Dropped Stitch

Dropped Stitch 

Frank’s jumper washed up on the shore three days after his boat cast off. There was no question that the jumper was his, though rough waves had torn the sleeves away, and salt had pulled the blues, the yellows, the greens out of the yarn. Yet there truly was no doubt that the jumper, the sorry excuse for a gansey, belonged to Frank. 

Every other row contained at least one dropped stitch. Some more than one. So many dropped stitches, in fact, someone could be forgiven for assuming the act was deliberate. A unique design knitted with love, fashioned by a doting wife so her husband might stand out among the weathered hardened fisherman he called colleagues. 

Not friends. Men like Frank do not have friends. 

They fished the jumper out of a shallow rock pool. The debris of his boat washed up a few hours later. Confirmation of what they all knew without needing to give voice to the grim reality. The only thing to decide was how to break the news to Tabitha. 

No one immediately volunteered. Someone mumbled that this was more of a woman’s job anyway. Though not loud enough or with enough conviction to trigger a chorus of agreement. It is a rare thing for the dock to be silent, and as they passed the jumper between them, their fingers penetrating each dropped stitch, all knew deep down that the unpalatable task had to be tackled immediately. Before each and every one of them lost their nerve. 

To her credit, Tabitha took the news well. The stoicism of a fisherman’s wife, one who sweeps floors and knits by the fire, waiting with one ear listening for the heavy tread of boots which do not belong to her husband. Footsteps which hesitate at the threshold before knocking. 

No man wishes to die, but those born by the sea are likely to be taken by it. And a silent thanks passed between the men that Frank had taken the boat out alone that night. The sea, they had quite rightly judged, had been too rough and unpredictable, with no indication of whether the storm would abate or grow in fury. 

Frank was like that. A reckless type, especially when in his cups. Tabitha knew that only too well, but had learnt to hold her tongue a long time ago.

Now, with the destroyed jumper in her hands, she asked few questions, and the men said even less. What was left to say? Except stating the obvious platitudes. A good man taken too soon. She had nothing to fear. The community would look after her now. 

Lies which none of them believed. Yet Tabitha nodded as she shed a small tear and retreated into the house.

“That is the mark of a proper woman” 

The only compliment Tabitha ever received from those hardened brutes. And, of course, it was said out of her hearing. 

They appreciated the ease of the task that each and every one had been dreading. No unpleasant scenes, just an acceptance of the inevitable. They hoped all of their wives, current and future, would handle such news with the same quiet grace. As they would have to sooner or later. 

A small funeral followed, Frank never abundant with friends. The first test of the community summarily failed. The subsequent tests did not fare any better. 

A couple of men raised a glass to Frank on the funeral day, one or two wondering aloud if Tabitha kept the jumper or did she bury it in lieu of a body?

Angry glares subdued the one joker who expressed sympathy that Frank couldn’t escape the lumpy mess even in death. It wasn’t the day for jokes, no matter how much everyone secretly agreed. 

Tabitha was a good wife. A devoted wife. And she did her duty to the best of her abilities. Which continually fell short in every way. 

The house kept tidy, but not pristine. She could cook food, in the loosest sense of the word. And her knitting… Stitch after stitch dropped, the unsightly mass of wool she was left with after eight painful weeks of work could only barely be called a jumper. 

One felt embarrassed to see it, and no one more than Tabitha herself. Each time she went into the market, turning her face away to hide the latest bruise blooming on her cheek, her neighbours were forced to do the same, all of them sharing the same sting of embarrassment. 

Why not just try harder? A mantra whispered over pots of tea and good hardy cakes. Why bring it upon yourself when you could simply do better?

Had any of them bothered to ask, Tabitha would have told them how hard she was working to do better. Each burnt dinner, or grimy cup, or dropped stitch rang in her head as Frank landed blow after blow. He was usually careful, avoiding her face, unless he was in a true fury. 

Why can’t you do anything right?

Smack. 

How is this so difficult for you?

Whack.

What did I do to deserve such a waste of a wife?

Thwack.

Tabitha never attempted to answer. She would say nothing except for the string of apologies she prayed would one day still his hand. 

He did this out of love. 

