It
came from China, a piece of blue silk that lit up the room with its
colours - the peacocks with their shining silvery tails, the blue
lakes and the white waterfalls, the cloudy mountains and the dark
blue trees. It was too lovely to wear, too beautiful to cut with
scissors.
All
through the long years of a marriage, the silk had stayed safely in
its box - waiting, but not forgotten. And now the time had come...
When
Mr Blackie became ill again that autumn, both If he and Mrs Blackie
knew that it was for the last time. For many weeks, neither spoke of
it; but the understanding was in their eyes as they watched each
other through the days and nights. It was a look seen in the faces of
the old and the very young, neither sad, nor hopeless, just a quiet
understanding; they accepted what was coming.
It
showed in other ways too. There were no more cross words from Mrs
Blackie about her lazy old husband. Instead, she took care of him day
and night. She managed their money carefully to buy him his favourite
foods; she let the district nurse visit him, but no more than twice a
week.
Mr
Blackie went to his bed and stayed there quietly. He had never talked
much about the past, but now he spoke a lot about their earlier days.
Sometimes, to Mrs Blackie's surprise, he remembered things that she
had forgotten. He talked very little about the present and never in
those weeks about the future.
Then,
on the first icy morning of the winter, while Mrs Blackie was filling
his hot water bottle, he sat up in bed to see out the window. He
could see a row of houses outside, with ice on the grass in front of
them, like a white carpet.
'The
ground will be hard,' he said at last. 'Hard as a rock.'
Mrs
Blackie looked up quickly. 'Not yet,' she said.
'Soon,
I think.' He smiled, but she knew he was saying sorry to her. She put
the hot water bottle into its cover.
'Lie
down or you'll catch cold,' she said.
He
lay back against the pillow, but as she moved about him, putting the
hot water bottle at his feet, he stared at the shapes of ice on the
window.
'Amy,
you'll get a double plot, won't you?' he said. 'I won't rest easy if
I think that one day you're going to sleep by someone else.'
What
a thing to say!' The corners of her mouth moved suddenly. 'You know
very well I won't do that.'
'It
was your idea to buy single beds,' he said crossly.
'Oh,
Herb - She looked at the window, away again. 'We'll have a double
plot.' For a second or two she waited by his bed, then she sat down
beside his feet, with one hand resting on top of the other. This was
the way that she always sat when she had something important to say:
'You
know, I've been thinking on and off about the silk.'
'The
silk?' He turned his head towards her.
'I
want to use it for your laying-out pyjamas.'
'No,
Amy,' he said. 'Not the silk. That was your wedding present, the only
thing that I brought back with me.'
'What
am I going to do with it now?' she said. When he didn't answer, she
got up, opened the cupboard door and took down the wooden box. 'All
these years we've kept it. We should use it sometime.'
'Not
on me,' he said.
'I've
been thinking about your pyjamas.' She fitted a key into the lock on
the box. 'It'll be just right.'
'It'll
be a right mistake, I think,' he said. But he could not keep the
excitement out of his voice. He watched her hands as she opened the
box, and pulled back the sheets of thin white paper. Below them lay
the blue of the silk. They were both silent as she took it out and
put it on the bed.
'Makes
the whole room look different, doesn't it?' he said. 'I nearly forgot
it looked like this.' His hands moved with difficulty across the bed
cover. Gently she picked up the blue silk and let it fall in a river
over his fingers.
'Aah,'
he sighed, bringing it close to his eyes. 'All the way from China.'
He smiled. 'I kept it on me all the time. You know that, Amy? There
were people on that ship who wanted to steal that silk. But I kept it
pinned round my middle.'
'You
told me,' she said.
He
held the silk against his face. 'It's the birds that you notice,' he
said.
'At
first,' said Mrs Blackie. She ran her finger over one of the peacocks
that marched across the land of silk. They were beautiful birds,
shining blue, with silver threads in their tails. 'I used to like
them best, but after a while you see much more, just as fine, only
smaller.' She pushed her glasses higher up her nose and looked
closely at the silk, her eyes following her finger. She saw islands
with waterfalls between little houses and dark blue trees; flat lakes
with small fishing boats; mountains with their tops in silvery
clouds; and back again to a peacock with one foot in the air above a
rock.
'They
just don't make anything as beautiful as this in this country,' she
said.
Mr
Blackie held up the box, enjoying the smell of the wood. 'Don't cut
it, Amy. It's too good for someone like me.' But his eyes were asking
her to disagree with him.
'I'll
get the pattern tomorrow,' she said.
The
next day, while the district nurse was giving him his injection, she
went down to the store and chose a pattern from the pattern books. Mr
Blackie, who had worn boring pyjamas all his life, looked at the
picture of the young man on the front of the packet and crossed his
arms.
'What's
this - a Chinese suit? That's young men's clothes, not suitable for
me,' he said.
'Rubbish,'
said Mrs Blackie.
'Modern
rubbish,' he said, 'that's what it is. You're never putting those on
me.'
'It's
not your job to decide,' said Mrs Blackie.
