Maid Mary Anne Read online

  “Really?” squealed Becca. “Euuw.”

  “No!” said Vanessa. “Guess again.”

  She looked around.

  “Needle and thread,” said Buddy Barrett without looking up.

  Vanessa beamed. “Yes! Old Mother Twitchett is the needle, with one eye and the thread is her long tail. It’s sort of poetic metaphor.”

  “We get it, Vanessa,” said Nicky, not rudely, but firmly. Vanessa’s poetic leanings include not only breaking into poetry at random intervals, but a fondness for words, especially when she was saying them.

  Vanessa was as accustomed to Nicky as Nicky was to her, of course. She nodded and returned to her sewing.

  I checked each person’s progress (did I mention that Claudia could thread a needle and had a very nice running stitch?) and discovered that Charlotte knew some embroidery stitches.

  “A chain stitch!” I said. “And a French knot. That’s great, Charlotte.”

  She beamed. “I know how to make a fence stitch, too,” she told me.

  “Terrific. Do you think you could help me show those stitches to everyone else?”

  “I think so,” said Charlotte.

  So after a basic sewing stitch, we began learning stitches for making pictures on cloth — embroidery. Everyone liked learning that as much as I remember I did when I first started sewing.

  When the kids had filled up their scraps of material with running stitches and basting stitches and chain stitches and fence stitches and French knots, and had more or less mastered how to knot off the ends of the thread, I pulled out the sewing dictionary and the quilt books and passed them around.

  “This is just to give you an idea of all the things you can sew. I was thinking we could work together on a project,” I explained.

  “Like a tapestry,” Charlotte said. “We could embroider a really beautiful tapestry and hang it on a wall.”

  “Wow,” said Claudia, flipping through a book of modern award-winning quilts. “These are awesome. Look at this one … it’s sort of like Georgia O’Keefe meets Steven Spielberg’s special effects guy.”

  “Can we make a quilt?” asked Vanessa. “Like the fairy-tale quilt in Mrs. Towne’s house?”

  “I don’t want to do fairy tales,” said Nicky. “I want to make a crazy quilt.”

  “I think a crazy quilt might be a little hard for us as beginners,” I said. “I’ve never made a quilt, either, you guys, so I’ll be learning along with you.”

  “What about a friendship quilt?” Claudia suggested.

  “What’s that?” asked Buddy.

  “Ah, well, here’s a picture of one. Mary Anne will explain.”

  I smiled at Claudia. “A friendship quilt is when people who are making the quilt each make a square or block, or even several blocks each. The blocks are all the same size but they can be different colors. Everyone makes a design on his or her block. Then the blocks are sewn together at the edges to make the top of the quilt.”

  “Oooh,” said Vanessa. “I like that.”

  “Me, too,” said Charlotte.

  “Me three,” said Nicky.

  “How does everybody else feel?” I asked.

  “Can we do anything we want on the blocks?” asked Buddy.

  “Some quilts have a common theme, but I’d say yes, you can do anything you want.” I wondered what Buddy had in mind. He didn’t volunteer the information, though. He just nodded.

  Becca and Haley liked the idea, too. We tossed around some ideas about the size of the squares, and how big the quilt would be and what kind of material we could use, and then the kids became a little wiggly. They’d been pretty good — we’d been sitting under the tree for over an hour, so I suggested we take a walk.

  “May we go to Mrs. Towne’s and see her quilts?” asked Vanessa. She turned to the others. “Mrs. Towne lives down the road and she has the most bea-uuutiful quilts.”

  “Can we, can we?” cried Becca and Haley.

  “I don’t see why not,” I said. “Let me call Mrs. Towne first, though, and make sure it’s okay.”

  “We’ll clean up here,” said Claudia.

  Mrs. Towne sounded delighted to hear my voice. “Of course you can come over, Mary Anne. I’d love to have the company.”

  So a few minutes later, Claudia and the kids and I were walking down the road to Mrs. Towne’s house.

  Mrs. Towne, leaning on her crutches, met us at the door. “I didn’t want you to have to wait while I maneuvered these things down the hall,” she explained. “They’re as awkward as all get-out.”

