If she had another name no-one seemed to know what it might have been, for that matter neither did I. “Quilt” was the name by which we, that is the villagers, all knew her.
The lack of a second name was not the only strange thing about her, it was just one of the many unknowns which seemed to attend her.
Quilt had quite suddenly appeared in our midst about five years ago, but from where was yet another unknown. And that is another strange thing—the villagers, most of whom have antecedents who have lived here for many generations, regard any newcomers as strangers, but in Quilt’s case she was one of us, as it were, immediately she arrived here in Lesser Woodhouses. For whatever reason one did not feel it right to invade her privacy by asking outright questions. It is not that she had an aura of secrecy about her, quite the contrary, she had an open and honest air, matching an obviously friendly disposition. All who met her took to her on first acquaintance.
Where she came from was also the subject of some speculation. She had a slight accent, from the south of the country perhaps—it was difficulty to tell. It was the unusual way in which she used words that gave a hint of a foreign birthplace.
I suppose that at the time I first met her she would have been about thirty years old although like everything else about her it was almost impossible to tell.
I even find it hard to describe her, as soon as I think of something that distinguishes her it vanishes with the thought, but I will try.
Quilt was of average height for a woman with a very feminine figure. A narrow waist divided her torso between a neat behind and most attractive breasts, all of which surmounted the nicest par of legs in the village, and we had some dishy ladies. It was a body that as a male one never got tired of admiring. But it was her eyes, large and vivid green, that captured one’s attention. They held that hint of a smile even when she was being serious. A perfect pair of lips and a cheeky little nose added to her immediate attraction.
Was she sexy? Yes very. But the men who would otherwise make a play for such an attractive woman, simply treated her with the respect that she seemed to demand.
Quilt was very special, it shone from her all the time, but what that constituted was impossible to pin down.
She had an aura of sureness, of authority, about her. It soon became a village `thing’ that her opinion was always who listening to.
It was a if everyone who heard her accepted that she spoke with wisdom and from the depths of great knowledge. She had a profound influence on every person or situation that she happened across, which was not as often as you might imagine. Living on the outskirts of the village as she did she only came in to collect her living necessities once or twice a week. Otherwise she might be seen tending her garden which was full of the most unusual wild flowers.
I find it hard now that she has gone to think clearly about what she became to mean to every one of us who knew her, and especially me.
What I am trying to say is that Quilt was very—very special.
I will try to get you to see just what I mean by that statement by telling you just a few of the strange things she did.
The first I became aware of was Jean’s child.
Rachel was the youngest of four daughters born to the Cleggs.
It was the winter of 2001, there was flu about and it did not miss the village. With most victims a few days in bed, kept warm and plenty of liquids soon had them up and about again. But poor Rachel slowly got worse. Our GP Dr Groves was at a loss to help her, whatever he tried seemed to make Rachel worse.
Quilt visiting the grocers shop overheard a desperate Mrs Clegg telling of her despair.
Quilt asked Mrs Clegg if she might call on her and have a look at Rachel.
Naturally the concerned parent as somewhat surprised at this and hesitated.
At which Quilt put her hand on the woman’s arm and said, `Please let me see her I might be able to help.’
They stood like that for a minute or so—like a Victorian statue, someone said afterwards.
`Yes, I will take you to see her, but don’t stay long.’ eventually Mrs Clegg replied.
But Quilt insisted they went via her house where she colleted a bottle of some liquid.
`It’s medicine.’ She explained.
At Rachel’s bedside Quilt knelt beside Rachel and put both her hands on the child’s damp forehead. Rachel was too ill to respond.
Quilt took the spoon Mrs Clegg held out and with it managed to get a couple of spoonfuls of her medicine passed Rachel’s lips.
`Do that every hour until it’s all gone.’ She told Mrs Clegg. `And prey.’
Opinions in the village were divided as to whether this was ignorance interfering with the GP’s work or since it was a last chance thing this nicety did not come into it.
And within two days Rachel was out playing with the other kids, it has to be said to the doctor’s amazement.
And that was just the start of it.
The next time Quilt was involved was even stranger.
