Kirkus Reviews
...a brief, sweetly winning tale... a spirited feminist take sure to find favor with women's book groups.


Review
...a brief, sweetly winning tale... a spirited feminist take sure to find favor with women's book groups.


Book Description
"Spinning, weaving, knitting, all part of the long tradition of women"s work, skills that had survived even the efficiency of the industrial revolution. Why did people still do it?"It"s been ten months since Jack died. For his widow, Sandra, a tightly wound teacher who thinks long and hard about such questions, the months have tested her belief that she can continue her ordered life without Jack. She feels as though she"s covered in ice-cold glass and will never be warm again. Knitting is the story of what happens when Sandra meets a woman who is her polar opposite on a sidewalk when they both stop to help a man in distress. While Sandra"s grief has constrained her spirit, Martha -- who lost her husband years before -- appears to wear her grief lightly. Sandra"s talent for the domestic arts lies in studying them; Martha is a brilliantly gifted knitter, a self-educated artist. When Sandra persuades Martha to help her mount an exhibition of retro and contemporary knitting, the two women"s lives tangle, with astonishing ramifications. What begins as a professional collaboration becomes something transformative and deeply personal. Anne Bartlett weaves a story that is seamless in its exploration of healing, grace, and the search for meaning, both within oneself and in the larger community. Readers will find much to admire in Sandra"s struggle to break out of her shell and much to wonder at in Martha"s visionary spirit. Knitting marks the debut of a writer whose work puts her in the company of writers such as Carol Shields, Barbara Kingsolver, and Louise Erdrich.


Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
August Ever since Jack"s funeral Sandra hadbeen covered in glass. Not glass from an accident, shattered bits ofwindshield or the hard razor-cut edges of a plate glass window. Nothing like that.Sandra was covered in a thick layer of elastic glass that stretched over herbody like another skin, holding her in and keeping everybody else out. It movedwith her wherever she went, invisible under her clothes, into theshower, into bed, into the sun, and kept her cold as ice. Friends knocked on it.She could hear them, but the glass was over her eyes, too, so thateverything she saw was far away, even though she knew she could reach out andtouch. She was covered in ice-cold glass and would never be warm again. So when Sandra saw the gaudy envelopein the mailbox, her heart sank. She knew what it was—herinvitation to the annual dinner she and a group of school friends had maintainedfor over thirty years. She would have to go, of course; she couldn"t not go,but she dreaded it all the same. Another item on the list called FirstMeetings Post Jack. More hugging and caring and how-are-you-getting-on tonegotiate. The first widow among them, an object of compassion, confrontation,and curiosity. How do you think she"s dealing with it? Not too badly.Immersed herself in work. And what she couldn"t tell them, hadn"t told anyone,was that her days were as dry-eyed as a desert. She didn"t know how to weep. She reluctantly tore open the envelopeand propped the invitation on the mantelpiece. Over the years theyhad tried a vast range of restaurants. This one would require a new dress. That same afternoon Martha McKenziewalked down Muggs Hill Road, her strawberry hair glowing in the meekoffering of the South Australian winter sun. She was rugged in her overcoat, andas usual she carried her three big bags: the expandable striped bag, thetapestry carpetbag, and the old brown suitcase. As she approached the cornernear the bus stop something shimmering caught her attention. Theshimmering was in front of a small bluestone church that Martha had passedhundreds of times but never entered. Martha was not in the habit of going tochurch. She was forty-seven years old and hadn"t needed churchyet, nor it her. Martha was decidedly uninterested in churches; thelast time she had been to church she was ten years old and had bitten an oldman on the hand, for good reason. She was long-sighted, but she wore herglasses now for knitting. She squinted at the shimmering. Marthaliked things to be right side up and comprehensible, though some things, sheknew, could not be explained. This was like a heat haze or the flummeryflow of air above a gas pump on a hot day. Martha looked carefully left and rightdown the narrow street, then tramped across it to the church. Hereshe was distracted by something else. Above the steps leading up to the frontporch was a heavy wooden door, cheerfully