  “I hope you feel better soon, Mrs. Towne,” said Nicky.

  “Why, thank you,” replied Mrs. Towne.

  “May we see your quilts?” asked Vanessa. “We’re making a quilt, too.”

  “You are? Good for you. Come on, I’ll show you everything.”

  With all the kids talking at once around her, Mrs. Towne made her way slowly down the narrow hall. It was hard for her to move without hitting the wall with one of her crutches. In the sewing room, Vanessa led the way straight to the fairy-tale quilt. “It’s for a baby,” she explained. “See? There’s Humpty-Dumpty and there’s Old Mother Goose and …”

  “The Three Little Pigs,” cried Haley.

  “This is truly awesome,” said Claudia softly. I nodded, but my mind wasn’t really on the quilts. I’d noticed that Mrs. Towne’s neat-as-a-pin house wasn’t so neat anymore. The laundry room was heaped with laundry. And a quick glance in the kitchen had confirmed that dishes were piled in the sink and cans of food were sitting out on the kitchen table as if they’d been too hard to put away. Poor Mrs. Towne. With those crutches, it must have been very hard to do even the simplest things.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I told Claudia softly. I slipped into the hall and went to the kitchen. I whisked the cans into the pantry, washed the dishes and set them in the drainer to dry, and wiped off the kitchen table and counters. There. At least Mrs. Towne wouldn’t have to worry about that.

  I met the others as they were coming out of the sewing room.

  “I love your house, Mrs. Towne,” said Vanessa. She gave a little skip. “Especially your quilts.”

  “Why, thank you.” Mrs. Towne looked pleased.

  “Thank you for letting us visit,” I said. “It’s time for us to go.”

  “Oh, must you?” said Mrs. Towne. “We could have some tea.”

  “Thank you, but it is getting late.”

  “Well, you are all welcome to visit any time,” said Mrs. Towne.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Towne,” said Becca politely, and everyone else joined in.

  Mrs. Towne waved from the door as we hurried down the front walk and out to the road.

  “That was cool,” said Nicky.

  “It really was,” said Claudia.

  “You think so?” I was truly pleased. I’d never imagined my sewing class idea would be a world-class, Kristy-caliber one. But it looked as if it were turning out that way.

  Saturday afternoon came at last. I was finally going to have my own private sewing lesson with Mrs. Towne. This time, after all that had happened, I wasn’t nervous at all — even when it took Mrs. Towne a long time to come to the door. After all, I knew how clumsy those crutches were.

  “Right on time,” said Mrs. Towne. “In fact, you’re a little ahead of me. I was going to be here waiting for you, but everything just takes so long with these darn crutches.”

  I nodded sympathetically. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Mrs. Towne didn’t seem to notice. “The nurse helps, of course. But she’ll only be coming for a few more days. Then I’ll be on my own.”

  We went down the hall to the sewing room. It was a gray day, but the room was lit by old-fashioned floor lamps and it felt cozy and bright. Mrs. Towne lowered herself into a chair and hoisted her foot onto a footstool.

  “Can I get you an extra pillow?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks. If you’ll just pull up that chair over t
here…. Good.”

  In a few minutes we were settled down, and I was explaining to Mrs. Towne what I knew — and all that I didn’t know — about sewing. “I’d like to learn more about embroidery. And about smocking. And I’ve read about French hand sewing, but I’ve never tried it,” I confessed.

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Towne. “Well, I think you’re more than ready to start on any or all of those things. And I have some books I can lend you that might be helpful, too.”

  “Great,” I said happily.

  I was enjoying myself so much I didn’t realize how long we had been sitting until Mrs. Towne put down her smocking, stretched her arms, and twisted her neck from side to side. “I’m getting creaky, sitting here so long. What about some tea?”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “I never really drank tea before, but I liked yours.”

  “Good,” said Mrs. Towne. She began to maneuver herself out of the chair.

  “Can I help you?” I said anxiously. I thought she’d say no, she’d rather do it herself. I mean, Mrs. Towne struck me as the kind of independent person who would say that. But she surprised me by saying, “Yes, please.”

