Flowers For Tilly
Tilly stood at the counter at the Corner Shoppes in her hometown of Hull, greedily eyeing the embroidery silks on display. She would have loved to buy one of each color, and let her imagination run wild. But the silks were 10 pence each, plus one ration coupon for a bundle of 10. The cotton embroider threads were 2 pence for 3, and she could get 6 without having to sacrifice a ration coupon: so, cotton thread it would be.
Tilly and her mother lived in a flat above their bakery. Her mother and father had worked side by side in the business, rising every morning before dawn and not finishing until late in the evening, but they had been so happy in their world of flour and spice. That was, until Tilly’s father had gone off to fight in the War. Since then, her mother had tried to carry on with the business, but rationing had resulted in most people making their own baked goods, when they could get the ingredients. So Tilly and her mother had resorted to taking in washing, mending and other odd jobs to make ends meet. Women everywhere were in the same situation, and those young and strong enough without children in the home to care for went into the work force. Her mother had no one to care for her during the day, so she stayed home and tried to “make do”, as the government continuously told them. Tilly had been gifted two pence by her grandmother the Christmas before the War started, and had been saving it since.
In recent weeks Tilly had noticed her mother looking more drawn, worn and removed from the world. Her mother’s birthday was coming up, and she knew that having another birthday pass with her husband away, her business closed and her country at war was weighing heavily on her. So, Tilly had decided to create something beautiful for her mother for her birthday: a beautiful embroidered tablecloth for the breakfast table where they sat each morning. Tilly would have loved to use polished cotton, but the expense of that was unimaginable. So, she’d use some of the raw linen left over downstairs. It had been used to cover the loaves of rising bread each night, but now it sat unused .
Tilly worked for weeks on her piece, sitting up late at night by the light of a single bulb, stitching the beautiful colors onto the raw linen. Night after night she worked, until the cloth was finished. The night she placed the final stitches she feel asleep with the piece clutched in her hands. Tomorrow was her mother’s birthday.
Tilly was wrenched from sleep by the air raid sirens. This was the first time she’d heard them outside of the weekly practice drills, and her mind refused to accept what was happening. Her mother appeared at her bedside and jerked her from her bed. “Tilly”, she said “we have to get to the shelter”, and they ran to safety. Tilly was aware of being cold, and sharp pains in her feet as her bare soles ran across gravel. They could hear the roar of the bombing planes overhead, and descended into the shelter as the sounds of the first explosions began.
The next day the town of Hull saw the first results of the Blitz. Homes and businesses lay on piles of rubble, and it was evident that not everyone had made it to safety.
Tilly and her mother stood outside what had been their home and business. Now, it was a heap of smoldering brick. Looking up into her mothers face, she realized that today was the birthday she’d been planning for. And then, she looked down into her hand. There, crumpled and gripped so tight in her fist that it was hard to unclench, was the tablecloth. She’d never dropped it: not through the awakening, the mad dash, the long night of terror or the walk through the destruction. Now, she raised her hand to her mother, eyes filled with tears, and said “for your birthday, momma”.
Tilly stood at the counter at the Corner Shoppes in her hometown of Hull, greedily eyeing the embroidery silks on display. She would have loved to buy one of each color, and let her imagination run wild. But the silks were 10 pence each, plus one ration coupon for a bundle of 10. The cotton embroider threads were 2 pence for 3, and she could get 6 without having to sacrifice a ration coupon: so, cotton thread it would be.
Tilly and her mother lived in a flat above their bakery. Her mother and father had worked side by side in the business, rising every morning before dawn and not finishing until late in the evening, but they had been so happy in their world of flour and spice. That was, until Tilly’s father had gone off to fight in the War. Since then, her mother had tried to carry on with the business, but rationing had resulted in most people making their own baked goods, when they could get the ingredients. So Tilly and her mother had resorted to taking in washing, mending and other odd jobs to make ends meet. Women everywhere were in the same situation, and those young and strong enough without children in the home to care for went into the work force. Her mother had no one to care for her during the day, so she stayed home and tried to “make do”, as the government continuously told them. Tilly had been gifted two pence by her grandmother the Christmas before the War started, and had been saving it since.
In recent weeks Tilly had noticed her mother looking more drawn, worn and removed from the world. Her mother’s birthday was coming up, and she knew that having another birthday pass with her husband away, her business closed and her country at war was weighing heavily on her. So, Tilly had decided to create something beautiful for her mother for her birthday: a beautiful embroidered tablecloth for the breakfast table where they sat each morning. Tilly would have loved to use polished cotton, but the expense of that was unimaginable. So, she’d use some of the raw linen left over downstairs. It had been used to cover the loaves of rising bread each night, but now it sat unused .
Tilly worked for weeks on her piece, sitting up late at night by the light of a single bulb, stitching the beautiful colors onto the raw linen. Night after night she worked, until the cloth was finished. The night she placed the final stitches she feel asleep with the piece clutched in her hands. Tomorrow was her mother’s birthday.