Yes, he did love her, he had always loved her. That’s what brought her here in the first place. Far from her inland home, into a community which smiled pleasantly when she arrived with a meagre suitcase, and immediately traded whispered insults once her back was turned. 

Just wait, they all agreed, just wait until she finds out what it means to be a fisherman’s wife. She’ll be sorry to leave the gaudy city lights behind. 

The jumper, a traditional gansey, was the first hurdle to overcome. Every fisherman needs a gansey. It comes with the job. How else to identify the water bloated corpse when the inevitable happens? 

Tabitha told Frank to stop, that she refused to accept he would die at sea. But she knitted the gansey all the same. That was her duty. Several rows of dropped stitches, each one a testament to the labour Tabitha was putting into finding her place in this brave new world. 

He was less than pleased with the final result. He couldn’t wear that, he would look ridiculous. Had she seen what the other men had? Knitting couldn’t be all that hard.

Probably not, had she any instruction, or any practice. If Frank had a family with generations of knitting patterns and an overbearing mother to critique every pearl and drop. If he wasn’t also a stranger in a community who made no effort to open their arms. 

And as a first attempt, Tabitha thought it was a solid effort. Besides, her voice too light and too playful for what came next, at least he would be easy to identify. 

He apologised immediately after the first beating. Not so much a beating as a sharp slap across her face. 

He didn’t mean it, but she couldn’t joke about things like that. This was his life, and the other women knew there were things you didn’t say. 

She agreed to learn her place, agreed she had crossed a line, and agreed that of course, of course he loved her. 

It took a dozen more beatings to shake that belief. Even now Tabitha was unsure that it had always been a lie. 

If she’d improved, even slightly, perhaps a few of the strikes could have been avoided. But the dinners remained burnt, the kitchen grubby, and she was never able to pick up the stitches, no matter how much time she dedicated to the task. 

The same question was asked, over and over. 

Why can’t you do it when all the other women can?

Her mouth filled with blood, Tabitha unable to explain that it wasn’t just skill that she lacked.  

The other women had each other. 

How lonely that cottage became. Tabitha struggling through with barely enough light to work by, fumbling with her knitting needles as wool slipped through her fingers. 

At one time she dreaded those long days alone, but they soon became a solace. Brief respites from the storms which constantly raged against her. The nights Frank would disappear to the pub were less welcome. He always came back steaming, and she would bear the brunt of his displeasure. 

Always, always, there was something she was doing wrong.

Why was she always asking about money? Didn’t she trust him to manage his own home? Or did she think he wasn’t a good enough provider? What did she want with the extra she was nagging him for? Dresses and make-up?

No woman wore make-up. That was the mark of a city whore. Or the ones who hung around the docks, their faces painted bright as peacocks. 

Tabitha learnt the hard way what kind of attention a little rouge got her. The snide whispers were almost as cutting as Frank’s fists. 

The ultimate irony? She did it for him. What would everyone think if they knew what happened behind the locked door of their less than immaculate cottage? She need not have worried. It was not done to interfere in your neighbour’s marriage. A husband and wife had to work out their problems on their own. 

And it would be far less embarrassing for everyone if said wife learned her place. Quickly.

Tabitha almost killed herself trying to learn it. Some days she stood for hours at the edge of the cliff, watching the sea crash against the rocks and thinking how pleasant it would be to step away.  

She couldn’t leave, she had nowhere to go. If she made the mistake of running, he would find her. He never said as much, but she knew his pride wouldn’t let her leave. 

There was comfort in the knowledge there was one place he could not follow. 

After his death, and the poorly attended funeral, Tabitha was rarely seen. This was not unusual. Her cottage was set back from the rest of the village. It stood on a small hill, right on the cliff edge. Some less sympathetic neighbours commented that it was the perfect place for one to look down their nose. 

Certainly, Tabitha needed the isolation. She kept her head down and her face turned away as much as she could, but it did nothing to hide the injuries. This way at least everyone could pretend they didn’t see the painfully obvious signs of a tortured life. 

Even now, with Frank gone, she still kept her head down. Old habits are hard to break, though bruises and cuts can heal with remarkable rapidity. 

What a dignified widow Tabitha made. 

Everyone agreed that mourning suited her, and what her wifely duties could not do, her widowhood achieved almost instantly. 