  And she leaned on me all the way to the kitchen, only using one crutch. I settled her in the kitchen chair and went back to get the other crutch. Then I put the tea kettle on.

  “You should fill up the teapot with hot water,” said Mrs. Towne. “That way when you put the tea in it and pour the boiling water out of the tea kettle over the leaves, the tea stays hotter longer. Tastes better, too.”

  “Okay. Where is the teapot?”

  “Oh, dear. I’m afraid it’s still out on the porch from when I had tea with the nurse. It’s so hard to carry anything when you’re on crutches.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll get it.” I went out to the porch and brought the teapot back in, rinsed the old tea out, washed the pot, and filled it with hot water. As I was setting out the cups and saucers, I noticed a bag of groceries sitting on the floor next to the counter. And I could see that the plants on the porch looked thirsty.

  “Hasn’t anyone been helping you?” I blurted out. Then I was embarrassed. Maybe Mrs. Towne would think I was saying her house was mess!

  But she didn’t take it that way.

  “Well, as you know the nurse comes by. But she’s really only supposed to check on my ankle and my medication. Besides, I can get around. I’ve been practicing using my canes. I’ll switch from the crutches to the canes soon, and then I’ll even be able to go up and down stairs.”

  I couldn’t help but feel doubtful. Even with canes, it would be awhile before Mrs. Towne could get around as well as she had before. And if the laundry and the plants on the porch and the state of the kitchen were any indication, Mrs. Towne was going to have an overwhelming amount of work facing her when she was better.

  The tea kettle began to sing and I jumped up to turn off the stove. Then I poured the hot water out of the teapot, spooned in the tea, poured the boiling water over the tea, and slipped the cozy over the pot. I carried it out to the porch and then helped Mrs. Towne.

  When we were settled at the table on the porch, Mrs. Towne lifted the lid of the teapot and said, “About two more minutes, I’d say.” She hesitated. “Mary Anne? Would you mind — I hate to ask you — but could you put the boxes in that grocery bag away in the pantry for me before you go?”

  “Of course!” I’d seen that grocery bag sitting there, I chided myself. How thoughtless of me to make Mrs. Towne ask. “I’ll do it right now, while we wait for the tea.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No problem.” I jumped up and put the groceries away, then returned to the table just as Mrs. Towne was pouring the tea.

  We drank our tea and talked about gardening, and I told Mrs. Towne about the Baby-sitters Club. “Very enterprising,” she said to me. “Very enterprising indeed. But then I’m not surprised. You strike me as a very smart, enterprising young woman.”

  That made me blush. But it felt good, too. I finished my tea and in a sort of whirl of energy and feeling-good, jumped up and cleared off the tea cups and saucers, washed the pot, and put everything away. Then I went to the back door, which was open onto the screen porch, and picked up the watering can just outside. “Why don’t I water the plants on the porch?” I suggested.

  “Oh, Mary Anne, thank you. They’ve been getting mighty thirsty and I just am not able to give them the attention they need.”

  I not only watered the plants, but I swept the porch and the kitchen. “The kitchen is probably ready to be mopped,” I said tactfully (I hope). “You want me to just …”

  “Oh, no, no, no. I couldn’t …” Mrs. Towne’s voice trailed off and she looked at me thoughtfully. Then she said, “Mary Anne. Instead of paying me for sewing lessons in money, why don’t we do some good, old-fashioned bartering?”

  I understood immediately what she meant.

  “That’s a great idea, Mrs. Towne. That is, if you really think it is fair. I don’t mind helping you a bit.”

  “I know you don’t, but I’d feel much better if we did it this way. What do you think? Is it a deal?”

  “It’s a deal,” I said.

  “Great. Now, let’s do a little more of the fun work — sewing — before the day is over.”

  “Why don’t I put a load of laundry in while you get settled in the sewing room,” I suggested. “Then I can put it in the dryer before I go.”

  “Perfect,” said Mrs. Towne.

  And that’s the way I felt as I walked home after my sewing lesson. Perfect. It had been fun. I was learning new things. And I was going to be able to help Mrs. Towne, too.

