A Blue Stocking
3rd April
Hannah, could you cover for me tomorrow, please? Its my mother-in-laws birthday and I need to pay her a visit.
But didnt you just celebrate her saints day a month ago? I looked up from the box of catalogue cards, raising an eyebrow.
Hannah! Why are you being difficult? That was her saints day, this is her birthday! I really need you to help, cant you understand? You dont have any children, or a husband. All on your own, like a church mouse! Oh Sorry! I didnt mean
I watched as Rachel clapped her hand over her mouth, but the words were already out. My cheeks flushed. I just turned away, nodded, and left the reading room.
That was unnecessarily cruel Rachel muttered, glancing at Lucy for some support.
Lucy, now, was a different matter altogether. You couldnt fool Lucyshed have given a straight no without a second thought. Librarians, she believed, could stand up for themselves as well as anyone else. I was usually quite horrified by her bold opinions, and Rachel laughed at my expense.
See, Hannah? Not all librarians are blue stockings like you! Just look at usyou and your little life, shuffling from the library to your flat, collecting scarves and stray cats. Sorry for being blunt, but honestly, why are you like this? You really could be lovely if you triedlook at those cheeks! Yet its tears, tears, tears. Isn’t it right, Lucy?
Lucy usually would click her tongue at Rachel and put an end to things.
Thats enough, Rachel. You set yourself up as a paragon, but you’ve had more affairs than there are sweet wrappers in a childs pocket! And what has come of it? Living with Rob, putting up with his shouting and nocturnal adventures, while you try to tell other people how to live.
At least I have a husband! And children! And what about Hannah? Another cat, maybe? Soon shell be sleeping in the stackswont you, Han? Why dont you have a child for yourself, at least? Skip the husband, but your parents left you something, didnt they, rest their souls? Youd manage on your own. At least you wouldnt be alone.
When it got that far, Lucy would go off on one, Rachel would say she was busy and scarper, and Id scurry to the staffroom to dab my eyes where no one could see me.
What had I done to deserve this? Was it my fault my life had turned out this way? First Dad took ill, then Mum, and I spent a decade and a half doing laundry, beds, and baths. Who could fit in a personal life in all that? Not that anyone was exactly queuing up I didnt think I was unattractiveplain, yes, but not awful. Grey eyes, even features, and, up until recently, a thick plaitchopped for practicality after Mum passed, leaving me with a neat crop. Simple.
In every other way, nothing remarkable. A standard English woman. No nasty habits, not much future. Id never hankered after more. If anything, I was terrified by the chaos I witnessed in my friends homes.
Take Rachelshe was married. But what had it cost her? The whole town knew her husband had a second family. Their fiery rows and reunions, public and dramatic, were legendary. Rachel didnt care if people talkedbetter out in the open, she said, than in hushed whispers. She had nothing to be embarrassed about: she was the wife, and that was that.
I always wonderedwhy waste your life on that sort of marriage? Where’s your self-respect? Your pride? But I knew, deep down, that my beloved novels had nothing to do with reality. It was easy to harp on about pride and dignity when you had a couple of trust funds, but with two kids, a librarians wage, and a poorly mother Well. I never judged Rachel for surviving it any way she could. She always helped with Mumcame to the house to give her injections and set up drips when needed, never accepting a penny for it.
What, you want to insult me by paying? Put your money away! Dont be odd, Hannah! If I had to pop two doors down for a neighbour, wouldnt even need my coat. Friends dont take money.
No, I was grateful to hersometimes painfully so. To say thank you, Id knit her kids hats and gloves, even made a pair of robin-motif mittens that her daughter kept for best. Rachel herself would show off my handiwork and told me to open an online shop.
Theyd snap this up! Honestly, Hannah, youre wasting yourself.
I considered it, briefly, then shook my head.
I only do one-offs, and not that many.
Get the old girls under the flats involved. They all love knittinggive them something to do. Little extra for their pensions, and more stock for you.
I gave inand, oddly, it worked. Perhaps Rachels entrepreneurial streak couldve made her famous if she hadnt spent her energy on surviving married life. The site worked; orders trickled in. Grandmas were pleased, their stitch and bitch on the benches outside the block doubled as a working party. Evenings, Rachel and I would design the next masterpiece.
Look at this one! Vogue had something like it last week. Aunt Val showed me a doily with the same motifsee? Change it up a bit and youre onto a winner. Id wear a skirt like that.
So Id set to knitting, and before long, Rachel would sashay in modelling my work, and Id upload photos for the shop.
It wasnt a windfall, but it eased the bills, and suddenly I began to think of myself as a businesswoman. Maybe I wasn’t so hopeless after all.
