery, and I enjoyed learning about Louisa Pesel and the Winchester broderers - the more so because they're real, and I've since discovered that there's an interesting early piece of stumpwork by a fella in the Winchester College archives.
      I wasn't expecting the solo walking holiday, but that part resonated with me. I walk a lot in the Highlands alone, and I always felt fine there, threatened only by white-outs and crags and dependent on my own navigation skills. But walking in more populated areas like Sussex, I've had some frightening encounters with predatory blokes because footpaths through fields and woods are far too accessible to ne'er-do-wells. Violet's rising terror, and analysis of her situation ("he wasn't a smiler"), part fear, part introspective private humour, sounded very like the voice in my own head. All her thoughts were a pleasure to read: her pathetic need for the broderers' company, her need to produce something bautiful and leave a mark, her romantic interest in kindly older Arthur, her uncertainty about her stance with the gay couple, and her grass-is-greener responses to being anywhere (!) were fun, together with her actual strengths standing up to her employer or knowing when to cut Arthur loose, wrapped in her general feeling of humility.
      Not a great story, like Girl with a Parl Earring, but a worthwhile novel that made for a fun distraction and a nice bit of textile history.
    • 3/5
      I enjoyed A Single Thread and had no knowledge of this group of women and of the work they did. There are around 600 cushions in everyday use in the cathedral today, all done be by these volunteers. The work is of the highest quality as Louisa Pesel, their chief embroiderer, expected and insisted on nothing less. Go Google it, the pictures of the cushions are amazing.
    • 4/5
      Beautifully narrated - I couldn't get enough of this story about a woman in her thirties desperate to forge her own path. At 38 Violet sees her future laid out before her - stuck in her childhood home in a quaint English village, taking care of her mother - it makes her shudder. Her mother is a miserable old wretch and does nothing but complain (seriously she's the worst) so Violet decides to put in a request for a work transfer. She moves out into a small apartment of her own and barely makes ends meet on her small salary, but at least she's free. She happens into an embroidery group which helps make her new friends, gain confidence, and learn a new skill. Since her fiancé died in the great war and the men in England are so scarce, she thought she would just have family - but that changes when she find Arthur. The bell ringer in the cathedral she embroiders at. Violet is coming into her own, slowly but surely forging her own path into the great unknown. Great story, excellent narrator. I love Tracy Chevalier.
    • 4/5
      Tracy Chevalier writes very well and although she writes the kind of books I don't read much, this is actually my third book by her. I enjoyed it although with some caveats. It was also strange to read it so soon after reading "Ann Veronica" because it has the same plot! Woman leaves controlling family to do her own thing, finds some independence, has romance and concludes. I've been to Winchester Cathedral so that was interesting and the background to the embroidery etc. Pretty enjoyable all around.
    • 4/5
      I really love the way Tracy Chevalier writes. She is one of my favorite novelists and this novel, A Single Thread ",does not disappoint. Violet faces the conventions of her day as a "surplus woman", with spunk and with embroidery for a local cathedral. Chevalier takes such a simple thing like needlepoint and makes a compelling and dramatic story from it. I quote another review that says it so well "As always, Chevalier's strengths emerge when she writes about an obscure historical artifact or topic."
      Well done !!
    • 4/5
      This was an engaging and informative read, as are all of Chevalier's historical fiction. This one takes place in England between the World Wars, and it focuses on the "surplus women" who never married or were widowed/left behind by the men killed in the war. Chevalier shows how women create and form community, as evidenced by any number of relationships and communities that form in the novel. I could have done without the romantic subplot, but that's just me. As always, Chevalier's strengths emerge when she writes about an obscure historical artifact or topic.
    • 1/5
      Could have been an interesting historical novel, but it spent too much time initially sounding like a cozy. Stopped after the first tape.
    • 3/5
      As much as I enjoyed Remarkable Creatures, I never could get in a good rhythm in reading this novel. Having been to Winchester Cathedral I assumed I would have a natural connection with the story, as the backdrop to Violet's story was her becoming one of the broderers who embroidered cushions and kneelers for the Cathedral. Though Chevalier gives strength to Violet in finding her way as a single women between the wars, ultimately the narrative was a bit too dry for me. Still, I am happy to own a signed copy and look forward to her next work.
    • 3/5
      3.25 stars

      It’s 1932. Violet is a single woman in her 30s and is living with her complaining oppressive mother. She jumps at the chance to move away, and becomes involved with a group of women who embroider cushions for a church. There, she makes friends and discovers a purpose in life (in addition to the newfound freedom from her mother). While on holidays, she also meets Arthur, who is, unfortunately, married.