  Perfect. Just perfect.

  I’d decided to hold my sewing class on two afternoons a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Claudia had become my self-appointed permanent volunteer, and she was the first to arrive at the second class the next Tuesday.

  “Look what I brought,” she said, dumping her backpack on the chair in the den. She pulled out two books. “Janine found these at the library for me, under ‘Folk Art.’ I bet you never thought to look there!”

  I hadn’t. I shook my head.

  “Yeah, me neither,” said Claudia cheerfully. “Anyway, one of these books has a whole section on quilt projects by kids. You know what? Pioneer kids used to work on quilts all the time. It was part of their lives.” She flipped through the pages. “See? Here’s one signed in embroidery by a ten-year-old!”

  “Cool,” I said. We flipped through the pages and I was impressed. And inspired. So was Claudia. I could see new visions of Art filling her mind.

  When the others arrived, Claudia’s enthusiasm swept them up. The books and the project ideas were a smashing success. I’d never realized there were quite so many ways to look at — or make — a quilt. We saw dog quilts, with patches appliquéd with dogs, quilts that combined traditional patterns with outrageous modern materials like gold lamé and mylar, quilts that had been padded and stitched with patterns so that they were three dimensional, quilts that were so intricate they fooled the eye: one moment you thought you were looking at one picture, the next moment it had changed into something else. We saw quilts that used not only embroidery and appliqué techniques, but crocheting and knitting and even plastic and buttons and ceramic decorations. My favorite quilts were the ones that told stories and recorded history, such as the one called “Stars Fell on Alabama.” It was about a night long ago when the skies over Alabama were filled with shooting stars.

  And of course, every quilt we saw seemed better than the next. It took a long time to settle down and make final — and much less complicated — plans for our own quilt.

  Claudia had brought over lots of plain paper and colored pencils. The patches in our quilt were going to be square, and the same size, so we traced one square several times and then handed the squares out to the kids. Claudia helped them draw the designs for their squares.

  Claudia was a great help. Instead of telling the kids their designs w
ere too complicated for even a very advanced quilter (Vanessa wanted to make Cinderella going to the ball on her square, embroidered with gold and silver), Claudia simply made the designs less complicated. For example, she suggested that Vanessa just show Cinderella’s glass slippers, which could be cut out of silvery cloth and appliquéd onto a background. “Maybe we could make a pumpkin, too,” suggested Claudia, “and put it here. What do you think? The orange would look good with the silver and it would be sort of a clue.”

  “A clue, a clue,” sang Vanessa. “That’s what I’ll do.” Which I guess meant, okay.

  Then about halfway through the planning stage, Becca had a brilliant idea.

  “Mary Anne?”

  “Hmm?” I was frowning down at my piece of paper, which was blank, so far.

  “We could make this quilt as a present for someone, couldn’t we?”

  “Sure, Becca. If everyone agrees.”

  “Then I think we should make it for Mrs. Towne. For a get-well present.”

  I put down my pencil. I felt myself choke up a little. I cleared my throat. “Becca, that’s a wonderful idea. I wish I’d thought of it!” I did, too. Not only was it thoughtful and unselfish, but it solved the problem of who was going to get this quilt when we were done.

  “A present for Mrs. Towne,” sang Vanessa softly.

  “All in favor say ‘aye,’ ” I said.

  The vote was unanimous.

  “Then,” said Becca, who’d obviously been thinking about this a lot, “we should make designs that Mrs. Towne would like. Shouldn’t we, Mary Anne?”

  “Did you have something in mind, Becca?”

  Becca nodded. “Flowers. Mrs. Towne has a nice garden. If she had a quilt with flowers on it, it would be like having a garden inside. Each of us could make blocks with different flowers on them.”

  Buddy, who’d been drawing what I think was a football, said, “I don’t want to make a quilt with old flowers on it.”

  “Maybe a more general theme, then,” said Claudia. “Becca, what about a garden quilt? You know, you could show the different things you find in a garden, not just the flowers.”

  “Bugs!” cried Nicky.