painted but firmly shut, andon the door was a HELP WANTED sign, with a phone number and a cartoonof a woman with a vacuum cleaner. Martha sat heavily on the churchsteps—her knees gave her trouble in winter—to think about it, butshe kept her fingers resting on the handles of her bags in case somethinguntoward happened. The high column of shimmering was toher left, half over a cement path and half over a rose bed abuttingthe path. The silvery light didn"t seem to mind the prickly bare sticks ofwintering roses; it moved and flowed among them without proper regard for itself. Like a waterfall, thought Martha, onlynothing gets wet. She sat there watching it, her mind busy withother thoughts. Sometimes so many thoughts buzzed in her brain she felt asif she had a beehive on her shoulders instead of a head. This morning thebuzzing was mild and had to do with the rose bushes in front of her, cleaning achurch, and rectifying her current knitting problem, a complex lace patternshe had not been able to get right. Martha loved roses and noted that theseneeded pruning, but she couldn"t concentrate on anything properly. It washard to concentrate when everything around seemed to sparkle. Then, in amoment of clarity, like a knot that untangles itself when tugged at bothends, the knitting problem resolved. Martha stood up, reread the notice onthe church door, then tore it off and put it in the side pocket of oneof her commodious bags. She closed her fingers around the handles—she hadbarely let go of two of them—stood stiffly, and went home. Sandra was reading in the study she hadonce shared with Jack. Outside it was cold and getting dark. It wasalready dark and cold inside, except forthis room, the smallest room at the back ofthe house. The study was easy to keep warm; there was no point in warmingthe whole house for one person. To her left was a pile of books onancient textiles and a stack of tagged journal articles waiting to beread. To her right was a neat tray of work completed: essays marked, forms filledout, a letter supporting a student"s application for scholarship extension. Even here Sandra was spare with theheating. She wore thick socks, a heavy sweater, and a jacketover that, but her fingers were still cold. Wear wool, said Sandra"s mother acrossfifty years of living, Wear that woolen sweater I made you—it"s muchwarmer. But in spite of her fascination with textiles, Sandra had dismissed thecomfort and warmth of wool long ago. Wool was too slow, too impracticalfor a modern world: it might be machine washable but it still ruined inthe dryer. Wool was too romantic, too pastoral—too innocent. The nurseryrhymes about sheep—Baa Baa Black Sheep, Little Bo Peep—all had happyendings. Wool was just one of the many textiles she had studied over theyears. It was durable if you could keep the moths out, but she had nopersonal interest in it. Wool was noteworthy as a phenomenon, but notviable in Sandra"s fast and busy world. As for Australia riding on the sheep"sback, those days were over. It was ten months since Jack"s death.After the chaos caused by his illness and the many changes inlearning to be single again, Sandra was pretending that she led an ordered life.Her desk was clear except for the papers in use, her books straight andeasy in their orderly rows, the bulletin board uncluttered. She had covered theflat, bleak surface of Jack"s empty desk with potted plants and piles ofbooks, but the plants failed to thrive and the books were those she never read. Her screen saver resolved into Jack"sface. He smiled at her from under his cotton sun hat and above hisfavorite woolen jacket, made by a local weaver. His face was crinkledagainst the wind blowing that day on the top of Mt. Buffalo; the stubbly beardshowed new gray. It wasn"t a particularly well-composed photo, but it caught thelight in his dark eyes, the lurking amusement that had stopped Sandra fromtaking herself too seriously. On difficult days she turned the screensaver off so she could get on with her work. Jack"s photo was one of manyavailable on the program"s random choice, but sometimes the timing wasterrible. On the wall opposite the computer was aprint of Frederic Cotman"s One of the Family, oil oncanvas, 1880. Jack, the impossible romantic, had loved that painting, thesuffused golden light, the cozy family sitting down to lunch, the interplay ofaction and relationship, the ridiculous horse at the door. But to Sandra it hadseemed a mockery, a kind of pretense, something longed for butunattainable. It looked warm and soft and comfortable, like an old cotton dress,but reality was different. Reality was a cotton dress too small, buttons lost andseams fraying into holes. After Jack died, Sandra took thepainting down from the dining