‘Whoever it was, I’d love to know how they got hold of those fabrics. They were unique and very closely guarded because they were only to be used by the queen. Did she have anything to do with the royal family?’
I shook my head. Granny was always rather anti-establishment and certainly no royalist. She’d always been angry about the hardship my grandfather had endured, fighting in the First World War. ‘Lions led by donkeys’, I’d heard her say once and, when I asked what it meant, she explained that the generals leading the war were upper-class twits who had no idea what it was like for what she called the ‘cannon fodder’ in the trenches.
‘You mentioned a hospital?’
‘She was a patient at a mental hospital for a short time, probably just after the war. The only thing Mum can remember is that the quilt is somehow connected to the hospital, or perhaps someone she met there.’
‘I wonder whether the hospital had a royal connection, perhaps, or a link with the factory that wove the silk?’
‘Let’s have a look.’ I turned on my laptop and searched for ‘mental hospital, Eastchester’. Almost at once an archive site came up: A History of Helena Hall. ‘This must be it!’
Jo peered over my shoulder as we read:
This website is dedicated to the doctors, nurses, consultants and other staff who worked at Helena Hall Mental Hospital, as well as the many thousands of patients who were cared for there during its 84 years of serving the community.
The hospital, first named the Helena Hall Asylum, was opened to patients in 1913. At its peak it housed over 1800 patients, as well as medical and academic staff. The site demonstrates the changing approach of asylum layout through the early part of the 20th century, incorporating large ward-style buildings typical of the echelon style, yet having outlying villas typical of the colonial style.
The hospital began to release patients into the community in the 1970s and finally closed its doors in 1997. Since then the building has suffered from a number of arson attacks, especially on the main hall and the superintendent’s house. The site is to be regenerated, with the main administration building and wards being restored and converted to housing.
In the grainy black and white photographs, Helena Hall looked for all the world like a well-staffed stately home. Groups of pin-neat nurses posed proudly on the steps in front of a grand entrance with pillars on either side, and gardeners in three-piece tweed suits worked among meticulously-manicured lawns and precision-edged flower beds. But there was also a harsher reality: shots of long, empty wards furnished with plain white iron bedsteads ranged on either side in military rows, bewildered women patients in baggy dresses grinning toothlessly at the camera and men with ravaged faces and slumped shoulders blinking into the sunshine from a garden bench.
‘Jeez, look at this.’ Jo pointed to a photograph of nurses and doctors gathered by a bedside, with an alarming-looking machine sprouting wires towards an invisible patient.
‘Looks like ECT,’ I said, shivering at the thought that Granny might have endured such treatments.
A section on ‘Patient Life’ showed more recent, reassuring scenes: colour photographs of dances in the Great Hall, an arch-roofed affair decorated in blue and gold, hung with chandeliers with a large stage at one end bordered with ruby-red velvet curtains. Smiling people played cricket, badminton, tennis and bowls, and interior shots featured spacious rooms with gleaming parquet flooring, Persian rugs and comfortable three-piece suites. In one of the photos, entitled Ladies’ Needlework Room, women sat at tables in a sunny room working on embroidery and knitting.
‘Is it patchwork that lady’s sewing, do you think?’
I squinted closer at the screen. ‘Could be, it’s hard to tell. Can’t recognise anyone.’ The faces were largely concealed and certainly none looked anything like my grandmother.
It seemed that controversy over closure of the place had been raging for several decades, and future development plans were still keeping the local newspaper in front page headlines. The most contentious issue was the planned demolition of the Great Hall, which had been in use by local amateur dramatic groups and choral societies long after the hospital wards had closed. Many of the articles were by-lined: ‘Our chief reporter, Ben Sweetman.’
‘This guy seems to be a bit of an expert,’ Jo said. ‘He might be able to tell you whether the place had any royal links, or put you in touch with someone who might know, someone who used to work there, perhaps?’
‘You think it’s really that important to find out?’
‘A family heirloom with what looks like unique royal silk in it? It’s amazing. It’s up to you, of course but, whatever you decide, I’d really like to show it to my curator.’
‘The head of royal costumes? I thought you told me she was a dragon.’
‘She is, but I’ve warmed to her a bit since she renewed my contract.’ Jo checked her phone and yawned. ‘Ugh. It’s already past one and I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow.’
‘Thank you so much for coming over. I feel a lot better.’
‘You’ll be fine, you know,’ she said, sweetly. ‘This could really be the start of something exciting.’
‘Finding the quilt, you mean?’ I said, momentarily misunderstanding her.
‘That too,’ she laughed. ‘What I really meant was you could have a whole new career ahead of you. Move over Moschino and Stefanidis, Meadows is on your tail.’
‘I’m more excited about your new venture.’ I gestured towards her stomach.
‘Don’t hold your breath. It’s early days,’ she said, as we hugged goodnight.
My sleep was threadbare that night, like cheap curtains letting in too much light, as my mind tried to make sense of the events of the past couple of days. Despite the shock of being made redundant, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of anticipation and elation. Jo was right: this could be the start of an exciting new phase of my life, an opportunity to do something completely different.
I dozed briefly and then, in my half-awake state, from the deepest part of my subconscious, came a powerful memory. I must have been about four years old, staying the night at Granny’s house and sleeping in the spare room in the big bed with the shiny brass bobbles at each corner. It was so wide that I could easily fit into it sideways, and so high off the floor that I needed a stool to help me clamber onto it, like a miniature mountaineer. Her house always seemed enormous, especially in contrast with the low ceilings and doorways of my parents’ cottage.
The quilt was spread across the bed and, that night, instead of reading a bedtime story, she told me all about how patchwork was made from scraps of material sewn together in many different ways to make beautiful patterns, sometimes by people so poor they couldn’t afford proper blankets or, more often, by people who just enjoyed sewing something beautiful. She told me that some quilts were made to mark an occasion, like the birth of a baby, a wedding or a coronation (I wasn’t sure what that was, but didn’t like to interrupt), or in memory of friends.
As she talked, I traced my finger over strips and squares and triangles of fabric. Some were so smooth to the touch it was like brushing my own skin, but others were rough and catchy. Some seemed to glitter like jewels, the patterns pulsing almost as though they were alive, the threads shimmering as they caught the light.
She showed me how the quilt had been designed as a series of squares, each one larger than the last, like a painting within a painting within yet another painting, each one framing the one inside, and each one so different from the next, in the complexity of its patterns and colours, and the types of fabrics used. We wondered, together, how many tiny scraps of material had been used to make the quilt and I tried counting them, but gave