Mother burnt my squares. She had no choice; there was risk of infection. I was nine, same as you. 1943. I didn’t tell Mother at first because she always had some sort of medicine that taught you never to be ill. My throat was swollen and sore on the day we broke up for the holidays.
Yes, it does seem unfair. Why are youngsters rarely ill during school terms? God must have his reasons.
Diphtheria. No, my lovely, you don’t have it. Just a cold. Lie down, please, you’ll strain your neck.
‘Oh, my child!’ Mother cried when I finally went home to her. We played all day then – running along Porthminster beach, free as the sweeping gulls, and swimming for so long that our fingers were as wrinkled as mine are now. Until that summer. I wasn’t even allowed to sit out in the sun.
I hadn’t the strength. I was locked away in my room, not seeing a single soul apart from Mother. Even she covered her mouth whenever she had to enter the Den of Disease. That was my name for it.
Horrid. I felt like an outcast: no visitors, not even the doctor.
Because we couldn’t afford it. There was little anyone could do anyway; my life was in the balance. We had to wait to see what providence would bring.
Yes, I know. I cried more than I’ve ever cried before or since, cried my poor heart out. There was hardly anything in my room. Only my bed, bible, a small table, and a teddy bear knitted by my mother. Nothing like the things you have here.
We rarely thought about it. The war brought hardship for everyone, but the Lord provided. I had little appetite that summer, struggled to swallow, nearly faded away completely during the seclusion. I was a skinny thing. Hard to believe now – I have made up for it ever since!
Sorry, my lovely. Put your hand over your mouth. That’ll teach you not to laugh and cough. Are you all right?
Good. What’s that you’re reading? You have plenty up here. Goodness, even a television. No such thing when I was young.
Frustrated, but never bored. I had my knitting. Bit by bit, piece by piece. I had such a vision for what it would be. Some days the sound of needles was comfort; others it was torture. I dropped my work, leant back exhausted, and looked out of the window. Gulls swooped around in the wind, never crashing, plucking fish from the water. How free!
Indeed, like a cell. Every time I heard the clicking latch of the front door I wondered who was arriving or leaving. I lost track of time. I always knew when it was Sunday though. Mother had on her best frock. Dad went out to preach, saving souls, while I stilled my needles for the Sabbath. I read my bible, sometimes glancing at the red, blue, and green pieces building up on the floor beside my bed.
I was going to ask our local shop to sell it for me. With the proceeds, I intended to buy as many bibles and tracts as I could, to send to the mission. It was a way I could contribute. I’ve always had such grand ideas, you know. I used to write sermons and read them to Teddy, but I never showed them to Father or anyone in the meetings.
I heard them come to the house. They prayed. For our troubled world, for our country, for themselves. For me to be spared.
No, their words were inaudible. I tried, pressing my ear to the wall until my legs wouldn’t hold me, but they were being quiet for my sake. I’d sat there many times when I was healthy – knitting, or sewing, listening.
I wanted to, of course. I’ve always had a different way of looking at things, questioning everything, but from their perspective it wasn’t the done thing.
It means a point of view. We can look it up in the dictionary. What was I saying?
Ah, yes. Not in those days, not in the strict Brethren. I was never allowed to speak in meetings.
Because I’m a woman.
Because it says so in the New Testament.
Because that’s how things were.
Yes, I felt the same – the same perspective, do you see? Some days I couldn’t control my anger. I once flared up to Father, ‘You hate women; you put tape over their mouths and pin hats to their head!’
Nothing at all. He squeezed my shoulders, then sat down in his fireside chair. Funny when you think about it, choosing silence; I believe he understood.
Many weeks. It took a while to get my strength back and they couldn’t risk me around other children. Those were the hardest days, when I felt well. Click click click went the needles. I opened the window, smelt the breeze, the seaweed, watched people on the beach. Mother brought me food, tucked the sheets around me, slammed the window shut.
Are you tired, my child? Father used to say I could wear out the most patient ears. It’s my worst fault.
You have the gift of diplomacy.
It’s means sensitivity in dealing with people. Tactfulness. Let’s look it up later.
And ‘tactfulness’.
What other word?
Oh, ‘perspective’. Yes, that too. So similar, aren’t we? I pray that the world has changed enough to give you whatever you desire, or that you will have the power to change it.
I should let you get back to your book. You do love to read don’t you. Never seen so many books in a room that wasn’t a library. I didn’t read much until later in life, apart from the bible. Knitting was my hobby.
Mother and Father silently fed the squares into the fire. Enough for a whole quilt. They burnt Teddy Bear too. No one to cuddle me at night, nor hear my sermons.
Yes, my child, read.
Hannah Retallick is from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a First-class honours degree, BA in Humanities with Creative Writing and Music, before passing her Creative Writing MA with a Distinction. Hannah has gained recognition in many international competitions, including receiving Highly Commended in the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize 2022 and winning the £2000 Edinburgh Award for Flash Fiction 2024 – the biggest flash prize in the UK. Her debut short story collection, Something Very Human, was released by Bridge House Publishing in November 2024. https://www.hannahretallick.co.uk/about
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