room wall, but when she tried to carryit out to the shed, somehow it wouldn"t go. So, although she hadn"t liked it formore than twenty years—ever since it became clear that they would have nochildren—she took it to her study and hung it on the wall at her back. There,she had said to Jack"s reappearing photo, with the grim amusement that gother through the days: I don"t like it, but have it if you want. Jack, like Sandra, had begun academiclife as a historian. Since those early years their paths haddiverged: Sandra had begun with war history and moved easily to feminism andperceptions of women"s work, then concentrated on textiles. Jack had madean even bigger shift: his interest in the impact of white settlement on localAboriginal populations had evolved into a committed amateur interest in thethreatened bird species of southern Australia. Jack might have beenromantic, but when it came to disappearing birds he was an utter pragmatist. Drivenby alarm at the rapid rate of species extinction, he had been a keen volunteeron revegetation programs, both locally in the Adelaide Hills andfarther north, where the introducedrabbits, sheep, and goats had decimated thenatural habitat. Eventually his hobby dominated his work; his research wasinventive, his record-keeping thorough, his books and journal articlesinternationally respected. In a climate of environmental pessimism he worked hardand hopefully for the future, developing action plans for thepreservation and reintroduction of birdslike the diamond firetail and the Mount LoftyRanges spotted quail-thrush. Jack worked for the future but livedthoroughly in the present. Sandra had seen how every chance findingof even common feathers gave him a little rush of pleasure. She didnot share his fascination—another magpie feather, another wattlebirdkilled by a cat—but she envied his delight. With more unusual feathers his widemouth wreathed into smiles, his brown fingers pressed and smoothed. Suchsimple access to joy. Her own life seemed complicated, her pleasures alwaysone step removed. After Jack died, Sandra opened the bigbox of feathers he had collected on their walks. For a week ortwo she left them lying about on the coffee table, though some broke free anddrifted around the room, reminding her of past conversations withJack—elegance, strength, protection. Could they be displayed somehow? She scoopedthem back into the box and took them to Martin, a picture framer who hadbeen a close friend of Jack"s. When she returned to pick up the one framingshe had ordered, he presented her with a large package. A gift, he said,in memory of Jack. Open it at home. And waved away her purse. When Sandra lined up the framed piecesalong the skirting board in her living room, she saw that Martinhad reworked her meager idea into something far greater. The six pieces,individually simple, became something more in juxtaposition, a mass of wingsbeating upward, gathering into flight. The following weekend Martin came tohang them for her. Sandra took him to the bedroom, hoping he wouldnot think her sentimental. Here, she said, around the bed. Martin set towork. As she passed him the first piece, she suddenly noticed the neatinscription in fine silver writing on the back: Jack Fildes / Martin Shepherd:Series 1/6, Wings. But here she was, distracted again.Sandra frowned and turned back to the computer. The screen saverflicked on, another rogue photo from one of Jack"s albums. A cemetery, of allthings, and through the middle, focused and clear, a carpet of thousandsof red roses. Jack and his digital camera. Almost a year now, and newphotos still appearing from nowhere. She turned back to the journal articleshe had been reading: "Textile Artifacts of AncientGreece." Perhaps this would stop her from thinking about Jack. Martha had been out all day and was gladto be nearly home. The wind flapped at her buttoned coat and tuggedat her bags. She liked this last stretch of the walk at this time ofevening, watching parents coming home from work, children carrying sportsclothes, dining room tables lit before the blinds came down. In summer, elderlyGreek and Italian couples sat on their front verandas and nodded hello, butnow, in winter, they were tucked into warm kitchens at the back. Marthaimagined them serving dinner, moussaka and pasta. Martha was carrying the usual threebags plus a shopping bag bulging with butternut squash andpotatoes and a nice meaty bone she had found at the market. It had been a longday, and she looked forward to wrapping herself around some soup. Afterthe soup she would have that bit of leftover apple pie made with apples fromthe family farm, and then, when she had done her dishes and made a nice potof tea, she would sit at the kitchen table and read