Lucy laughed at us, but her help was invaluable. She made the most exquisite needle lacewhen time allowed. It was her gran whod taught her: Might come in handy, she always said. And it had. Lucys items were the most expensive in the shop, and neither Rachel nor I said a word if we found her making lace instead of minding the reading room. We all knew how necessary her side-hustle washer husband had run off soon after the twins arrived. He fancied himself an artist, a man with a calling, flitting off to find fans for his talents, rarely working, disappearing for days.
Mum, that mans here again, Lucys eldest, barely five, would announce, meaning her own father. Hed rage at the child for her lack of respect.
Youre embarrassing me in front of my daughter!
Lucy believed you should make an effort with fathers; after all, her own mother always said theres no substitute for the real thing. But she lost patience, and after he leftfor good, as it turned outshe simply got on with things. Her own parents helped out from their farm in the country, sending what they could from their garden and livestock. Lucy forgot what a weekend off meant, but she was grateful.
Her kids turned out brilliantly. I often thought, if I knew my child would turn out so well, maybe Id have listened to Rachel and had a baby of my own, partner be damned.
But I was too afraid. Life was uncertain, and with no family left, who would care for my child if something happened to me? The prospect felt selfish; better to have cats and classes, where responsibility was lighter.
Unbeknown to me, the grandmas and Rachel had been scanning every eligible man in town as a future husband for me. But our little corner of England was short on single men, and no candidate had yet emerged. So they left me in peace, except for the odd slip of the tongue from Rachel, who always chastised herself for it later.
But fate always has a curveball ready. A new candidate appeared, out of nowhere. No onenot Rachel, not the grandmas, and least of all mecould have seen it coming.
That evening, after agreeing to Rachels shift swap (once Id wiped my eyes and escaped her smothering hugs), I decided to finish the bulk of the library work late, planning to spend the next morning updating the shop. Lucy had designed a new wedding dressan ethereal, lacy triumph, which I thought would be our showpiece.
Its stunning, Lucy! You really have magic hands.
Tell that to my sons! Nearly ruined the lot yesterdaycame back after popping to the loo and there they were, scissors in hand, trimming my hem. I had to stay up all night fixing it.
Noticeable?
Not at all. Just had to redesign the whole bottom. Worth it in the end.
I spent that evening trying to find the words for its listing. On the way home, thinking about web copy, I climbed the stairs, then stopped in my tracks, heart pounding.
Help
It was barely a whisper, hidden amongst shouts and laughter drifting through the old block of flats. Boys thundered up the stairs, neighbours cavorted, parties babbled. But as they passed, I heard it againdefinitely, a cry for help.
Our building was mostly pensioners now. Some with families, but a handful had no one. These neighbours had helped me with Mum and Dad, watched over things, comforted me when they passed. Several were in my knitting guild; others just nodded kindly and wished me luck in finding a nice man and more children.
Miss Agnes fell in the latter group.
Shed been a friend of Mumsa retired maths mistress, always brisk. Whenever I asked after her health: Oh, dont fuss, Hannah! I lost that ages ago and good riddance! Tell me your news instead? Oddly, I always told her things Id never share with anyone else. Her advice was solid, gentle, and never intrusive.
Hannah, live how you want. Ignore the world. They have their lives, you have yours. Who says everyone must follow the same path? Rubbish! Try on someone elses shoeswould you be comfortable? No? Thats my point. People want to fit us to their shape. Why bother? Marry out of duty, have a child for others approvalwill you be happy? I can tell you, from my years in the classroom, you wont. Ive seen so many children brought up on the back of ought to. Parents living together out of principle, not love. Who suffers? The kids.
Her words calmed me. Maybe I wasnt so wrong after all.
Miss Agnes had married young but had no children; her children were the pupils who never forgot her. She lost her husband a few years ago, and I worried for herso I brought her a stray kitten for company.
Hes alone, just like you, Miss Agnes.
She took the kitten, named him Bertie, and flourished. Bertie demanded fresh fish, and Miss Agnes rose each morning, brushed her hair, and popped out to the market, depression held at bay.
They made a teamcat and mistressliving for one another. She didnt ask for help, but that faint help came from her flat tonight.
I didnt even think. I dashed up, skipped two stairs at a time, and hammered on the residents wardens door.
Mrs Martin! Come quickly!
Mrs Martin, though a pillar of rule-following, saw the panic in my face. When the emergency services failed to arrive, and the local bobbys mobile went unanswered, she found her spare keys.
Let them prosecute! If they want old ladies in jail, so be it!
Inside, we found Agnes on the bathroom floorconcussed, unable to move her arms, one leg twisted under her. How long shed lain like that she didnt know, but once conscious, all she could do was call for help.