Tabitha earned their respect. Her finely cut black dresses, modest but with an obviously stylish flair, her hair set in a sensible low bun, and most importantly, she refrained from shedding a single tear. 

At least, in public she did. Perhaps her wracking sobs shook the filthy walls of her cottage, and maybe she cursed the God that made her for taking her husband too soon. 

No one knew. The cottage and the single inhabitant was still a veritable pariah. She didn’t belong among them when she married into the village. The latest tragedy did nothing to ingratiate her further. 

Some women did their duty, thanks to their husbands’ frequent encouragement, and brought her various home baked goods. She accepted them with a grateful smile, noting the hint of malice behind each loaf of bread or hearty pie. Dishes she was hopeless at recreating. 

The gush of gifts slowed to a trickle, before ceasing altogether. Tabitha did not seem to mind. She certainly didn’t say anything. The golden protection of silence was a hard won lesson. 

Most lessons faded from her skin within weeks. Some took longer. Some remained with her for the rest of her lonely life. 

Still, the regular, day to day, humdrum activities did not much change for Tabitha. Alone more often than before, but without the dark shadow of dread hanging over her. Long evenings sat by the fire, yards of wool banished to a grimy corner. Although the house was slightly cleaner than it had ever been under her care. It is wonderful what scrubbing can achieve when not fighting the shaking of your own hands. 

She did not mind the solitude. Not as much as she had before. Here was where her true security lay. An impenetrable wall keeping all at bay, with no one to ask her questions as to what she was up to, why she stood at the cliff edge, or what she was waiting for. 

This happened to some women. When their men were lost at sea, sometimes they waited for their return. Scanning the horizon for the smallest sign that they had not been left to face the unceasing march of time alone. 

Tabitha was not waiting for Frank’s return. She stopped looking over her shoulder mere days after his funeral, remembering with a smile the earth tumbling onto his empty coffin.

The graveyard was filled with empty coffins. True fishermen were buried at sea. 

The priest told her she was lucky to have something to bury, even if it was only a gansey. The word ‘hideous’ went unsaid. Tabitha nodded, keeping her face frozen in the perfect image of stoicism. It was the final gansey Tabitha ever knitted. Frank needed a new one, the others were filled with holes, which Tabitha claimed had been made by moths. 

She gathered the ends of the brightest wools she had left, looping them together into a misshapen mess, the obligatory dropped stitches standing out proudly. 

Had Frank received her work with even a modicum of grace, perhaps events would have played out differently. Perhaps she would not be alone every evening. Perhaps she would be enjoying the wonders of a rekindled marriage with her loving husband. 

No. She received the same thanks she always received. The ice and bandages were readied before he even pulled back the brown paper. 

He had to wear it. He had nothing else. And she bore the brunt of his humiliation, blow after painful blow, as each man down the docks commented how nice it was for his blind mother to continue to knit jumpers for him.    

That meant, despite the ragged and faded appearance after it was dragged from the sea, all the men knew straight away to whom the gansey belonged. 

Just like Tabitha planned. 

Doubts crowded her mind as she unmoored the boat and watched it drift away over the horizon. The weather was growing worse, but boats had survived rougher seas. 

Uncaptained, however, it stood no chance against the merciless waves. Or perhaps some unseen hand had taken pity on her. Someone, finally, deciding that she had suffered enough.

Dropping the gansey into the shallows, knowing it would eventually be found, and that any blood could be easily explained, she sighed with an ease of breath she never knew she had. 

Tabitha did not need to worry. No one questioned the story the sea presented to them. Fishermen disappeared everyday, and though a loss in the community was a terrible tragedy… 

Well, it did not affect the daily lives of the self-centred neighbours who never gave Tabitha the time of day. 

And so life carried on. Tabitha went to the market in the mornings, her head held a little higher each day. She cleaned the house in the afternoons, the grime slowly worked from the walls and windows. She huddled by the fire in the evenings, her reverie broken only by respites to stare out at the sea and imagine how pleasant the fall down into the depths might be. 

She hoped Frank had enjoyed it, though she knew he had died long before he reached the murky seabed. 

Funny thoughts indeed to ponder over her knitting. It was almost a shame her hands never touched wool again. Besides, she had lost her only decent needles. 

After that final beating, she hadn’t the strength to pull them out of Frank’s cold heart.