the knitting magazine shehad just bought at the newsagent. It had a new technique that she had nevertried, a fancy kind of slipstitch, and her fingers were itching for it. Sandra leaned back from her desk andsighed. For all her facility with words, she was not able to articulate what shefound so fascinating in these ancient objects. These fragments of women"s workhad survived for thousands of years: tiny bits of cloth and handtools—spindles, whorls, loom weights. Things made from the earth: clay, bone,stone, soapstone, gold, even, trapped in dirt and dust no broom hadswept away. She could never imagine her own work surviving so long. But these women from the ancient past,working in their own clear present, would not have expectedpermanence either. What spinner or weaver would have believed such fragilethings could last as long as this? Even now the warp and weft of the clothwere clearly visible, fourteen threads to the centimeter, evenly spaced.Sturdy, everyday linen, wrapped around a dagger to protect it from damp, putaside for a week or a month, dug up after millennia. Beautiful tools. Slender lengths androunded weights, the beauty and necessity of balance, allowing thelong thread from the distaff to be spun evenly by thumb and forefinger. Some ofthe smaller spindles for cotton and linen weighed only a few grams. Andincised on the top of some was the concentric circle, the god"s eye, forprotection. Sandra was not good with her hands. Hermother"s small, stubby fingers had been surprisingly deft: theyheld the finest thread with delicacy, were precise with a needle. She hadwanted to share these skills with Sandra, but Sandra was clumsy withneedlework, no better with knitting. Besides, she wanted to be different fromher mother. However, in recent years her researchhad generated deep longing. Women who shared domesticnecessities— food gathering, cloth making, medicine preparation,life-giving work compatible with child care—seemed to lead more integrated livesthan she herself experienced. Alone now, husbandless, motherless, childless,she wanted to reconnect with some kind of community, with the longline of women and their work. Impossibly romantic, of course —she musthave caught it from Jack. She was living in the twenty-first century,she had a laptop, she was connected to the whole world via the Internet. More"community" than the ancients could ever have imagined. But it would be fun to follow her heartfor once, to do something different from the usual round oflectures and articles. Mount an exhibition, perhaps—women"s work, clothing of somekind. Nothing grand, a love job to fill a simple space somewhere, a smallcelebration of domestic work, the meanings of domestic cloth. Nothing toodemanding or serious. She could play curator. Besides, it would occupy her, give hera new project to fill some of the gaping hole left by Jack. And shecould include her own craft, writing, somehow. Clothing interspersed withtext. She felt fragments of idea cluster toward possibility. That textilesconference coming up in Wollongong— perhaps she would go after all. Maybethings would become clearer then. Martha put the soup to boil, thenunfolded the paper she had taken from the church door. She would rather clean ahouse than a church, but a church had happened along, so she might as wellapply and see what came of it. And the location suited her, it was on herbus route into town, just before the South Parklands, which bordered thesquare-mile grid of the city proper. In fact she could walk into the city fromthe church if she wanted. The fact was, she needed a job; if youwanted to keep knitting with something as exotic as cashmere youhad to find the funds. Well, it might be silk. Or lambswool. She stillhadn"t decided, but whichever she chose, it would be expensive. She dialedthe number on the paper. A pleasant voice answered. "Kate Linkett." "My name is Martha McKenzie. I"ve rungabout the job." "Job?" "The cleaning job. At the church." "Oh, yes. Sorry, I"m not really with ittoday. Are you free for an interview next Thursday?" Martha was. Half an hour later thepleasant voice phoned back and confirmed the appointment.Five-thirty next Thursday at the back ofthe church, through the door marked OFFICE. Sandra had had a good dream, though itwas receding quickly now. Ambushed again in her sleep. Jack wasn"there. Jack would never be here again. She and Jack always slept in onSaturdays, had a slow breakfast together over the paper, coffee andsomething different from the daily muesli and toast—croissants, bagels, bacon withtomatoes from the garden. By the time breakfast was over, the washing wasfinished. They would hang it out together, then do the housework in onehour flat, Jack the upstairs and the bathrooms, Sandra