Of all the neighbours, only I heard her cry.
I organised everything: hospital, daily visits, convalescence on her return. Eventually, I brought her to live with me. Rachel covered for me at work and badgered Agness GP until care was arranged.
Well have you up on your feet in no time! No excuses for falling ill now!
Miss Agnes objected at firstclaimed she was burdening mebut came to accept it, seeing I did it only out of genuine care.
Theres no one else like you, Hannah. Where are the angels, eh? Surely if anyone deserves a guardian, its you! Or maybe youre one yourself?
Agnes improved, life flourished. I was no longer alone, either. Evenings became lively affairs: Bertie the cat tried ordering my cats about, creating a rolling, furry brawl, then sulked in Agness lap.
Dont be so glum, Bertie. The world moves on. Harems are out of fashion.
Yes, life was busierthe old order was upended. Everything Id mapped out for a spinsterly future dissolved overnight. And it all started with a knock on the door.
I paused my film, thinking it might be Rachel, but when I opened it, a stranger stood before me. Bearded, gruff, in battered leathershe clearly wasnt local.
Can I help you? I asked.
Hello! Is Agnes living here now?
Whos asking?
A friend. Id like to see her.
As I hesitated, Bertie shot between my legs and made straight for him.
Oh! Bertie! Hello, old boy! The mans face, hard as stone, melted as he picked up the cat, who purred with ecstasy.
Come in, please.
Agnes, on seeing him, beamed and clapped her hands.
Simon! My dear old boy! To what do we owe this pleasure?
Passing throughheading up to the Lake District with friends. Bikers meet. Thought Id call in and catch up. Its been ages.
Sorry for not calling, dear! You must meet Hannah. Shes my angel guardian and the best woman in England, bar none!
And thencuriouslySimon blushed. Properly blushed.
Pleased to meet you
Agnes, with the wisdom of years, spotted everything instantly. She made sure Simon had every excuse to stay, and by the time he lefttwo days laterit was already clear hed be back.
He was. Weeks turned into months. Suddenly, inexplicably, I found myself a fiancée.
Simon, we barely know each other Is this right?
Does it matter, Hannah? Were both adults. Why must we answer to anyone else?
Rachel and Lucy gasped at the newsthen held their tongues.
Hannah I wont ask if you love him. Were too old to swoon like teenagers. Buthes a good man?
And what do you mean, too old? I grinned. Rachel fell silent, watching me.
Where did this come from? You used to blend into the wallpaper and nowlook at you! Glowing! Thats what love does.
Oh, forget what I said before, Hanjust be happy! And Lucy, wed best take that dress off the site!
I already have, she winked. Dont fret about a wedding dressyoure sorted.
The weddingwell, nothing like it had graced our town. When the procession of motorbikes took to the streets, people stood in awe.
For whos that, then?
That librarian, Hannahshes marrying!
Well, bless her! Shes a good woman. And the man?
Seems decent enough, serious sort.
Three years later, Simon gently moved to help Miss Agnes from the car outside the hospital. She batted his hands away, upright and proud.
I’ll manage! Go and get your son, Simon!
Id adjust my new dress, courtesy of Lucy, tidy my hair, and call out to the photographer:
Everyone! All of youcram in!
And hed have his hands full lining up the motley crewRachel and her family, Lucy and her lively bunch, all the knitting grannies with Mrs Martin at the helm.
Because good people, really, there can never be too many.
HannahAs we all squeezed inchildren perched on laps, grandmas primping their cardigans, Simon grinning with Bertie draped over his shoulderI caught sight of myself in the hospital window. Not a blue-stocking spinster, not a lonely librarian, but someone whose life had sprouted unexpected branches: laughter-spun, cat-crowded, brimming with faces I’d once thought would pass me by.
Lucy nudged me, whispering, Go onsay something.
So I did. I raised my voice above the chatter.
Thank you, all of you, for giving me a familyevery kind. For every hand, every mitten, every meal shared and tear dried, for never letting any of us go it alone. This I gestured at our jumbled, joyful crowd, is the best story I could have hoped to live.
Rachel whooped, Lucy wiped her eyes, Simon kissed my templeMiss Agnes rolled hers, though I caught her smiling anyway.
The flash went off, freezing us together: scars, love, laughter, lace and all. Our lives, tangled and realimperfectly stitched into something true.
And as the children darted off for cake, the grandmas debated tea, and Agnes recounted a yarn that grew taller with each telling, I thoughtat lastperhaps happiness isnt always in fairy tales or neatly penned endings. Sometimes its simply here: messy, warm, and wholly ours.
Bertie meowed in agreement, and I, Hannah the blue-stocking, slipped my hand into Simons, ready for whatever came next.