'Not
my job? I'll get up and fight - you wait and see.'
'All
right, Herb, if you really don't like it -'
But
now he had won, he was happy. 'Oh, go on, Amy. It's not such a bad
idea. In fact, I think they're fine. It's that nurse, you see. The
injection hurt.' He looked at the pattern.
'When
do you start?'
'Well
-'
'This
afternoon?'
'I
could pin the pattern out after lunch, I suppose.'
'Do
it in here,' he said. 'Bring in your machine and pins and things so I
can watch.'
She
turned her head and looked at him. 'I'm not using the machine,' she
said. 'I'm doing it all by hand - every thread of it. My eyes aren't
as good as they were, but, nobody in this world can say that I'm not
still good with my needle.'
His
eyes closed as he thought. 'How long?'
'Eh?'
'Until
it's finished.'
She
turned the pattern over in her hands. 'Oh - about three or four
weeks. That is - if I work hard.'
'No,'
he said. 'Too long.'
'Oh,
Herb, you want me to do a good job, don't you?' she said.
'Amy
-' He shook his head on the pillow.
'I
can use the machine for some of it,' she said, in a quieter voice.
'How
long?'
'A
week,' she whispered.
Although
the doctor had told him to lie flat in bed, he made her give him
another pillow that afternoon. She took the pillow from her own bed,
shook it, and put it behind his neck. Then she measured his body,
legs, and arms.
'I'll
have to make them a bit smaller,' she said, writing down big black
numbers. Mr Blackie was waiting, his eyes wide. He looked brighter,
she thought, than he had for weeks.
As
she arranged the silk on her bed and started pinning the first of the
pattern pieces, he described the journey home by boat, the stop at
Hong Kong, and the man who had sold him the silk.
Most
of it was rubbish, he said. 'This was the only good thing that he
had, and I still paid too much for it. You got to argue with these
people, they told me. But there were others who wanted that silk, and
I had to buy it - or lose it.' He looked at her hands. 'What are you
doing now? You just put that bit down.'
'It
wasn't right,' she said, through lips closed on pins. 'It needs to be
in just the right place. I have to join a tree to a tree, not to the
middle of a waterfall.'
She
lifted the pattern pieces many times before everything was right.
Then it was evening, and Mr Blackie could talk no more. He lay back
on his pillows, his eyes red from tiredness.
'Go
to sleep,' she said. 'Enough's enough for one day.'
'I
want you to cut it out first,' he said.
'Let's
leave it until the morning,' she said, and they both knew that she
did not want to put the scissors to the silk.
'Tonight,'
he said.
'I'll
make the tea first.'
'After,'
he said.
She
picked up the scissors and held them for a moment. Then together they
felt the pain as the scissors closed cleanly in that first cut. The
silk would never again be the same. They were changing it, arranging
the pattern of some fifty years to make something new and different.
When she had cut out the first piece, she held it up, still pinned to
the paper, and said, The back of the top.' Then she put it down and
went on as quickly as she could, because she knew that he would not
rest until she had finished.
One
by one, the pieces left the body of silk. Each time the scissors
moved, mountains fell in half, peacocks were cut from head to tail.
In the end, there was nothing on the bed but a few shining threads.
Mrs Blackie picked them up and put them back in the wooden box. Then
she took her pillow from Mr Blackie's bed and made him comfortable
before she went into the kitchen to make the tea.
He
was very tired the next morning, but refused to sleep while she was
working with the silk. From time to time, she thought of a reason to
leave the room. He slept then, bur never for long. After no more than
half an hour, he would call. She would find him awake, waiting for
her to start again.
In
that day and the next, she did all the machine work. It was a long,
boring job, because first she sewed all the pieces in place by hand.
Mr Blackie silently watched every move she made. Sometimes she saw
him studying the silk, and on his face was a look that she
remembered. It was the way that he had looked at her when they were
young lovers. That hurt a little. He didn't care about the silk more
than he cared about her, she knew that, but he saw something in it
that she didn't. She never asked him what it was.
Someone
of her age did not question these things or ask for explanations. She
just went on with the work, thinking only of the sewing and the silk.
On
the Friday afternoon, four days after she'd started the pyjamas, she
finished the buttonholes and sewed on the buttons. She had had to
work more quickly at the end. In the four days, Mr Blackie had become
weaker. She knew that when the pyjamas were finished and put back in
the box, he would be more interested in food and rest.
She
cut the last thread and put away the needle.
'That's
it, Herb,' she said, showing him her work.
He
tried to lift his head. 'Bring them over here,' he said.
'Well
- what do you think?' As she brought the pyjamas closer, he saw them
clearly and he smiled.
'Try
them on?' he said.
She
shook her head. 'I measured you carefully,' she said. 'They'll fit.'
'We
should make sure,' he said.
Why
didn't she want him to try them on? She couldn't find a reason. 'All
right,' she said, turning on the heater. 'Just to make sure the
buttons are right.'
She
took off his thick pyjamas and put on the silk. She stepped back to
look at him.
