The Florentine Quilt

6. Theodora

6

THEODORA

MELBOURNE

AMBER: Alleviates stress, brings wisdom, absorbs negative energy

S tar’s grumbling breaks through the cacophonous clash of percussion, synthesiser and bass as vintage Talking Heads vinyl spins on a similar era turntable at the back of the boutique. She’s hangry. Coffee isn’t enough for breakfast.

I’ve overlooked hearty breakfasts too since Gran’s death. Our tradition of porridge and stewed apples felt too great an effort without her. But when I washed and dried my bowl this morning, I realised I was slowly ticking off all the things I was doing alone for the first time.

‘ I can’t believe the crap here—most of this is useless.’ Star waves a grubby and well-worn T -shirt under my nose. ‘ Can we take a break?’

Wiping my hands on my apron, I smile, understanding she’s experiencing the drudgery of the job. Sometimes we sort through piles of discarded clothing, and our offerings are the mundane, the everyday. For every special piece showcased in the front window, sadly there are another thirty beyond resurrection that inevitably end up in landfill.

‘ Cheer up.’ I pull a face. ‘ Mrs Van der Meyer’s Roller dropped off another delivery this morning. As soon as you’ve finished, you can sort through it if you like.’

Star’s eyes grow wide, and she fist pumps the air. ‘ Yes ! You’re the best. I’ll start straight away.’

‘ After you’ve finished here,’ I remind her in my best managerial voice.

A short time later I check for customers before we make our way into the tiny kitchen. Star sneaks off to the bakery to buy a bun to share on our break.

I’ve finished my tea and made another by the time the backdoor slams shut.

‘ They didn’t have coffee scrolls, so I bought biscuits instead,’ she grumbles and flops into a seat. Her long legs are covered in holey black tights, and her knees bang against the table, splashing tea into the chipped saucer.

‘ Choc -chip. My favourite.’

‘ Did you see the new display at the travel agents?’ Star mumbles with her mouth full and slides the packet across the table. ‘ They’re running a competition to win a trip to the UK . I’d rather go to Bali , but it gave me an excuse to check out the new guy. Ryan .’

No wonder she took the detour.

‘ He said to fill out the entry at the back of the brochure to go into the draw.’ Star’s gaze flickers between mine and the biscuits. ‘ I asked what are the chances of winning, and he winked and said, you never know your luck.’ She mimics a deep voice, and a playful smile settles on her jet-black-lathered lips. ‘ He said to make sure I say hi when I drop them off.’

She pops the last of the biscuits into her mouth. ‘ I’m so amped. Not about winning—but I’m gunna ask him out. You know, make the first move.’

I’ll miss her stories. She cracks me up.

Star’s eyes are still twinkling when her phone’s ringtone bounces around the room. She steps outside, gesturing wildly while repeating her news to a friend. She’s so bright and optimistic in her attitude to love. I’m happy for her.

The glossy pages of the Highlights of Britain brochure capture my attention. I’m struck by the vibrancy of the photographs, the lush green hills and clear blue ocean—the smiling faces of people at a market fair. When I reach the section showing Cornwall’s southern extremity at Land’s End , my hands shake. I can’t look away.

One page shows traditional Cornish fare. Gran and I baked pasties with the spoils from our garden— good stodgy food for a wintery Sunday . My tea goes cold in the cup as I struggle to remember what she might have said about the ancestors who first settled in Australia . I should have shown more interest. Maybe they were from Cornwall ….

Star’s call brings me back to reality. She’s been up front dressing the window again and fiddling with one of Mrs van der Meyer’s glittering discards. I shake off the odd pull of the brochure and look at her handiwork.

‘ What d’ya reckon?’

I hold back a giggle. ‘ Dolly ’ is wearing a silver lamé ballgown and is dressed as a knight. A pleated cape of corrugated cardboard fans across her shoulders, while a basket of plastic flowers in all colours, shapes and sizes spreads a floral carpet to the window. Perched on Dolly’s head is a fancy-dress helmet—more Ned Kelly than Knights Templar . Dolly wields a riding crop in one hand and a plastic sword in the other. The pièce de résistance is on her feet. The tangerine Crocs are decorated with Bluey Jibbitz !

‘ How did you come up with this?’ I take a closer look at her handiwork. ‘ It’s terrific, by the way. Have you ever thought of doing costume or set design? Your talents are wasted here.’

Star shrugs. ‘ Nah … I’m crap at study. But that gamer I went out with introduced me to Dungeons and Dragons —and paladins—they’re kind of like knights. And hey—the Knights of the Round Table were pretty bad-arse…’

‘ I agree.’ I’ve enjoyed looking through Gran’s lovely book these past days. I can almost smell the blood in the illustrations. Knights seated on beautiful warhorses—destriers—that are wild-eyed and ready for battle with their nostrils flared. Together with the information I’ve read on the coperta, the serendipity prompts a tingle down my spine.

‘ D’ya get it?’ Star’s eyes light up and her mouth curls into a smirk. ‘ England , castles, knights—whatevs. Anyway , knights in armour are sick. Remember that movie with Heath Ledger ?’