the kitchen, diningroom, living room, and both verandas. Jack"s illness had been totallyunexpected. A walker, climber, swimmer, always the fitter of the two,Jack had collapsed when they were on vacation, dawdling pleasantly atSydney"s Circular Quay. After it became clear that he was seriously ill, Sandrahired cleaning help for a while, but she found it more intrusive than useful,feeling she must tidy for the cleaner, embarrassed by tissues in thewastebasket and toothpaste on the vanity. Jack, more relaxed, said, "That"s herjob. We pay her to clean up our mess!" Sandra could never shake the sense thatshe was being spied on, that her personal details were laughed over insome cleaning women"s union. As Jack grew thinner and more and more fatigued,Sandra resented any intrusion on what she knew must be their last daystogether. Three weeks before Jack died, she terminated the cleaner"sservices and moved their bedroom downstairs to the dining room, with theFrench doors open to the deck and the sun. The house needed cleaning now, but whatwas the point? Who would ever see? She should do someshopping too, but there were a few stalwarts in the cupboard: baked beans,packaged soups, a can of corn. She turned over and felt for Jack"spajamas under his pillow. She still hadn"t washed them, though afterall these months they couldn"t really smell of him. It was simply the fabric,the worn flannel, the sense of his touch. Her sharp practical side told herto get out of bed and throw everything in the washing machine, Jack"s pajamasincluded. That self was loud and necessary: it got her through work, itprepared lectures, it kept people at bay. But the real strength, Sandra knew, waswith her other self, the soft sad one, the one that was allowed out only onweekends, the self that would keep her in bed until well after lunch. She turned her face into the pillow. Onthe walls around her bed the feathers strained upward toward light. Copyright © 2005 by Anne Bartlett.Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.

FROM THE PUBLISHER

Spinning, weaving, knitting, all part of the long tradition of women's work, skills that had survived even the efficiency of the industrial revolution. Why did people still do it?'It's been ten months since Jack died. For his widow, Sandra, atightly wound teacher who thinks long and hard about such questions, the months have tested her belief that she can carry on with her ordered life without Jack. She feels as though she's covered in ice-cold glass and will never be warm again. Knitting is the story of what happens when Sandra meets her polar opposite on a sidewalk when they both stop to help a traveler in distress. While Sandra's grief has constrained her spirit, Martha—who lost her husband years before—appears to wear her grief lightly. Where Sandra's talent for the domestic arts lies in her study of them, Martha is a brilliantly gifted knitter, a self-educated artist.When Sandra convinces Martha to help her mount an exhibition of retro and contemporary knitting, the two women's lives tangle with astonishing ramifications. What begins as a professional collaboration becomes something transformative and deeply personal. Anne Bartlett has woven a story that is seamless in its exploration of healing, grace, and the search for meaning both within oneself and in the larger community. Readers will find much to admire in Sandra's struggle to break out of her shell and much to wonder at in Martha's visionary spirit. Knitting marks the debut of a writer whose work puts her in the company of writers such as Carol Shields, Barbara Kingsolver, and Louise Erdrich.

FROM THE CRITICS

Library Journal

Knitting, the hot new trend, serves as an intriguing theme in Bartlett's first novel. Set in southern Australia, the story revolves around two very different women: the recently widowed Sandra, an academic interested in the history of les and women's work, and the much younger Martha, also a widow. Martha is a gifted knitter who tried knitting for a living, but the pressures to produce on demand turned her greatest joy into a mechanical duty. Now she knits as she pleases. The two women meet one day at the mall when they are the only ones to stop and help a man who has fallen. A friendship develops, and Sandra soon creates a project to showcase Martha's knitting skills and occupy her own grieving mind. The project, an exhibition of vintage and contemporary knitting, challenges both women in more ways than they could have imagined. Bartlett has created an enthralling story about the healing power of friendship, enriched by knitting details. Highly recommended for most public libraries.-Robin Nesbitt, Columbus Metropolitan Lib., OH Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews