The Florentine Quilt

1. Theodora

1

THEODORA

‘CLARENCE’, MELBOURNE, 2024

CELESTITE: Clarity and calm, uplifting, healing, supports release of emotions and grief

C ats don’t give a damn how it feels to lose someone you love.

I hurl my slipper, and it flies through the air but misses the neighbourhood intruder and hits the dunny lane fence. Grrrrrr . How dare he ruin the last of Gran’s plantings! Clumps of soil are scattered among the debris of leaves and trampled seedlings, but the cauliflower florets strewn across the path are my undoing. The feline felon licks his paws and blinks at me with disdain from the seat beneath the crab apple tree. His act of sabotage is the final straw.

With the fog of last night’s nightmare still trapped behind my eyelids, I rake the soil around the hydrangeas into place. Since Gran’s death, nights are the hardest, and the dreams that troubled me as a child have returned with vigour. I dreamt of that man again and tossed and turned through witching hour watching blurred scenes that flashed like film-strip frames. A visceral sense of danger coursed through my body, and a raging sea growled so loud it would make a lion quake. I woke, gasping for breath with my chest aching, and the images dissolved as swiftly as fairy floss on my tongue.

And now this.

Gran insisted the dreams were nonsense; after a while it was easier not to mention them. But a nagging feeling suggests there’s more to it than my love-hate relationship with the sea.

Birdsong grounds me. Hugging my arms around my body, I take in a deep breath of loamy soil, aware of my presence in time and place. A violet-plumed fairy wren calls to his mate. It hops from the lemon-scented bottlebrush and perches on the edge of the bird feeder. Gran encouraged birds to her garden, recognising each species by its distinctive song. She’d spend hours listening to the gentle warbling and chirping as they flocked to the small plot at the rear of her century-old terrace, Clarence . This garden was her haven.

Luke made the timber bird feeder in the early days of our marriage. As always, Gran was specific with her instructions. ‘ Make sure it has at least eight arches for them to flutter in and out of,’ she insisted, consulting her design on the back of a used envelope. ‘ I want the smaller birds to reach the seed before any of those bolshie magpies scare them off.’

‘ Yes , Gran .’ Luke met her orders with a smirk. ‘ Do you want bunks for them to sleep in too?’

‘ That’s enough, you young rascal! Just follow the diagram and keep your cheek to yourself. And make sure you hang it high and off on the fence so that feral tomcat can’t reach it.’

Poor Gran was as blindsided as me when my marriage ended.

With the remains of the mess in the compost bin, I breathe a sigh of relief. Thankfully the herbs have been spared, and the ripening tomatoes and cabbage heads too. I’m sure Star’s family will care for Clarence’s garden and Gran’s birds in my absence. There’s plenty of seed in the tub in the old outhouse used as a garden shed. Employing Star was by far the best business decision I ever made. And it helps that her mum’s a bit of a green thumb.

I know what an honour it is to be accepted at the OPD —the Opificio delle Pietre Dure , and to work on the fourteenth-century quilt. Gran was elated when my application for a textile conservator internship in Florence was successful. ‘ It’s only for a few months, dear: don’t you worry about me,’ she said the day we discussed the details over hot chocolate and slices of buttery cinnamon toast. ‘ This is perfect for you.’

I’m grateful for the opportunity. With just over a month to go, I wish I felt more motivated. The truth is, if not for Gran’s insistence, I’d never have contemplated leaving her. Now , even before I’ve packed my bags to fly across the globe, it’s moot: she is the one who left me.

She was all I had.

I try not to think of the time before. My family’s past is cavernous, my memories buried deep in the recesses. At times I wished I’d joined them. But I must be here for a reason. What it is, I can’t say.

O n my first day back at work, I walk the streets and find nothing has changed. The tram still shuffles along its rails, clanging its bell, and people navigate the footpath with eyes lowered over mobile phones. It’s amazing how life goes on around you while your world stands still.

‘ Good to see you, love.’ Mrs Donahue nods as I pass the deli. She twists her hands in her apron and the insignia of the bleeding Sacred Heart wrinkles across the bib. ‘ It was a lovely service. Your gran’s with the angels now, may her soul rest in peace.’ She steps back and resumes her sweeping, valiantly trying to hide the tears that prompt mine.

Jerry the postman hands me the mail. ‘ Sorry for your loss, Theodora . Least she’s out of pain now.’

Although well meant, neither sentiment encourages me to feel Gran’s in a better place. I flip the open sign on the door and incline my head, then reset the mask on my face. Perhaps it is too soon to come back, after all. But experience attests routine will help me move forwards. Work is the best therapy.

Star’s eclectic influence is immediately obvious in the front window. Dolly , our mannequin, wears a punk-inspired purple wig on her head and biker boots on her feet. A strapless tartan ball gown with a balloon skirt adds a unique touch—homage to Vivienne Westwood , no doubt. The locals must think we’re nuts. My upcycle boutique is already at odds in a streetscape of high-end designer shops and trendy cafes, but I love Star’s endeavour. It’s refreshing to have her up to her elbows alongside me when her friends are out sipping coffee or chai more often than not.

‘ Are you okay, Theodora ?’ Heavily outlined eyes peek out from under a blunt-cut fringe. ‘ What d’ya think?’

‘ It’s wonderful. Honestly .’ I force a smile through my tears.

Star is such great company—always singing off-key while we sort through the stock and dancing around without a care in the world. She brightens my days.

I check the online orders and then tackle the contents of a voluminous striped bag. Every discarded item of clothing or costume jewellery has played a part in someone’s life—it’s like peeping through a tiny window into their world.

‘ Luke called for you—again.’ Rosie wanders in with our coffees. To make her thoughts known, she steps back and folds her arms.

I get it, Rose …

I bend deeper into the bag. A vision of a woman comes to mind—she’s petite and nervous with a bracelet spinning on her arm and a cigarette at her lips. Kohl is smudged thick around hooded eyes.

No . I squeeze my eyes tightly. I didn’t see anything. It’s an assumption, based on the waft of nicotine rising from the contents. ‘ Assume makes an ass of you and me’ is what Gran used to say. I return to my sorting.

‘ Are we going to talk about him, lovely?

I shake my head. ‘ Not now, Rose . Let it go, will you?’

‘ Okay , okay…’ She sighs and hands me another dress from the bag. ‘ This one’s gorgeous! A similar colour to the one I wore for my twenty-first, remember? There’s no chance I could fit this jelly roll in.’ Rosie confesses she’s spent the past two weeks trying things on and wishing them hers.

‘ You looked fabulous. It was perfect with the platinum bob you had going back then.’

‘ True .’ Rosie’s back at the counter again with her hands full of tulle. ‘ And you, with the tousled rock star look. I still can’t believe you straighten your curls now!’

‘ Easier to tie back.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘ And neater.’

She’s a dear friend. I so appreciate her flying back from London to support me. I’m lucky to have her.

I smooth the shoulders over a coat hanger and suddenly sadness overwhelms me. I gasp aloud.

‘ What is it, lovely?’

A sheen of sunlight catches the sequins. Beneath my eyelids, a girl spins in circles to show off her new dress. I sense her in a room full of people, but their faces are blurred. A party. A celebration. But where is she? What is her name?

A cold energy washes over me, and my heart beats, faster and faster. The colours fade and it turns dark—there’s been an accident—the picture looms large and I see a face—a beautiful face framed by an ebony pixie-cut—her eyes shine with love—then hazel eyes fill with tears.

Stop thinking about it, Theodora .

Long bead fingers jiggle and sway as I move the dress to the pile behind me.

‘ No , you can’t! That’s a designer label.’ Rosie’s voice breaks my stream of consciousness.

‘ I won’t sell it.’ I roll my shoulders forwards and stretch out my arms to ward away the grief. The bright bohemian bangles jangle on my wrist.

‘ What do you mean?’ She stands with her hands on her hips and glares at me. ‘ Oh … I get it. You think if you sell it, some kind of bad juju will follow it…’

She doesn’t understand the magic of each piece like I do, or the love and life held within. The memories and emotions retained in every inanimate object. We studied art history and heritage conservation together at uni. But Rosie is more historian than conservator—interested in exploring the facts, not the practical techniques or the intuitive.

I ignore her eyeroll and turn away. ‘ How about you suspend disbelief for a bit and bring us both a cuppa? And a Tim Tam while you’re at it.’

‘ You’re the boss. But it can’t be good for business.’ The echo of her heels clip-clops on the floorboards. When she sings out she’s giving the stockroom a clean, I smile, understanding it’s code for having a cigarette.

I rub the tiny sequin discs between my fingers. My upcycle boutique offers garments a new life. A second chance. I enjoy the re-working process and the way a textile responds when I’m restyling a shapeless dress or turning it into headbands and bookmarks or coin purses. Scraps , end of roll off-cuts and out-of-date fashions transform into patchwork tote bags and cushions. Every reincarnation holds the experiences and emotions of its past life within the fabric.

At this point in time, it’s hard to escape the sadness I feel in everything. The catch in my chest suggests the need to find something more; something that makes me happy again.