‘ All that chivalry and romance.’ I mock bow. ‘ Did I tell you the quilt I’ll be working on was inspired by Tristan —one of the knights from King Arthur’s court? Some people believe Camelot was not far from Glastonbury , where the music festivals are held.’

Star pulls a stray length of thread from her frayed hemline. ‘ Glastonbury , huh? I guess England wouldn’t be so lame, especially now I’ve met Rosie . She’s kind of cool.’ She folds her arms thoughtfully across her chest and stands back to admire her work. ‘ But that’d be a trip to do when I’m old, like forty-something. You know, your age.’

‘ I’m thirty-seven, thanks very much!’ I poke her playfully with my elbow.

‘ Whatevs …’ she flicks her fringe aside, ‘so, tell me about this Tristan guy.’

I see Gran smile in my mind and a gentle warmth touches me from head to toe. Recalling the images in the brochure, the sand and the sea, the historic mines and quaint villages, it’s as if she’s standing beside me, nudging me forwards. Perhaps there are such things as messages from beyond the grave.

‘ The legend of Tristan and Isolde is a tragic tale of star-crossed lovers, but it’s romantic too. Tristan’s loyalty was tested while in service to his uncle, King Mark , the King of Cornwall . He was sent to fight the Irish king’s best knight, and the victor was to receive the hand of the king’s daughter, Isolde , also known as Iseult . Tristan won, but the deal was for her to marry King Mark .’

‘ What ?’ Star’s eyes widen. ‘ So , she was like a prize for some old guy? She had no say?’

‘ Sadly , that’s how it was for medieval women. First , they belonged to their fathers, and then their husbands. But it all goes pear-shaped.’

‘ Like how?’

‘ Tristan and Isolde fall in love. They try to deny it but fail miserably. After the king discovers them together, Tristan is forced into exile and the pair remain apart. It’s only after death that the lovers are reunited.’

‘ That’s crap. But falling for someone you shouldn’t happens, doesn’t it?’ She raises her eyebrows knowingly.

Renata . Even now, the thought of the way she muscled her way into my marriage makes me grit my teeth. I was clueless at the time and so caught up in my own world. And Luke —well, I know first-hand how hard he is to resist.

‘ Ideally you end up with the person you’re in love with.’

‘ Whatevs , Theodora —but if you can’t—well, you know how it goes—get some luurve from the one you’re with!’ Star’s attempt at humour is the right amount of light. I have to laugh. The closest I’ve come to sex is watching couples on MAFS —it’s not even on my radar. I barely remember the touch of a body against mine.

I stop in front of the window of City Travel on my way home. A damask table is set with a dainty china tea set and a triple-tiered cake stand with faux-cakes and pastel coloured icing. Tea parties were a highlight of my childhood. Gran loved scones and handed down the secret art of making them to me.

I’m struck by an overwhelming urge to know more about my ancestors. After I visit Rosie , I’ll travel to Cornwall for a week or two. At the very least, I can see where they came from.

By the time I reach home, my plan is set. Star is more than capable of taking over sooner. I’d love to see the customers’ faces when she places her unique stamp on the shop.

The simple act of stirring soup on the stove reinforces my decision. Gran didn’t trust the microwave, and the repetitious motion strengthens our connection along with my resolve. After dinner, I reacquaint myself with King Arthur and read of his exploits, longing to know more about Cornwall and its secrets; a county so unique in culture, beliefs and beauty it’s like another country.

My finger runs down the list of contents until I find the tale that inspired the Coperta di Usella . Deep into the night I read of Tristan , the son of the King of Lyonesse , and his victory against the Irish knight, Morholt . I read how Isolde’s healing hands mend his wound, and of the love potion Tristan imbibes by accident, the one that binds him to her, in everlasting love.

I place the book aside and scan the notes for my assignment in Florence , and the information regarding the planned exhibition. One paragraph stands out.

The Coperta di Usella , currently with the textile and conservation department of the Opificio Delle Pietre Dure , was possibly part of a larger piece that was later divided into three parts. The Victoria and Albert Museum in London holds a comparative piece known as the Tristan Quilt . The whereabouts of the final piece is unknown.

I wonder what happened to it? Of course, after hundreds of years there are many explanations for why it mightn’t have survived.

What scenes did it show—and why was it divided in the first place? Imagine if it was found…

My palms tingle, and I sit up expectantly, then read over the information again. I see an image in my mind of a man and a woman, a mother kissing a child. My body swells; I’m filled with powerful emotions and the joy of love, but then I sense deep pain and loss; anger and regret too. My eyes blur and tears drip onto the page.

Names come to me clearly and repeat in my thoughts, like the words of a song you hear before falling asleep—the ones that won’t leave your head the next day. Tristan , Victoria , Florence . I don’t know what they mean, and don’t want to be this way. I shudder and hug my knees to my chest.

Stop thinking about it, Theodora . It doesn’t mean anything.

A week later, the bright lights of the workroom welcome me to my last quilting class. I heave a sigh. I’m going to miss my oldies. The dear ladies have arranged a send-off with a spread to rival the women of the CWA , complete with champagne and homemade sausage rolls. I smile at the gift of an Italian phrase book and a travel set of embroidery needles. They wish me farewell, and I see the sorrow of losing the last link to Gran written on their faces. She loved them too. With a hug for each one, I promise to share photos of my travels. And ‘ English Daphne ’ (as Gran called her) scrunches her hankie in her hands and insists on weekly updates on the coperta’s progress.

On the day of my flight, I circle Clarence one more time and wait to hand over my keys. I relive fond memories, from the carriage clock on the mantelpiece that was my job to wind to the painting of Gran above it. I smile at the childish brushstrokes, uneven and patchy on the canvas. Gran’s eyes were never pink, but it was my favourite colour at the time. Daubs of fuchsia are scattered in the background like shooting stars across a sunset sky.

I painted the portrait when I was ten. Gran surprised me by having it framed, insisting I was the new Vincent van Gogh . She’d hung it on the wall in pride of place on the first of the birthdays we celebrated together.

Each memory is built into the loving fabric of this home and carried in my heart.

When Star said her parents were looking for a townhouse to rent during their renovation, it made perfect sense for the family to move into Clarence instead. Star is taking my room— I’ve packed away some of my possessions to make her feel at home. But I’ve left a few surprises in the wardrobe. The thought of her recycling Gran’s vintage dresses and wearing them in her own unique way makes me smile.

The prospect of being a part of preserving an ancient treasure for the world to see excites me too.

I’m intrigued to learn more about the women who created the coperta. No doubt embroidery filled their waking hours. I’d love to know if their work was as enjoyable a pursuit for them as it is for me. Did they want to work on it? They probably had very little choice. Fourteenth -century women were possessions, chattels belonging to fathers or husbands. Slaves , in many cases. Thank goodness conditions have changed, at least for some women, in the intervening centuries.

Star is splayed across my bed, already at home in her surroundings. Pippi Longstocking -striped legs dangle over the side and her foot taps the floorboards with the point of a purple pixie boot.

‘ What the—? You’re not taking anything on the plane? No way! You’ll go nuts. I would’ve killed my olds when we went to Bali if it wasn’t for my headphones and tunes—and that’s way shorter than a flight to London ! Take a book, Theodora . You like reading, don’t you?’

‘ Not exactly…’ I can’t explain that reading takes my imagination to places I don’t want to revisit.

‘ Seriously ?’ Star guffaws from under her heavy fringe. ‘ My parents are always on about it. “ Read this, Star ; it’s a classic” or “ I read this when I was your age.” Blah , blah, blah. I don’t know how someone in your day managed to avoid it.’

‘ My day?’ I pretend to be annoyed, but I really will miss her.

‘ Whatevs .’ She jumps off the bed to look at the ornaments on my shelves. She picks them up, one by one. ‘ You’ve got some pretty nice things here, but don’t worry, I promise I’ll take care of them.’ She does another lap of the room, inspecting antiques on my dresser including Scotchy , a china doll that belonged to my mother.

Her dark stare turns to the bookcase. She squats down to the diary Gran wanted me to have and retrieves it. ‘ Amelia Treloar , huh? So , who’s she?’

‘ It’s one of the books that belonged to Gran’s grandmother. I haven’t looked at it yet?—’

‘ This is lit.’ She sits on the bed and turns a few pages. ‘ Check the writing. It’s sick.’ Star points to an entry. ‘ See how it curls on the page. That graphic would slay screen-printed on a T -shirt. Listen to this: I’m alone with my guilt while candles burn in the mines below. Now this bit. The call of my thoughts draws me to him…. ’

‘ Wait a second. Can I see?’ I hold out my hand, and Star shrugs and passes it over. It seems so familiar it’s as if I knew what was written. Perhaps Gran read it to me….

I turn musty pages that feel smooth, almost new.

A fountain pen dips into an inkwell. A single candle lights a moonless night. I smell the tang of ink drying, and see the words soak into the page….

‘ Are you crazy, Theodora ? You gotta read it?—’

‘ Maybe I should.’

Take it with you. My body sighs in relief. The decision feels right. Other than her name I know nothing about Gran’s grandmother, but it will be like having part of my family with me.

‘ Yaaas ,’ says Star and claps her hands to seal it. ‘ But don’t lose it, will you? I’m so gunna check it out when you get back—those quotes on my stuff will be sick.’

Luke has been messaging and the texts continue until I board the plane. He offers travel advice and appears determined to convince me of his sincerity. He insists he’ll check in on Star at the boutique too. I’d be lying to say I’m not a little flattered by the fuss, and yet I can’t deny a disturbing undertone.

I vowed never to let a man hurt me again. Luke knows how to get under my skin. But while my head and my heart are at odds, it’s the fluttering of nerves deep inside that unsettles me the most. I mustn’t let self-doubt creep in.

Armed with Amelia’s diary, I prepare for my journey. And as the beautiful script lifts from the page and dances in waves before my eyes, I’m transported into the past and far away.