      It’s a slow moving book. I listened to the audio and my mind did wander some. I do suspect it might have rated it slightly higher had I read it. I almost rated it a bit lower, but I was focused enough throughout the end of it, that I wanted to up it just a little (that’s why the 1/4 star). Anyway, it’s also just after WWI, and this is shown to affect many of the characters. It is a time where some things are less accepted, and that is portrayed in the book, as well. It was interesting how the few times Hitler was mentioned, the context reminded me very much of Trump.
    • 4/5
      This was such a comfort read. A lovely quiet story of community and a snapshot in time of what it meant to be a spinster in Britain, between the wars.
    • 4/5
      Chevalier does her usual remarkable job of writing a quietly engaging story.
    • 4/5
      Embroidery and bell ringing.
      This is my seventh book by Tracy Chevalier and I have enjoyed them all. My favourite is still Fallen Angels, about the Suffragette movement, but I enjoyed learning about the Winchester Broderers and the tradition of bell ringing.
      I must admit, I did skim some of the detailed descriptions of the embroidery in the cathedral kneelers and cushions, but it was fascinating to learn about the intensive work that went into producing them, back in the 1930s.

      Violet Speedwell is unmarried, earning her the unenviable title of a 'surplus woman'. She is one of many ladies who lost husbands, lovers and fiances on the battle fields of WW1. The chances of finding a partner now are slim and she spends her days working at a mundane job for an insurance company. She requests a transfer from her home town to Winchester as living with her miserable mother is becoming impossible. Now, however, she must take digs and struggle to make ends meet. It's not a particularly joyful situation but she makes the best of it, until a chance encounter results in her meeting up with the Broderers and she makes new friends and even a potential love interest.

      This is a slow burning book, but kept my interest to the end. My book group gave it between 3.5 and 4.5 stars and generally enjoyed it. Googling some of the patterns and designs on the cushions was fascinating and was a highlight of our discussion. Images of the cathedral and the shattered stained glass window that was subsequently put back together higglidy piggildy, were also interesting.

      The narrative highlighted the position of these 'surplus women' and covered the issues of love, loss. and the general position of single women of the era.
      The narration in the audiobook, by Fenella Woolgar, was excellent and I forgot I was being read to, always a good sign.
    • 4/5
      Embroidery can be mesmerising as bell ringing must be too.
    • 5/5
      Violet Speedwell is a surplus woman, one of the many females unable to find a husband after WWI. After moving out of her overbearing mother's home, Violet is lonely and barely able to make ends meet. After a chance encounter at the cathedral, she takes up with the Broderer's Guild - a group of women embroidering kneelers and cushions for the Cathedral. There, she finds friendship, contentment, and finally settles into herself.

      This was a very enjoyable read. The characters were extremely dynamic and realistic. I thought it was set in a fascinating time period. I am definitely going to watch out for more books from this author. Overall, highly recommended.
    • 4/5
      This is the first book of Chevalier's I have read, though I meant to read [Girl with a Pearl Earring] even before it was published. Chevalier's stepmother was a member of my Quaker meeting, and I met Tracy several times. Alas! Good intentions.... I did enjoy reading this novel, so I will definitely be reading more!
    • 5/5
      I hope others will understand me when I say this is a very 'English' novel. A woman in her 30s who lost a brother and her fiancee during WWl, she moves from living with her demanding and manipulative mother in Southhampton. Working for a pittance in Winchester, she finds a new life and new friends through joining the Broderers of Winchester Cathedral (google them), and this leads to profound life changes. I loved this quiet, slow-paced book.
    • 4/5
      Violet Speedwell in 1932 at age 38 is one of the "surplus women" who lost a fiance' and a brother in WWI and has little hopes of finding romance, She has left the home of her domineering mother and is living in a women's boarding house in Winchester, doing clerical work in an insurance office with two much younger women.