My phone buzzes with a text and breaks my train of thought. I fiddle with my necklace.

Can we talk?

I don’t have the energy for Luke today.

I close my eyes now, remembering his earnest expression. Better not tell Rosie .

S chool pick-up time breaks the flow of customers, and the boutique is blissfully quiet. Star ducks out with the post while I refresh the smaller displays in peace. Music plays softly in the background, and I hum along as I go. I love this time of day. The setting sun threads its way across the sky to the west and golden light peeps through the bay window. I’m adjusting the pile of antique napery on the walnut auto trolley near the door when the delicate rosette pattern on a doily reminds me of the quilt on Gran’s bed.

When I was twelve, Gran insisted quilting sang to her soul and advocated it as a therapy to soothe and heal. Hours were spent in companionable silence, meticulously cutting fabric shapes to piece together. The quilt on her bed is crafted from scraps of fabric from her favourite dresses. A true daughter of the Depression , she reworked her discarded clothing for me too. Her patchwork pieces became beautiful squares and in turn part of the giant jigsaw puzzle that told the story of her life.

Some squares are made from dresses and periods I don’t recall, and the ivory guipure lace from her wedding dress is the highlight. The richly embroidered roses and leaves in the centre of the design add texture to the quilt. Gran told me how she saved for weeks to buy the lace. ‘ I was only going to walk down the aisle once— I made sure the lace was good quality to use again.’ I can hear her voice so clearly; my tears prick like pins into a pincushion.

The weekly classes are still my therapy. Surrounded by pattern books and bolts of cotton and poplin, the quilters concentrate with heads bowed low. Sometimes the odd sigh or drawing of a needle through fabric is the only sound as we weave our magic. There’s comfort in the slow and intricate techniques, and the constancy of my companions.

Snippets of the quilters’ lives are communicated in the intimacy of the process. Life’s precious moments: children, weddings, grandchildren and death too are shared, increasing my awareness of the mixture of joy and suffering of a life lived. While the majority of our cohort is grey-haired and hard of hearing, they are ever-supportive. I listen to the oldies with my ears open and mouth closed. One thing I’ve learnt is the mutual agreement on the importance of leaving a legacy. Each quilt is a visual memoir, a diary, and each woman is a storyteller reflecting on a lifetime of significant events. I am yet to discover a way to express mine.

The timing of my internship at the OPD interferes with my need to grieve. The last few years, coping with Gran’s illness and then her death, have been difficult. While I enjoy what I do, there’s regret too. Irritation scratches at me. I question if re-working pre-loved clothes and my boutique is enough. I should be creating something more. But what?

The day Gran died a letter arrived with details regarding my induction. At the time, I wasn’t interested in anything remotely official. A few days later, a cursory glance at the envelope under the clock on the sideboard reminded me to open it. My initial reaction was to make my excuses and decline the assignment. But then I remembered the light in Gran’s eyes when she urged me to apply. How pleased she would have been…

Her words come to me, about reaching the age when you want to connect with the past. The opportunity to take part in the conservation of the Coperta di Usella promises a fresh start.

I’m drawn again to the doilies, inspired by the subtle patterns in the web-like embroidery. They’d look fabulous fanned out on a quilt. The vision of snow-white fabric entangles with the idea of moving forwards. White , the colour of purity and serenity. A blank page. I suddenly feel lighter.

Rosie bounces in from the fitting room, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as Gran used to say. ‘ What are you looking so pleased with yourself about?’

‘ I was thinking about the coperta.’ I don’t reveal the image.

‘ There’s something you’re not telling me…’ Rosie places a hand on each hip and raises an eyebrow, ‘what is it?’

‘ Taking my place at the OPD is the right decision, Rose .’

She moves to the rack of eveningwear to straighten the hangers and a smile beams across her face. ‘ Of course it is, lovely! It’s a brilliant opportunity. You’ve put aside your dreams for years. You have such a talent for understanding what a textile needs or lacks—the OPD will be lucky to have you. And your attention to detail— I still remember that fabulous bodice.’

‘ Perhaps it will help me move on too.’

‘ Do you mean from Gran or…?’ Rosie’s eyebrows arch in enquiry.

‘ You know how conservation is all about taking things slowly? Maybe , reconnecting to a work of the past might help me understand who I am. And help me get back to the source of my creativity?—’

‘ Bloody hell, Theodora ! You sound like an ad for a woo-woo health retreat! You know— centred self-exploration; watch the sun rise and smell the dew on the roses …’ She air quotes and rolls her eyes.

