Threads by Sophia Bennett Read Free Book Online

interview (Edie didn't say that of course, but that's the impression I get). Odd.
    ‘His little girl is Victoria,’ Florence continues. ‘English queens, you see? He's so proud that Elizabeth is here, getting a proper, English education.’
    I spot Edie flinch. She's talked to Crow about this and she knows the education is not exactly perfect when there are thirty of you in the class and you can't read ninety per cent of what the teacher writes or anything in your textbook. Crow mostly just sits at her desk and doodles on her notebooks, praying she won't be asked a question. She likes art, though.
    ‘Will James come to England too?’ Edie asks.
    ‘Oh, no. He teaches in a camp for displaced people. He can't leave them. And Grace can't leave him, and little Victoria can't leave Grace.’
    ‘Why . . . ?’ I don't know how to put it exactly, without being rude. I struggle. I just don't understand how it could possibly be better for Crow to be in this tiny flat, with an aunt who's never there, instead of at home, withher family. It seems such an important question it's almost too obvious to ask. And yet I can't find the words to phrase it.
    Edie notices me struggling and puts a hand on my arm. For once, she gives me the look I've so often had to give her: the ‘don't go there’ look. I'm still desperate to find out more, but when I give the look to Edie, I seriously mean ‘shut up,’ so I take a dose of my own medicine and ask instead about how Crow's getting on with all her new materials.
    This is obviously the right decision. Crow leaps up delightedly and takes me into her room to show me. We leave Edie and Florence to talk.
    I don't know what to take in first. There's the size of the room – tiny; the furniture – a few bits of old office stuff, including a filing cabinet; the walls – covered in fabulous illustrations of dancing girls, pictures by Victoria and torn-out pages from magazines; and the sculpture-skirts and dresses – everywhere.
    Crow must be obsessed. They're piled several layers deep. Paper patterns. Practice versions in cheap cotton. Violent-coloured nylon examples and now delicate silk versions that look like melted works of art. They're hanging from the curtain rail. Hanging from the handles of the filing cabinet. Draped on the bed. Folded on and under the tiny desk, where the only object I can recognise between the piles is an old, black, hand-operated Singer sewing machine.

    ‘How long have you been making these?’ I ask.
    ‘Two years,’ Crow says. ‘Before, I just knitted. It was so cold when I came to London. But then I went to the V&A with Yvette. I saw Balenciaga. Vionnet. Now I practise.’
    Good grief. I usually think that removing a collar or slapping on a few sequins (or Tipp-Ex) is pretty creative. Next to this kid I'm obviously hopeless and destined not even to be allowed to make the tea for a designer. I find a small spot on the floor to sit down, lost in wonder and sad contemplation of my future career at McDonalds.
    I have an idea, though. There may be one other thing I can do to help.
    ‘Can I borrow a couple of things?’ I ask. ‘I promise I'll bring them back.’
    Crow gives a shrug that I interpret as a yes. I take one of the new silk skirts and a couple of Crow's sketches that are lying in an untidy pile near the sewing machine. Needless to say, they're brilliant. Bright, spiky dancing girls cavorting round the pages in light-as-air dresses and vertiginous heels. The kind of thing I've been trying to draw since I was six. Crow doesn't ask what they're for, but although she thinks I'm slightly barmy, she does seem to trust me, which is encouraging.
    As we leave the room, Edie and Florence hurriedly wind up their conversation. Both of them are mopping their eyes.
    ‘Thank you,’ Florence says, wrapping me in a bear hug with her strong frame. She does the same for Edie.

    ‘That girl's a genius,’ I tell her. ‘Seriously.’
    Florence smiles thinly. ‘Her school