      One afternoon she stops into Winchester Cathedral and stumbles upon the knowledge that there are a group of women who are working to provide needlepoint kneelers and seat cushions in the sanctuary. Despite having no knowledge or previous experience with needlepoint embroidery, Violet sees this as a way for her to leave her mark on the world.

      The narrative takes us through Violet's tutelage by Louisa Pesel (a real life character and embroidery designer). A plot thread the ties Violet to the bell ringers of Winchester Cathedral, and several other plot twists.

      The author has done thorough research and has a deft understanding of the social and cultural dynamics of the era which she uses to create an engaging and interesting narrative.
    • 3/5
      While I was interested in her historical depth & presentation of the women between the wars and the arts of bell ringing and embroidery in that time period I thought the story was too mundane for the most part. The relationships of Violet with Arthur & was interesting, but something was lacking in the book and I'm not sure what.
    • 5/5
      Didn't want this novel to end. Well written, wonderful characters and a realistic ending.
    • 3/5
      I've turned into a curmudgeon. As much as I enjoy the way in which Chevalier creates character and atmosphere, I simply cannot be happy with the ending of A Single Thread. I don't think it realistic given the cultural mores of 1932 England on so many levels. Yes, Violet sets her path, but it is one which I do not think will lead to happy outcomes, no matter our desire for happy endings.
    • 4/5
      A special thank you to Edelweiss and Viking for an ARC in exchange for an honest review.

      A Single Thread takes place in 1932. Violet Speedwell is a "surplus woman" after the Great War took both her beloved brother and fiancé. Yet she is struggling with the notion that her life will be spent caring for her grieving, resentful mother.

      After saving enough money, Violet strikes out on her own and moves to Winchester, which is home to one of England's most impressive cathedrals. She gets a job as a typist and befriends the broderers —women who embroider kneelers for the Cathedral, a tradition that brings comfort to its worshipers. Many in the group are rebelling against society's rules in order to maintain any kind of happiness.

      There are reports that there is another war on the horizon with the rise of the Naza party in Europe. Violet must continue to fight for her independence and craft a life for herself in a time and place where women aren't expected to thrive.

      This is a story of love, friendship, and discovering one's identity.

      I've been enamoured with Chevalier's work since Girl With a Pearl Earring. Recently I had the pleasure of reviewing New Boy which was part of the Hogarth Shakespeare project. She didn't shy away from the huge undertaking/responsibility of retelling Shakespeare's Othello—her compact version delivers a sucker punch and I encourage you to pick it up.

      A Single Thread is both meticulous in detail and in the telling of the story. It is character-driven, so if you are the type of reader that is more interested in narratives that are plot-driven, than the pacing of this book may be too slow for you.

      Chevalier's research is impeccable and meticulous. Although the real-life embroidery expert, Louisa Pesel, makes an appearance, Tracy focuses her attention on the thread of fictitious Violet Speedwell. She is an engaging character, but I was frustrated with, and didn't fully understand, her relationship with Arthur, especially after she went to such great lengths to assert her independence.

      Where this book excels is in the finer writing that carefully details the art of embroidery and the history of the time period. Although this book isn't quite as memorable as her other works, Chevalier delivers a rich and authentic work of literary fiction with an interesting premise.
    • 3/5
      I loved the needlework and bell ringing stories, but the "love" story bored me. It's too bad because the rest of it was great. I loved reading at the end that many of these events were based on real people and their stories. It you like sappy love, you might like this novel more than I.

    Book preview

    A Single Thread - Tracy Chevalier

    1

    Shhh!"

    Violet Speedwell frowned. She did not need shushing; she had not said anything.

    The shusher, an officious woman sporting a helmet of gray hair, had planted herself squarely in the archway that led into the choir, Violet’s favorite part of Winchester Cathedral. The choir was right in the center of the building—the nave extending one way, the presbytery and retrochoir the other, the north and south transepts’ short arms fanning out on either side to complete the cross of the whole structure. The other parts of the cathedral had their drawbacks: The nave was enormous, the aisles drafty, the transepts dark, the chapels too reverential, the retrochoir lonely. But the choir had a lower ceiling and carved wood stalls that made the space feel on a more human scale. It was luxurious but not too grand.

