By Roxane Liguti, Year 12
One of Elisabeth Baring’s hobbies was sewing. Every day, she would sew with her aluminum needle. It kept her occupied whenever she felt lonely or had nothing to do. Her husband never noticed though; he was always at work.
In fact, after his dreadful service during the early years of World War I, he was crippled and traumatised, but desperately needed to work to support the family, already drowning in debt. She was sewing many things in order to sell them at the market to ship them off to the Front. The family tried their best, but it still wasn’t enough.
The War ate up their bourgeoisie status, as it was eating the family’s limited budget. But Elisabeth couldn’t care less about the economy, nor the efforts of her husband. The omnipotent Time is kind to some, but not to him.
It was a freezing day, in Leeds in 1942, around 11pm, or so. The radio was turned off at this time. Nothing would ever disturb the hard work of a woman.
In the living room, with a small fireplace in the background, Elisabeth was sewing as usual. It passed the time, as well as entertained her.
She was focused, putting aside the boredom and fatigue of the day. Her daughter had already gone to bed. Her husband could be here at any moment, she knew that. She knew every one of the family members’ schedules by heart.
The old housemaid had just finished cleaning the dinner plates. After all, it’s not like the Baring family wanted to get their hands dirty, especially the husband, who being a war veteran, had already forever stained his mind and hands with enemy blood, disturbing him and filling him with guilt.
The sound of the grandfather clock’s ticking and the gentle and the sharp crackle of the fire waltzed through the living room. She was sewing silently, almost imperturbable. She hummed a wordless melody as she went on with the knots. It was a delicate and morbid sound. It reminded one of some sort of funeral that you couldn’t control but only hear.
She smiled from time to time, eager to finish her project and show it to her daughter. This project, so tiresome and demanding, was in fact a little dress made of white lace fabric. Elisabeth had worn it in her youth, but had torn it.
She mended it every night and admired it, thinking how happy her daughter would be to have it and wear it with a little bow in her hair.
Towards midnight, there was absolutely no sign of the husband’s return. As steady as she always was, she carried on, without pricking her delicate finger.
The housemaid entered the room, apologising countless times for disturbing Elisabeth while she was working. She only replied with a content smile.
Then the housemaid suddenly dropped her cleaning cloth, joined her hands over her mouth and silently screamed.
“Why scream, my dear? I only did God’s work” Elisabeth finally said, putting her sewing aside, on the sofa’s arm. “I relieved him of his suffering”.
The husband’s body, with five needles planted in his stomach, was ruining the gracefully wax-cleaned hardwood floor with a puddle of blood.
