Chris's entry:
I was handed by a man whose soul was the colour of mud, to a girl whose heart contained all the colours of the sky. He owned her and expected her to spin his clothes and weave them on a loom he also furnished.
She did as she was told. She saw his mud and knew it was not the clay she delighted in, which was a rich kaleidoscope of earth reds, siennas, and umbers, but a deadening kind of thing that seeped from his soul into his whole being. In order to complete what he demanded, she put on a veil of dullness while she worked, spinning all day on me, and all night on the loom.
But the veil could not completely kill her sky, and into the thread she spun a trickle, a stickle, of magic. The clothes she was forced to make were almost as grey as he, but from a certain angle or in a particular light, something in them would glitter and sparkle for the briefest of moments. In his denseness he mistook occasional gasps as admiration of himself.
After she finished her tasks, she would take off the veil of dullness and gather up the leavings from the floor for herself. She spun them and wove them into things of ragged beauty. The man thought that he wore the finery and that his servant wore only rags and so he was content in his muddy fashion.
This is not a fairy story. There was no prince to rescue the girl, and her life was ever encircled by me and the loom. The man, in his avarice and his sticky clinging power over people, fancied that he was happy, and he wallowed in his ersatz happiness, though an occasional stickle, trickle, of doubt stabbed him. For just a moment.
The girl sometimes wondered if she ought to be unhappy, but something deep inside her - something with all the colours of a January sky, from the faintest tint of pale azure through rich shades of cornflower to the deep velvets of twilight - told her that happiness was woven into the weft of her sky heart and that she could not really be unhappy even if she tried.
I? I am simply content that I felt her touch.
Sally's entry:
My grandmother's spinning wheel lay dusty and ignored in the hallway for years, until the little blue mittens turned up one morning.
“Whose are these?” my mother said distractedly as she scuttled about with arms overflowing, school bags, books, dolls and colouring pencils tumbling from her as she went. She never seemed to have time for housework, or anything else for that matter, since Dad died.
We looked blankly at her. They were too small for any of us: tiny, perfect, a little satin bow at the wrist. “I'll have them for Sukey,” I ventured: and they were mine. Or rather, my china doll's. I collect china dolls: they take up nearly all my corner of the bedroom I share with my little sister Petra.
Next day it was bootees. Same pale blue, same satin ribbon. Nobody noticed the spinning wheel had lost its mildewy, forgotten look and now shone like it was polished. I sort-of noticed but thought Mum had had one of her sporadic spells with the duster.
After that there was something nearly every day. Cardigans; a skirt; a beret. Sukey had never been so well-dressed. Mum started getting twitchy.
“That looks just like....” she would murmur when another hat appeared on the old settle in the hall. I caught her gazing at Sukey more than once, too.
Then I got home from school one day and found Mum sitting at the spinning wheel, spinning. That wasn't the only odd thing. The hallway was spotless. I don't mean Mum had been clearing up a bit: I mean really scrubbed. Like Mum never managed these days.
“What's going on, Mum?”
She glanced up at me, eyes shining. The wheel whirred under her fingers, and the spindle grew fat with brilliant blue wool.
“It's her,” she smiled. “Your grandmother. I knew it was her when those clothes started turning up – they were just like the ones she made for my doll when I was your age. Then this wool appeared this morning and I just threaded up the wheel. She's helping me, Clare. Just look at the house! Whenever I think I should go and clean something, it's done!”
She had tears in her eyes – but they were happy tears. ”Mum always said she'd always watch over me,” she said. “I didn't believe her then. But now - I think everything's going to be all right.”
Tara's entry:
SAYING GOODBYE
In an ideal world, the spinning wheel would stay here. It's been in my family for generations, and is still in excellent condition – probably even serviceable. But a one- bedroom flat at the top of a tower block is not the most suitable place to display such an exquisite item.
So, with a heavy heart, I prepare the spinning wheel for her next journey. She's only been with me for a week, since the death of my beloved grandmother, but her new owner will be here to collect her this afternoon. I'm struck by the thought that I have no idea where she'll end up. What if they take her overseas? My grandmother would turn in her grave if she knew her prized possession was being treated in this potentially callous way.
Running the duster over the spinning wheel once more, I recall with a smile how lovingly my grandmother restored her from a rotting eyesore into the mahogany beauty she is today. How therapeutic it had been for her, especially after Granddad died. She'd even given the spinning wheel a name – Elsie. Grandma confided all her secrets and sorrows to Elsie over the years. Now, if spinning wheels could talk …
Realising that Elsie's new owner will be here any minute, I turn to her with a sigh.
"I'll miss you, old girl." My eyes fill with tears.
Elsie, of course, just stands there, emotionless. Yet, I feel a tug at my heartstrings. How can I let her go? What if her new owners dismantle her to use as firewood? Or sell her for scrap? Nobody will appreciate her value like me. But how can I possibly keep her here? She's so big and elegant, and my flat is so tiny and shabby. I bite my lip, frantically trying to think of a solution.
Suddenly, the phone beside me jangles, making me jump. Before I even answer, I know who it will be and why they're calling.
"So, we no longer require the spinning wheel." The man's nasal voice drones.
"Ok." I say, and hang up the phone, light headed with relief.
Almost immediately, I pick up the receiver again, and begin to dial, willing myself on as I carefully press each number.
"Is that the Home Textile Museum?" I ask when a friendly female voice answers the phone. "I'd like to donate an item to your exhibition, please."
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