    Violet peeked over the usher’s shoulder. She had only wanted to step in for a moment to look. The choir stalls of seats and benches and the adjacent presbytery seats seemed to be filled mostly with women—far more than she would expect on a Thursday afternoon. There must be a special service for something. It was the 19th of May 1932; Saint Dunstan’s Day, Dunstan being the patron saint of goldsmiths, known for famously fending off the Devil with a pair of tongs. But that was unlikely to draw so many Winchester women.

    She studied the congregants she could see. Women always studied other women, and did so far more critically than men ever did. Men didn’t notice the run in their stocking, the lipstick on their teeth, the dated, outgrown haircut, the skirt that pulled unflatteringly across the hips, the paste earrings that were a touch too gaudy. Violet registered every flaw, and knew every flaw that was being noted about her. She could provide a list herself: hair too flat and neither one color nor another; sloping shoulders fashionable back in Victorian times; eyes so deep set you could barely see their blue; nose tending to red if she was too hot or had even a sip of sherry. She did not need anyone, male or female, to point out her shortcomings.

    Like the usher guarding them, the women in the choir and presbytery were mostly older than Violet. All wore hats, and most had coats draped over their shoulders. Though it was a reasonable day outside, inside the cathedral it was still chilly, as churches and cathedrals always seemed to be, even in high summer. All that stone did not absorb warmth, and kept worshippers alert and a little uncomfortable, as if it did not do to relax too much during the important business of worshipping God. If God were an architect, she wondered, would He be an Old Testament architect of flagstone or a New Testament one of soft furnishings?

    They began to sing now—All Ye Who Seek a Rest Above—rather like an army, regimental, with a clear sense of the importance of the group. For it was a group; Violet could see that. An invisible web ran among the women, binding them fast to their common cause, whatever that might be. There seemed to be a line of command too: Two women sitting in one of the front stall benches in the choir were clearly leaders. One was smiling, one frowning. The frowner was looking around from one line of the hymn to the next, as if ticking off a list in her head of who was there and who was not, who was singing boldly and who faintly, who would need admonishing afterward about wandering attention and who would be praised in some indirect, condescending manner. It felt just like being back at school assembly.

    Who are—

    Shhh! The usher’s frown deepened. "You will have to wait. Her voice was far louder than Violet’s mild query had been; a few women in the closest seats turned their heads. This incensed the usher even more. This is the Presentation of Embroideries, she hissed. Tourists are not allowed."

    Violet knew such types, who guarded the gates with a ferocity well beyond what the position required. This woman would simper at deans and bishops and treat everyone else like peasants.

    Their standoff was interrupted by an older man approaching along the side aisle from the empty retrochoir at the eastern end of the cathedral. Violet turned to look at him, grateful for the interruption. She noted his white hair and mustache and his stride, which, though purposeful, lacked the vigor of youth, and found herself making the calculation she did with most men. He was in his late fifties or early sixties. Minus the eighteen years since 1914, he would have been in his early forties when the Great War began. Probably he hadn’t fought, or at least not till later, when younger recruits were running low. Perhaps he had a son who had fought.

    The usher stiffened as he drew near, ready to defend her territory from another invader. But the man passed them with barely a glance, and trotted down the stairs to the south transept. Was he leaving, or would he turn in to the small Fishermen’s Chapel, where Izaak Walton was buried? It was where Violet had been heading before her curiosity over the special service waylaid her.

    The usher moved away from the archway for a moment to peer down after the man. Violet took the opportunity to slip inside and sit down in the closest empty seat, just as the dean stepped up to the pulpit in the middle of the choir aisle to her left and announced, The Lord be with you.

    And with Thy spirit, the women around her replied in the measured tempo so familiar from church services.

    Let us pray.

    As Violet bowed her head along with the others, she felt a finger poke at her shoulder. She ignored it; surely the usher would not interrupt a prayer.

    Almighty God, who of old didst command that Thy sanctuary be adorned with works of beauty and cunning craftsmanship, for the hallowing of Thy name and the refreshing of men’s souls, vouchsafe, we beseech Thee, to accept these offerings at our hands, and grant that we may ever be consecrated to Thy service; for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.