Tilly was wrenched from sleep by the air raid sirens. This was the first time she’d heard them outside of the weekly practice drills, and her mind refused to accept what was happening. Her mother appeared at her bedside and jerked her from her bed. “Tilly”, she said “we have to get to the shelter”, and they ran to safety. Tilly was aware of being cold, and sharp pains in her feet as her bare soles ran across gravel. They could hear the roar of the bombing planes overhead, and descended into the shelter as the sounds of the first explosions began.
The next day the town of Hull saw the first results of the Blitz. Homes and businesses lay on piles of rubble, and it was evident that not everyone had made it to safety.
Tilly and her mother stood outside what had been their home and business. Now, it was a heap of smoldering brick. Looking up into her mothers face, she realized that today was the birthday she’d been planning for. And then, she looked down into her hand. There, crumpled and gripped so tight in her fist that it was hard to unclench, was the tablecloth. She’d never dropped it: not through the awakening, the mad dash, the long night of terror or the walk through the destruction. Now, she raised her hand to her mother, eyes filled with tears, and said “for your birthday, momma”.
Tilly stood at the counter at the Corner Shoppes in her hometown of Hull, greedily eyeing the embroidery silks on display. She would have loved to buy one of each color, and let her imagination run wild. But the silks were 10 pence each, plus one ration coupon for a bundle of 10. The cotton embroider threads were 2 pence for 3, and she could get 6 without having to sacrifice a ration coupon: so, cotton thread it would be.
Tilly and her mother lived in a flat above their bakery. Her mother and father had worked side by side in the business, rising every morning before dawn and not finishing until late in the evening, but they had been so happy in their world of flour and spice. That was, until Tilly’s father had gone off to fight in the War. Since then, her mother had tried to carry on with the business, but rationing had resulted in most people making their own baked goods, when they could get the ingredients. So Tilly and her mother had resorted to taking in washing, mending and other odd jobs to make ends meet. Women everywhere were in the same situation, and those young and strong enough without children in the home to care for went into the work force. Her mother had no one to care for her during the day, so she stayed home and tried to “make do”, as the government continuously told them. Tilly had been gifted two pence by her grandmother the Christmas before the War started, and had been saving it since.
In recent weeks Tilly had noticed her mother looking more drawn, worn and removed from the world. Her mother’s birthday was coming up, and she knew that having another birthday pass with her husband away, her business closed and her country at war was weighing heavily on her. So, Tilly had decided to create something beautiful for her mother for her birthday: a beautiful embroidered tablecloth for the breakfast table where they sat each morning. Tilly would have loved to use polished cotton, but the expense of that was unimaginable. So, she’d use some of the raw linen left over downstairs. It had been used to cover the loaves of rising bread each night, but now it sat unused .
Tilly worked for weeks on her piece, sitting up late at night by the light of a single bulb, stitching the beautiful colors onto the raw linen. Night after night she worked, until the cloth was finished. The night she placed the final stitches she feel asleep with the piece clutched in her hands. Tomorrow was her mother’s birthday.
Tilly was wrenched from sleep by the air raid sirens. This was the first time she’d heard them outside of the weekly practice drills, and her mind refused to accept what was happening. Her mother appeared at her bedside and jerked her from her bed. “Tilly”, she said “we have to get to the shelter”, and they ran to safety. Tilly was aware of being cold, and sharp pains in her feet as her bare soles ran across gravel. They could hear the roar of the bombing planes overhead, and descended into the shelter as the sounds of the first explosions began.
The next day the town of Hull saw the first results of the Blitz. Homes and businesses lay on piles of rubble, and it was evident that not everyone had made it to safety.
Tilly and her mother stood outside what had been their home and business. Now, it was a heap of smoldering brick. Looking up into her mothers face, she realized that today was the birthday she’d been planning for. And then, she looked down into her hand. There, crumpled and gripped so tight in her fist that it was hard to unclench, was the tablecloth. She’d never dropped it: not through the awakening, the mad dash, the long night of terror or the walk through the destruction. Now, she raised her hand to her mother, eyes filled with tears, and said “for your birthday, momma”.
This charming pull over is fashioned from a raw linen tablecloth embroidered with bright cotton flowers and bobbin lace. 100% handmade by the artist. Tablecloth sourced in Arkansas
Measurement: Bust up to 38” Waist up to 39” front length 20” Garment does have stretch so can be worn by a smaller size than listed
Care Instructions and General Information: This one of a kind blouse is fashioned from a garment that is approximately 60 years old. It should be hand washed and laid flat to dry. Ironing on high with starch will preserve crispness. Due to the age there may be minor discolorations or areas of wear commiserate with age. This is normal and to be considered as part of the beauty of the garment
No returns or exchanges due ot the one of a kind nature of the items