It was Old George Flannel up at the Hard Acres farm. His place was situated on a hillside and in spite of his having done the job lots of times without a hitch, he had nevertheless managed to turn the tractor over with himself on it. He had seriously injured his spine and could not walk, or even sit upright without severe pain. The medical profession declared that there was nothing more they could do.
Quilt called for her milk and eggs and found old George laid out outside to get a bit of fresh air.
Without being asked Quilt persuaded him to lie down on his front. And it was to his own surprise that George found himself complying. But his action caused him to shout in anguish bringing his wife running.
Old Annie stood there watching in astonishment as Quilt removed her shoes and before anyone could prevent her she stood on George’s back and walked a few paces on it.
No one moved. All attention was on George. Then Quilt reached down and helped George to his feet.
Old George stood there with a grin of sheer astoundment on his creased old face.
`It’s gone—the bloody pain’s gone—completely gone.’
He took Quilt’s hand and wouldn’t let go.
`Thank you… , thank you… ,’ was all he could say over an over again.
* * *
Then there was the well remembered time when young Allison skipping in the playground fell and broke her arm. Taken to the town hospital A & E department, the specialist looked at her X-ray pictures and after manipulating her arm and encasing it in a splint, declared that she would have to wear the cumbersome contraption for at least a month. On the way home with her mother she was seen crying with pain by Quilt, who gently asked if she could see what the matter was. It has to be said that the mother was somewhat reluctant to allow this, but Allison knew Quilt and trusted her. At this Quilt very gently removed the splint, took the girl’s arm in both of her hands and simply held it for some minutes. She then waved one hand over the injury very slowly several times.
After this a slow smile began to invade Allison’s features.
`Oooh, that feels lovely,’ she declared. `I think I can use it. Can I try?’, This to Quilt. Who answered—
`Yes my dear, but don’t use it for anything strenuous for a few days.’
The arm was back to normal in forty-eight hours, and Allison was seen playing tennis with it. The medical profession declared itself unhappy but an X-ray showed the arm to be completely and properly healed.
* * *
As the news of these events became general knowledge in the village more than one person visited Quilt rather than the doctor with their problems. And as a result her status in the village rose. People treated her with great respect, after all they may just need her themselves one day.
She was the local heroine and before long almost everyone in the village had at some time benefited from her curative powers, but as you will guess there are certain times when nothing more can be done and in these instances Quilt would declare that her help was no longer needed but the patient had reached the end of their allotted lifespan.
Dr James the local GP, when challenged, merely shrugged his broad shoulders and said he could do with all the help he could get—but he must have wondered at times.
Now how she performed these minor miracles was often the subject of much discussion especially in the pub. Some believed that she was a witch—a White Witch of course. These people swore to having heard Quilt mouthing spells under her breath when healing was taking place. But others believed that she had a divine connection and the words were prayers. Indeed she did sometimes attend the church services.
The vicar would not be drawn as to what he thought of the Healing Lady as Quilt became known, but he did encourage her to attend his sermons.
There were other puzzling aspects to the Lady in question. Quilt positively refused to answer any question about where she came from, and this also became a debating point. The main consensus maintained that she heralded from somewhere south of the equator, from a place where such healing practices were routine, but where this was precisely they could not say.
Others contended that she was born at Lourdes which gave her the skills she used to such good effect.
There were more mysteries than firm facts about the Healing Lady.
And then there was me. As a result of a trip abroad, a working few days not a holiday, I contracted an illness that laid me to bed and which the Doctor could not define. His solution, as anticipated, was a good dose of antibiotics. I became worse. I learned afterwards that it was the doctor himself who sent for Quilt.
I shall never forget that look of real concern on her face as she regarded me, as I lay drifting in and out of consciousness.
It took all she had visiting me every day for three weeks, at the end of which—a) I was recovered, and—b) I had fallen head over heals in love with her.
Now I am not a young easily impressed person—I confess to having had a fling or two in my earlier years, But I am not some eager lover anxious to get a girl into bed as quickly as possible. So this late arrival of amorous feelings came as something of a surprise to me.