    Violet looked around. Like the choir’s, the presbytery chairs were turned inward rather than forward toward the high altar. Across from her were ranks of women in facing seats, and behind them, a stone parclose decorated with tracery in the form of arches and curlicues. On the top of the screen sat stone mortuary chests containing the bones of bishops and kings and queens—unfortunately jumbled together during the Civil War when Cromwell’s men apparently opened the chests and threw the bones about. During a tour that Violet dutifully took after moving to Winchester, the guide had told her the soldiers threw femurs at the Great West Window and destroyed the stained glass. Once Charles II had been restored to the throne in 1660 it too had been restored, using saved shards of glass, but it was remade higgledy-piggledy, with little attempt to re-create the biblical scenes originally depicted. Yet it looked orderly, as did the mortuary chests—so tidy and certain, resting above her head now, as if they had always been and always would be there. This building might look permanent, but parts of it had been taken apart and put back together many times.

    It was impossible to imagine that such bad behavior could have taken place in so solid a building, where they were now obediently reciting the Lord’s Prayer. But then, it had been impossible to imagine that solid old Britain would go to war with Germany and send so many men off to die. Afterward the country had been put back together like the Great West Window—defiant and superficially repaired, but the damage had been done.

    In the faith of Jesus Christ we dedicate these gifts to the glory of God. As he spoke the dean gestured toward the high altar at the far end of the presbytery. Violet craned her neck to see what gifts he was referring to, then stifled a laugh. Stacked in even, solemn rows on the steps before the altar were dozens of hassocks.

    She should not find them funny, she knew. Kneelers were a serious business. Violet had always been grateful for the rectangular leather kneelers the size of picture books at Saint Michael’s, the church the Speedwells attended in Southampton. Though worn and compacted into thin hard boards by years of pressing knees, they were at least not as cold as the stone floor. She had never thought they might require a benediction, however. And yet that appeared to be what this special service was for.

    She glanced at her watch: She had left the office to buy a typewriter ribbon, with the tacit understanding that she might stop en route for a coffee. Instead of coffee Violet had intended to visit the Fishermen’s Chapel in the cathedral. Her late father had been a keen fisherman and kept a copy of Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler on his bedside table—though she had never seen him read it. Now, though, she wondered if kneelers were worth being late for.

    The prayer over, she felt another sharp tap on her shoulder. The service might take longer than a coffee or a pilgrimage to Walton, but she could not bear to be bullied by this woman. I’ve joined the service, she muttered before the usher could speak.

    The woman frowned. "You are a broderer? I haven’t seen you at the meetings."

    Violet had never heard the word and was not entirely sure what it meant. I’m new, she improvised.

    "Well, this is a service for those who have already contributed. You will have to wait for the next service in October, once you have actually taken part and put in some work."

    If the usher hadn’t then glanced down at Violet’s left hand, she might have accepted that the service was not for her and departed. She should have done anyway—gone for the typewriter ribbon and returned to the office in a timely fashion. Besides, services were often dull, even in a cathedral as magnificent as Winchester’s. But she hated the judgment that the usher was forming from her not wearing a wedding ring. She couldn’t help it: She glanced in return at the usher’s left hand. A ring, of course.

    She took a breath to give herself courage. I was told I could come. Her heart was pounding, as it often did when she rebelled, whether on a large or a small scale. When she’d told her mother six months before that she was moving to Winchester, for instance, her heart had beat so hard and fast that she’d thought it would punch a hole through her chest. Thirty-eight years old and I am still afraid, she thought.

    The usher’s frown deepened. "Who told you that?"

    Violet gestured toward one of the fur-wearing women in the front choir stall bench.

    Mrs. Biggins said you could come? For the first time, the usher’s tone faltered.

    Mabel, shhh! Now others were shushing the usher, who turned scarlet. After one last scowl at Violet, she stepped back to her place guarding the archway.

    The dean was midway through his address. This magnificent cathedral has been blessed with many adornments over the centuries, he was saying, "whether in stone or wood, metal or glass. The effect has been to lift the spirits of those who come to worship, and to remind them of the glory of God here on Earth as in Heaven.

