Miss Seeton Quilts the Village by Hamilton Crane

Author:Hamilton Crane [Crane, Hamilton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrago
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

MISS SEETON REGRETTED the brevity of Bob’s visit, but at least she had seen her adopted nephew, and received further news of Anne and the baby, so that when he telephoned to say he and Mr. Delphick must return to London sooner than expected, she entirely understood. It was, after all, their job. She hoped her little IdentiKit sketch had been of some help. Mr. Delphick (Bob assured her) was delighted. Miss Seeton, relieved, packed her sketching gear away and settled to the pursuit and practice of appliqué, as demonstrated by Louise to herself and Lady Colveden, and also by Miss Wicks, with her neatly basted geometric shapes.

Miss Wicks! Miss Seeton almost dropped her scissors. She had promised she would buy her some fabric—she had forgotten! It was no excuse that she had been distracted by sketching the secret List of Local Legends and History. The schoolchildren had long since put the finishing touches to the painted map foundation strip. Assembly and stitching-on were well under way as panels—done in cross-stitch, needlepoint, or quilted—were handed in. Miss Wicks had been one of the first to submit her contribution, the wrought iron balustrade of her cottage being represented by a length of exquisite crochet lace, the whole picture framed in dainty hexagons. Miss Wicks would never rebuke a friend for breaking a promise, but...

“Tomorrow,” promised Miss Seeton firmly. Today she was busy cutting her own shapes out of cartridge paper. When one looked at anything closely, and broke it down into its true form, as she always told her pupils, the possibilities were endless. Like designing one’s own personal jigsaw puzzle, only with lines rather than wiggly edges. Miss Seeton knew that in theory you could make curves from multiple short straight lines, and knew that in real life she never would. Or certainly not with fabric. Straight lines on their own would do very well. A window, a door. An individual rectangle? Or several smaller oblongs in slightly different hues of the same colour, to indicate reflections of the outside world on glass, or paint? A pitched roof—a lozenge and a parallelogram in different shades, and there it was, almost in three dimensions...

Next morning Miss Seeton, her shopping list in her basket and her basket over one arm, selected an umbrella. Yes, the dark blue. Dear Mr, Brinton, so thoughtful to have had her initials embossed on the handle. Though maybe her hat now seemed a trifle shabby. She might pop into the milliner’s while visiting Jeannine Claire, to see the latest Monica Mary creations...

Her mind on hats, Miss Seeton headed for the bus. Passing Miss Wicks’s cottage, her conscience prompted her to wave at the front window where the old lady, she knew, sat at work in the natural light that was so much more comfortable for the eyes than the artificial yellow of electric bulbs—daylight apparently held a bluish tinge. Which, apparently, explained the comfort. Artists, of course, preferred a north light, without the sun, although in Australia and New Zealand they would presumably prefer a south light.

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