I don’t have the words to explain, but I need to find the missing piece of me. There’s a gap inside; I was barely coping when Luke and I broke up. Then I was back home nursing Gran . This is my chance to see who I am and what I’m capable of. There’s nothing holding me back.

‘ Gran was always one for looking ahead— but now she’s gone, I feel compelled to find out more and to settle my past.’

Rosie peers over the top of tortoiseshell glasses. ‘ You are all right, aren’t you? There’s nothing wrong?’

I laugh and reach for her hands. She’s a dear friend. ‘ I’m perfectly fine.’

‘ I know the last few years have been tough. But you usually baulk at the idea of revisiting your past.’

I look towards a collection of earrings in a chartreuse-coloured bowl. ‘ I still don’t remember what happened, Rose . I might never fully understand. But it always felt disloyal to question Gran about the details of their deaths. She was adamant we put the past behind us.’

Rosie draws me into a hug. ‘ I guess she found it difficult to deal with too. But by encouraging you to pursue your career, maybe she was trying to prepare you for after she’d gone.’

Tears blur my eyes and I brave a smile. ‘ I guess she saw how much I enjoyed volunteering on that project with the costumes at the NGV . Her health was seriously on the decline by then.’

Rose squeezes my shoulders with a smile. ‘ Italy ! An adventure. Finally , a chance to do something for you.’

A rainbow glows over the bay. Red and yellow and pink and green…the words to the song play on repeat. Rainbows mean good fortune….

‘ Have you decided what you’ll do with the boutique?’

‘ Star will run it. She’ll be great. But I know when I get back I’ll need to make changes about the business direction.’

Rosie nods and turns to the napery. ‘ Speaking of changes… Luke .’ She tilts her head and stands with her hands on her hips. ‘ Turning up at your gran’s funeral. What was that about?’

I shrug. ‘ I was surprised too. We hadn’t spoken for ages…’ I fiddle with a price tag. Tension presses between my shoulder blades and burns the base of my neck. Rosie and I have been through everything together—the whole Luke saga, the divorce five years ago, and all that followed. She never fails to stand by my side. It’s only distance that has separated us for the past decade. I have to tell her…

‘ I just wish he’d stay out of your life?—’

I’d noticed him in the chapel and faltered my way through Gran’s eulogy with a lump in my throat and his eyes watching me.

Later , in the cemetery, he appeared by my side while I was standing before the formulated row of headstones.

‘ I’m so sorry about your gran—she was a terrific woman. I know what she meant to you.’ He kissed my cheek, and I took a step back, shocked by the rawness of my response.

‘ Thank you.’ I turned towards the row of cypress trees on the cemetery’s boundary. I was uncomfortable, but he had spoken kindly. I couldn’t think straight and struggled to cope with my feelings in his presence. We once had shared so much.

‘ I didn’t mean to upset you. I only wanted to let you know I care.’ He grasped my shoulders and turned me to him, forcing me to look into eyes the colour of molten amber. I didn’t dare. The last thing I wanted to see was his pity.

‘ I need to know you’re okay.’

I stepped back and his hands dropped to his sides. ‘ I appreciate your concern, but I must go—it’s been a difficult day.’

‘ Theo ?’ His special name for me had stabbed at my gut. ‘ I need to speak to you about something too.’ He nodded, no doubt expecting me to agree.

‘ Not now, Luke .’ I glanced towards the cemetery’s iron gates. With their ornate patterns and heavy protective latches, I wondered: did they keep the spirits in—or out?

‘ I’m over him, Rosie ,’ I say, with feigned conviction.

She picks up an embroidered hand towel and slams it back on the counter. ‘ Working in Florence will be a great experience—and it’ll do you the world of good to get away from him—and her. What on earth do you think keeps them here anyway?’

‘ He has business interests here.’ Including half of this building— I daren’t tell her we never rushed to settle it.

‘ You know I was a Luke fan at first, but his selfishness does my head in.’

I’m all too aware of her frustrations. She was there when we first met. But she can’t possibly understand how difficult it is to completely sever our relationship.

There’s silence for a few minutes while she dusts the shelves. Then a tram clangs and screeches on the tracks as it travels past the window and along Vic Ave . Like the Gemini she is, Rosie flips topics as swiftly as her selections on Bumble . ‘ I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you my news…’ Her eyes glitter. ‘ I’ve been promoted within the V and A . I’m flying back to London on Friday . It’s a curator role, working in the museum archives at the new Clothworkers ’ Centre for the Study and Conservation of Textiles and Fashion . I got the final okay last night.’

‘ Well done, Rosie —you deserve it!’ I swoop her in for a hug. I’m so happy for her.

