jml297

Frankie cursed as the cotton snagged again in the bobbin. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered softly. He lifted his foot from the pedal, relieved at the momentary reprieve from the machine’s shriek of distress. His mum would have a fit if he broke anything, and he’d made sure that she was out of the house for the afternoon before he’d started on his project.

It had been ages since he’d used the machine, and when he’d removed the vinyl cover, there had been a subtle hint of light engine oil and cotton on the air. His mum hadn’t sewed in a while, but it seemed wrong to be in the small nook that was her sewing corner. Mum had a magic touch with fabrics, and came up with her designs for special occasions. She had taught all of them basic sewing skills, but Frankie had forgotten the intricacies of getting the needle and bobbin to cooperate.

The loud ring of the landline phone shattered the silence, and Frankie dropped the bobbin, cursing again as it rolled under the sewing table. He scrabbled after its wobbling form, one ear listening out as the answering machine kicked in.

‘Alice, it’s Naomi. You left your mobile here, you duffer. Give me a call when you get home.’

Frankie scrambled back into the chair, muscle memory kicking in as his mind factored in the content of his aunt’s message. Mum was on her way back home. He’d have an hour at the most before she arrived, unless she took a detour on some other errand.

The bobbin clicked into place and Frankie used a scrap of fabric to test a couple of stitches. He checked the tension. Perfect. The machine whirred into life, the percussive rhythm a forgotten comfort as Frankie guided the fabric under the foot of the machine. Feeling more confident now, he turned the piece over and continued on, the material smooth under his hands. Under the light of the machine’s lamp, his fingers pushed and pulled, the stitches joining the fabric pieces back together.

When it was done, Frankie sat back, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. With a few deft snips, the thread tails were despatched, and he turned the fabric inside out. It wasn’t quite up to Mum’s standard, but with a bit of luck she’d not realise that he’d almost ruined one of her favourite dresses. With relief, he slipped the cover back onto the machine.

This was written to a prompt at my local writing group.

Photo: craft display in shop window