    "To this abundance can now be added the kneelers you see before the altar—the start of an ambitious project to bring color and comfort to those who come to services in the choir and presbytery. The Winchester Cathedral Broderers group was formed by Miss Louisa Pesel at my invitation last year. The word broderer is taken from the Worshipful Company of Broderers—a guild of embroiderers established in medieval times. This new group of cathedral broderers reflects the noble history of this craft, brought forth by Miss Pesel to unite the past and present. Many of its members are here today. You have clearly been very busy with your needles, embroidering these splendid hassocks for the presbytery, and soon to commence on cushions for the seats and benches in the choir. Not only will we see glorious colors and patterns amongst the more sober wood and stone, but worshippers will find it easier to kneel as they pray. He paused, with a smile that indicated he was about to make a small, deanlike joke. The cushions may well make it easier for congregants to sit and listen to my sermons."

    There was a sedate collective chuckle.

    As he went on, Violet glanced at the woman next to her, who had laughed more openly. Her face was thin and angular, like a long isosceles triangle had unfolded between her temples and chin, and her brown hair was shingled into another triangle whose points stuck straight out from her cheeks. She turned to Violet with eager dark eyes, as if the glance were the calling card she had been waiting for. I haven’t seen you before, she whispered. Are you from the Monday group? Is one of yours up there?

    Ah—no.

    Not done yet? I managed to finish mine last week—just before the cutoff. Had to run clear across town to get it to them. Miss Pesel and Mrs. Biggins were that strict about it. Handed it straight to Miss Pesel herself.

    A woman in the seat in front of them turned her head as if listening, and Violet’s neighbor went quiet. A minute later she began again, more softly. Are you working on a kneeler?

    Violet shook her head.

    What, your stitching wasn’t good enough? The woman made a sympathetic moue. Mine was returned to me three times before they were satisfied! Have they put you on hanking instead? Or straightening the cupboards? The cupboards always need that, but it’s awfully dull. Or maybe you keep records for them. I’ll bet that’s what you do. She glanced at Violet’s hands as if searching for telltale signs of inky fingers. Of course she would also be looking for the ring, just as Violet had already noted that she didn’t wear one. I said no straightaway to record keeping. I do enough of that the rest of the week.

    The woman ahead of them turned around. Shhh!

    Violet and her neighbor smiled at each other. It felt good to have a partner in crime, albeit one who was a little eager.

    By the time the service dragged to its conclusion with the end of the dean’s address, another hymn (O Holy Lord, Content to Dwell), and more blessings, Violet was very late and had to rush away, her thin-faced neighbor calling out her name—Gilda Hill!—after her. She ran across the Outer Close, a patch of green surrounding the cathedral, and up the High Street to Warren’s stationers, then hurried with the typewriter ribbon back to Southern Counties Insurance, arriving flushed and out of breath.

    She needn’t have run: The office she shared with two others in the typing pool was empty. When Violet had worked in the larger offices of the same company in Southampton, the manager had been much stricter about the comings and goings of the workers. Here, where the office was so much smaller and more exposed, you might think Violet’s absence would be noted. But no. Though she didn’t want to be reprimanded, she was mildly disappointed that no one had noticed her empty chair and her black Imperial typewriter with its cream keys so quiet.

    She glanced at her office mates’ vacant desks. Olive and Maureen—O and Mo, they called themselves, laughing raucously about their nicknames even when no one else did—must be having tea down the hall in the staff kitchen. Violet was desperate for a cup, and a biscuit to plug the hole in her stomach. For lunch she’d had only the Marmite and margarine sandwiches she’d brought in. They were never enough; she was always hungry again by midafternoon and had to fill up with more cups of tea. Mrs. Speedwell would be appalled that Violet had a hot midday meal only once a week. She could not afford more—though she would never admit that to her mother.

    For a moment she considered joining her colleagues in the kitchen. O and Mo were two local girls in their early twenties, and although they were nice enough to Violet, they came from different backgrounds, and treated her like an African violet or an aspidistra, the sort of houseplant a maiden aunt would keep. Both lived at home and so had a more carefree attitude toward money—as Violet herself had once had. One sexy, one plain, they wore new dresses as often as they could afford to, and lived for the dance halls, the cinema dates, the parade of men to choose from. There were plenty of men their age; they didn’t walk into a dance hall as Violet had done a few times after the war to find the only dancing partners were old enough to be her grandfather, or far too young, or damaged in a way Violet knew she could never fix. Or just not there, so that women danced with each other to fill the absence. As they typed, O and Mo talked and laughed about the men they met as if it were assumed men should be available. They had each gone through several boyfriends in the six months Violet had worked with them, though recently both had become more serious about their current beaux. Sometimes their high spirits and assumptions made Violet go and boil the kettle in the kitchen even when she didn’t want tea, waiting until she had calmed down enough to go back and carry on with her rapid typing. She was a far more efficient typist than the girls—which they seemed to find funny.

    Only once had Mo asked her if she’d had a chap, back then. Yes. Violet clipped her reply, refusing to make Laurence into an anecdote.

    This week had been worse. Even the prospect of tea and a biscuit did not outweigh the dread Violet felt at having to watch tiny, buxom Olive straighten her fingers in front of her face for the umpteenth time to admire her engagement ring. On the Monday she had come into the office walking differently, pride setting her shoulders back and lifting her tight blond curls. She had exchanged a sly, smug smile with Mo, already installed behind her typewriter, then announced as she shook out her chiffon scarf and hung up her coat, I’m just off to speak to Mr. Waterman. She pulled off her gloves, and Violet couldn’t help it—she searched for the flash of light on O’s ring finger. The diamond was minute, but even a tiny sparkle is still a sparkle.

    As O clipped down the hall in higher heels than the court shoes Violet wore, Mo—smarter than her friend but less conventionally attractive, with colorless hair, a long face, and a tendency to frown—let her smile fade. If she were feeling kind at that moment, Violet would assure Mo that her current boyfriend—a reticent bank clerk who had stopped by the office once or twice—was sure to propose shortly. But she was not feeling kind, not about this subject; she remained silent while Mo stewed in her misery.

    Since that day and O’s triumphant display of her ring, it was all the girls talked about: how Joe had proposed (at a pub, with the ring at the bottom of her glass of port and lemon), how long they would wait to save up for a proper do (two years), where the party would take place (same pub), what she would wear (white rather than ivory—which Violet knew was a mistake, as white would be too harsh for Olive’s complexion), where they would live (with his family until they could afford a place). It was all so banal and repetitive, with no interesting or surprising revelations or dreams or desires, that Violet thought she might go mad if she had to listen to this for two years.

    She lit a cigarette to distract herself and suppress her appetite. Then she fed a sheet of paper through the typewriter rollers and began to type, making her way steadily through an application from Mr. Richard Turner of Basingstoke for house insurance, which guaranteed payment if the house and contents were lost to fire or flood or some other act of God. Violet noticed that war was not included. She wondered if Mr. Turner understood that not all loss could be replaced.

    Mostly, though, she typed without thinking. Violet had typed so many of these applications to insure someone’s life, house, automobile, boat, that she rarely considered the meaning of the words. For her, typing was a meaningless, repetitive act that became a soothing meditation, lulling her into a state where she did not think; she simply was.

    Soon enough O and Mo were back, their chatter preceding them down the hall and interrupting Violet’s trancelike peace. After you, Mrs. Hill. Mo stood aside and gestured Olive through the door. Both wore floral summer dresses, O in peach, Mo in tan, reminding Violet that her plain blue linen dress was three years old, the dropped waist out of date. It was difficult to alter a dropped waist.

    "Well, I don’t mind if I do, Miss Webster—soon to be Mrs. Livingstone, I’m sure."

    Oh, I don’t know. Mo looked eager, though.

    Olive set down her cup of tea by her typewriter with a clatter, spilling some into the saucer. Of course you will! You could marry sooner than I do. You may end up my matron of honor rather than my maid! She held out her hand once more to inspect her ring.

    Violet paused in her typing. Mrs. Hill. It was a common enough name. Still . . . Does your fiancé have a sister?

    Who, Gilda? What about her? She’s just a warped old spins— Olive seemed to recall whom she was talking to and bit her words back with a laugh, but not before Violet took in her dismissive tone. It made her decide to like Gilda Hill.

    2

    Violet lived fifteen minutes from the office in an area called the Soke, on the eastern side of Winchester just across the river Itchen. On a single typist’s salary, she could not afford the nicer areas in the west with their larger houses and gardens, their swept streets and well-maintained motorcars. The houses in the Soke were smaller yet had more inhabitants. There were fewer motorcars, and the local shops had dustier window displays and sold cheaper goods.

    She shared the house with two other women as well as the landlady, who took up the ground floor. There were no men, of course, and even male visitors other than family were discouraged downstairs, and forbidden upstairs. On the rare occasion there were men in the front room, Mrs. Harvey had a tendency to go in and out, looking for the copy of the Southern Daily Echo she’d left behind, or her reading glasses, or feeding the budgies she kept in a cage there, or fiddling with the fire when no one had complained of the cold, or reminding them to be in good time for the train. Not that Violet had any male visitors other than her brother Tom, but Mrs. Harvey had given him this treatment until Violet showed her a family photo as evidence. Even then she did not leave them alone for long, but popped her head round the door to remind Tom that petrol stations shut early on Saturdays. Tom took it as a comic turn. I feel I’m in a play and she’ll announce a body’s been found coshed over the head in the scullery, he remarked with glee. It was easy for him to enjoy Mrs. Harvey as entertainment since he did not have to live with her. Occasionally Violet wondered if in moving to Winchester she’d simply exchanged her mother for another who was equally tricky. On the other hand, she could go upstairs and shut her door on it all, which was harder to do with her mother. Mrs. Harvey respected a closed door, as long as there was no man behind it; in Southampton her mother had sometimes barged into Violet’s bedroom as if the door did not exist.

    Back now from work, she declined tea from her landlady but smuggled some milk up and put the kettle on in her own room. This was her seventh cup of the day, even having been out part of the afternoon at the cathedral. Cups of tea punctuated moments, dividing before from after: sleeping from waking, walking to the office from sitting down to work, dinner from typing again, finishing a complicated contract from starting another, ending work from beginning her evening. Sometimes she used cigarettes as punctuation, but they made her giddy rather than settling her as tea did. And they were more expensive.

    Sitting with her cup in the one armchair by the unlit fire—it was not cold enough to justify the coal—Violet looked around her cramped room. It was quiet, except for the ticking of a wooden clock she’d picked up at a junk shop a few weeks before. The pale sun sieved through the net curtains and lit up the swirling red and yellow and brown carpet. Thunder and lightning carpet, her father would have called it. Fawn-colored stockings hung drying on a rack. In the corner an ugly battered wardrobe with a door that wouldn’t shut properly revealed the scant selection of dresses and blouses and skirts she had brought with her from Southampton.

    Violet sighed. This is not how I was expecting it to be, she thought, this Winchester life.

    Her move to Winchester last November had been sudden. After her father’s death Violet had limped along for a year and half, living alone with her mother. It was expected of women like her—unwed and unlikely to—to look after their parents. She had done her best, she supposed. But Mrs. Speedwell was impossible; she always had been, even before the loss of her eldest son, George, in the war. She was from an era when daughters were dutiful and deferential to their mothers, at least until they married and deferred to their husbands—not that Mrs. Speedwell had ever deferred much to hers. When they were children, Violet and her brothers had avoided their mother’s attention, playing together as a tight gang run with casual authority by George. Violet was often scolded by Mrs. Speedwell for not being feminine enough. You’ll never get a husband with scraped knees and flyaway hair and being mad about books, she declared. Little did she know that when the war came along, there would be worse things than books and scrapes to keep Violet from finding a husband.

    As an adult Violet had been able to cope while her father was alive to lighten the atmosphere and absorb her mother’s excesses, raising his eyebrows behind her back and smiling at his daughter, making mild jokes when he could. Once he was gone, though, and Mrs. Speedwell had no target for her scrutiny other than her daughter—her younger son, Tom, having married and escaped years before—Violet had to bear the full weight of her attention.

    As they sat by the fire one evening, Violet began to count her mother’s complaints. The light’s too dim. The radio isn’t loud enough. Why are they laughing when it’s not funny? The salad cream at supper was off, I’m sure of it. Your hair looks dreadful—did you try to wave it yourself? Have you gained weight? I am not at all sure Tom and Evelyn should be sending Marjory to that school. What would Geoffrey think? Oh, not more rain! It’s bringing out the damp in the hall.

    Eight in a row, Violet thought. What depressed her even more than the complaints themselves was that she had counted them. She sighed.

    "Sighing

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