‘ I can’t wait!’ She grins and adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose. ‘ But how funny is this? Both working in the same field at last!’

‘ It will be fantastic.’

‘ Fabulous !’ Her energy and enthusiasm are catchy. She leans forwards on the counter. ‘ Hey , lovely, why don’t you visit me there first? I could show you around.’

I’ve always wanted to see the Tower of London and the Victoria and Albert Museum where Rosie works is a must for creatives and those appreciative of art and history.

‘ I’d love to.’

My mobile vibrates on the counter and I sweep it under a reel of satin ribbon. Luke , again. I swallow the lump in my throat. My life would be vastly different if we were still married. If everything had gone to plan. It always comes back to that.

‘ Who knows where the OPD will lead me?’ It’s the boldest decision of my life. ‘ One step at a time, Rosie .’

Her hearty chuckle fills the room. ‘ Looks like you’re finally paying attention to your own advice.’

I frown and then follow her gaze. Bright bunting is strung across the wall above the counter, each triangle quilted in tones of cherry pink, aqua and violet, spelling out the name of my boutique like a beacon. I can’t help but grin. One Step in Time .

This is my time.

At the end of the day, Rosie hugs me goodbye. Next time we meet will be in London . A wave of excitement rolls through me as I secure the front door, taking the day’s parcels to the post box. One is being sent to far north Queensland . Another to an apartment in Richmond , in the building that once housed the television studios. My pieces travel to new homes across the globe. To new experiences. Soon I’ll travel too, to Italy , a country steeped in history, art and culture.

At home, I change into comfy leggings and a T -shirt, and position myself on my special floor cushion to meditate—to restore calm. It’s been a great comfort over the years. Breathe in, breathe out. I pause, interrupted by a noisy flock of seagulls outside, soaring from Port Phillip Bay towards the heads.

Across the sea…

Gran’s words filter through the stillness and I immediately remember her request. In our last conversation, her tone was quiet and clear. At the time, the message seemed insignificant because tending to her final needs was considerably more important. Now curiosity sparks my interest.

‘ I know my grandmother followed him here…’ Gran had coughed, and her eyes flickered open, a glassy gaze pleading through the morphine as it met mine. ‘ We didn’t ask questions in my day. There are two books in the top drawer, under my smalls. You must read them, Theodora? —’

‘ Gran . Please just rest,’ I interrupted, patting her hand as she’d done to me as a child. Her lips were strained tight. I wished her pain would ease.

‘ I’m sorry. I only did what I thought best. Perhaps it was wrong…but it might help you to understand… about my grandmother….’

The books are still on the bottom shelf where I left them.

Gran was insistent— which is odd because she knew better than anyone I have no interest in reading—it takes time away from quilting or re-making for my boutique. But what was she trying to tell me? There seems to be a mystery that goes beyond my own family and stretches further into our ancestry.

I get up to collect the books and settle on her bed with them and hold my palms flat on the covers. Secured with criss-crossed maize ribbon like a gift, the faded cover of the first features the name Amelia Treloar in a fine curling script. The diary will require a longer inspection than I can manage just now, so I put it aside, taking the heavy weight of the storybook into my hands with a smile.

The Arthurian Legends — Tales of the Round Table . I admire the beautiful end pages with swirling paisley patterns and gold-entwined fronds of fleurs-de-lis that float on a background of delft blue. Gran was a seasoned raconteur when it came to King Arthur’s tales and recounted the legends throughout my childhood. I remember her telling me how she’d begged her mother to change her name to Guinevere , after her favourite character.

The book’s illustrations are only slightly faded, more from age than the touch of questioning fingertips or eager hands on the pages. It must have remained secreted away in the drawer for decades. Each turn of the page trails in its wake the musty smell of parchment, thick and yellowed. The beautiful volume would have been an extravagant purchase in its day and still stands the test of time over a hundred years later. Long before Gran’s time.

A wave of emotion brings tears to my eyes. Gran . I miss her so much. With the book for comfort, I crawl onto her bed and curl my knees up to my chest, then draw her quilt to my chin. Gran’s unique scent overwhelms me, the lavender and vetiver lingering in the fabric. It triggers an unsettling flash of deja vu— I don’t have the strength to fight memories of what we went through together.

Cocooned under Gran’s quilt, I wear my misery like a badge of honour. I’ve survived loss before and must do it again. I will never let Luke see my pain, nor any sign of weakness. But what does he want?

Ignoring the unease that sits heavily in my stomach, I turn my attention back to the beautiful pages. I can’t think about him now. I read until my eyelids grow heavy and dreams of Celtic knights on horseback from a land across the sea take me down.