She did warn me—but stupid and male-like I just ignored her warning.
Then one day she dropped a hint of things to come when she said—
`You must realise that the day will come when I shall have to leave.’
What on earth she meant by these words I had no idea, but I do now.
I declared my love one day soon after my recovery with a great big bunch of flowers.
Quilt giggled, and said a polite thank you. She clearly had no intention of taking me seriously. The pain of the realisation of this was very real and almost set me back to when I was ill.
It is a sad fact that in the beginning she led me on. In fact I think she was beginning to have some similar feelings for me. It made the ending much worse.
Before that however, we enjoyed one another’s company as well as any couple in love. We went everywhere together and in company people would hint at wedding bells, at which I would remain silent grinning wildly. I longed for this with all my heart.
It lasted about a year and in all that time our relationship was strictly of the no sex kind. I was beginning to get impatient when this friendship began, almost imperceptively at first, to change. In my lack of certainty I started to ask Quilt questions like where did she come from? Where were her folks? How old was she? Where did she learn her skills at healing? And how did she do it?
Quilt never provided an answer to these enquiries, and I could see that she was becoming irritated by them. Soon she began to make excuses for not meeting me, and when we did meet it was clear to me that she would rather be somewhere else.
And so we agreed to call a halt to our close association. This was painful to me and I never ceased to have deep feelings for her and closely followed her, at least from a comfortable distance.
It was about then that a tragedy struck the village. A new form of flu was going the rounds and being a closely knit place it was not long before nearly every individual succumbed. Quilt was in demand everywhere and as my earlier illness had provided me with some immunity I helped Quilt as best I could. I ran errands, did the weekly shopping for those confined to bed, took medicine to as many as Quilt could get round to.
But it was more than we could handle and there were sad deaths. It was the very young and the old ones who succumbed and the funeral parlour and the vicar were very busy. The whole village seemed at times to be in mourning.
Then it was over we had not had another case for two weeks.
It was good news but I had witnessed a slow change in Quilt. She became slow to respond. She smiled less, It clearly took an effort for her to hold a conversation. She spent more and more time at home seated on the big wooden bench amongst her flowers.
I did not know what to do. I had to stand by and watch her steadily sink. Dr James could find nothing wrong with her, and his attempts to do so raised a rare laugh from Quilt. This slow decline lasted for about a year.
The day was beautiful, full of the glorious magic of spring. Everywhere was bright, rain washed and bright in the sunshine. Quilt was as usual resting on the big garden seat, and had just pointed out a spider building its amazing web. I turned to compliment her on her observation and my heart stopped. Eyes closed features at peace Quilt was gone.
In panic I checked and tried to give her resuscitation but she had passed on.
Dr James could find no cause other than natural. She had simply come to the end of her life.
At least the end of her life here.
What I mean by that I am not at all sure.
As Quilt was unusual—so was her will.
She had arranged to be buried, if that is the right word, at sea.
It was all laid on, properly arranged. In fact I discovered that she had only checked on the whole procedure the week before the end.
* * *
The day was cold, dull, the sea a grey leaden colour. It was calm with hardly a ripple on the surface. The small coffin stood on a trestle on the foredeck and we, there were about a dozen of us, were huddled around it. The captain stopped the craft when we were about a mile out, and double checked our position. Having ascertained that we were at the exact place specified by Quilt he nodded to the vicar to continue.
I have no memory of what the vicar said, my mind was elsewhere, It was just after the coffin, weighted to sink quickly, vanished under the dark surface that it happened.
A shaft of bright light, vivid against the dull clouds, descended in a great flash from the sky to the exact spot where the body of Quilt had entered the waves. The water boiled and a dark shape was lifted up along the path of light into the sky where it vanished and the shaft of light was gone as swiftly as it had come.
The whole strange event had taken but a fraction of a second.
Blink and you would have missed it.
* * *
So Quilt’s end was as mysterious as was her life. I have my own theories about her as have all who came into contact with her. But in my case I am still in love with her and I firmly believe that she is alive and well on some distant planet or wherever that shaft of light took her.
JML
11/9/2011