'Well,
I have to say that's a fine job. I could move the top button a little
bit, but really they fir beautifully.'
He
smiled at her. 'Light, aren't they?' He looked all down his body and
moved his toes. 'All the way from China. I kept with me day and
night. Know that, Amy?'
'Do
you like them?'
He
tried not to look too pleased. 'All right. A little bit small.'
'They
are not, and you know it,' Mrs Blackie said crossly. 'It wouldn't
hurt to say thank you. Here, put your hands down and I'll change you
before you get cold.'
He
crossed his arms. 'You did a really good job, Amy. Think I'll keep
them on for a bit.'
'No.'
She picked up his thick pyjamas.
'Why
not?'
'Because
you can't,' she said. 'It - it's not the right thing to do. And the
nurse will be here soon.'
'Oh,
you and your ideas.' He was too weak to stop her, but as she changed
him, he still could not take his eyes away from the silk. 'Wonder who
made it?'
She
didn't answer, but a picture came to her of a Chinese woman sitting
at a machine making silk. She was dressed in beautiful Eastern
clothes, and although she had Eastern eyes, she looked like Mrs
Blackie.
'Do
you think there are places like that?' Mr Blackie asked.
She
picked the pyjamas up quickly and put them in the box. 'You're the
one who's been to the East,' she said. 'Now get some rest or you'll
be tired when the nurse arrives.'
The
district nurse did not come that afternoon. Nor in the evening. It
was half-past three the next morning when Mrs Blackie heard the
nurse's footsteps, and the doctor's, outside the house.
She
was in the kitchen, waiting. She sat with straight back and dry eyes,
with one hand resting on top of the other.
'Mrs
Blackie, I'm sorry-'
She
didn't answer and turned to the doctor. 'He didn't say goodbye,' she
said, her voice angry. 'Just before I phoned. His hand was over the
side of the bed. I touched it. It was cold.'
The
doctor nodded.
'No
sound of any kind,' she said. 'He was fine last night.'
Again,
the doctor nodded. He put his hand on her shoulder for a moment, then
went into the bedroom. A minute later, he returned, closing his bag,
speaking kindly.
Mrs
Blackie sat still, hearing words. Peacefully. Brave. The words
dropped onto her. They didn't seem to mean anything.
'He
didn't say goodbye.' She shook her head. 'Not a word.'
'But
look, Mrs Blackie,' the nurse said gently. 'It was going to happen.
You know that. He was-'
'I
know, I know.' She turned away crossly. Why didn't they understand?
'I just wanted him to say goodbye. That's all.'
The
doctor offered her something to help her sleep but she pushed it
away. And she refused the cup of tea that the district nurse put in
front of her. When they picked up their bags and went towards the
bedroom, she followed them.
'In
a few minutes,' the doctor said. 'If you'll leave us -'
'I'm
getting his pyjamas,' she said. 'I need to change a button. I can do
it now.'
When
she entered the room, she looked at Mr Blackie's bed and saw that the
doctor had pulled up the sheet. Quickly she lifted the wooden box,
took a needle, thread, scissors, her glasses, and went back to the
kitchen. Through the door, she heard the nurse's voice, 'Poor old
thing,' and she knew that they were not talking about her.
She
sat down at the table to thread the needle. Her eyes were clear, but
for a long time her hands refused to obey her. At last, her needle
and thread ready, she opened the wooden box. The beauty of the silk
always surprised her. As she arranged the pyjamas on the table, she
was filled with a strong, warm feeling, the first good feeling that
she had had that morning. The silk was real. The light above the
table filled everything with life. Trees moved above the water,
peacocks danced with white fire in their tails. And the little
bridges...
Mrs
Blackie took off her glasses, cleaned them, put them on again. She
sat down and touched one bridge with her finger, then another. And
another. She turned over the pyjama coat and looked carefully at the
back. It was there, on every bridge; something she hadn't noticed
before. She got up and fetched her magnifying glass.
As
the bridge in the pattern on the silk grew, the little group of
threads, which had been no bigger than a grain of rice, became a man.
Mrs
Blackie forgot about the button, and the quiet voices in the bedroom.
She brought the magnifying glass nearer her eyes.
It
was a man, and he was standing with one arm held out on the highest
part of the bridge between two islands. Mrs Blackie studied him for a
long time, then she sat up and smiled. Yes, he was waving. Or
perhaps, she thought, he was calling her to join him.
Learn English through Story | The Silk Joy Cowley |Level A2 Elementary.
When Mr Blackie became ill again that autumn, both If he and Mrs Blackie knew that it was for the last time. For many weeks, neither spoke of it; but the understanding was in their eyes as they watched each other through the days and nights. It was a look seen in the faces of the old and the very young, neither sad, nor hopeless, just a quiet understanding; they accepted what was coming.
Mastering a language is a difficult task, and listening proves to be the most challenging skill for many. It can be stressful to comprehend what people say, and thus, spending ample time on practicing listening is crucial. Like any skill, regular practice is the key to improving listening comprehension. To aid in this process, the video has highlighted the current reading word, which allows for easy reading along.
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