rough outlines completed, the painters packed up their cart of materials and covered it carefully with canvas for the night. They’d return each day until the stones were finished.
The women were working together in the Barn; the Dark Moon closest to Imbolc was traditionally spent sewing baby clothes. The tiny white garments were carefully cut from soft linen and stitched into the long nightdresses worn by all Stonewylde babies for their first three months or so. The outfits were embroidered on the chest with white and green snowdrops and a small silver crescent, so whatever time of year the babies were born they’d bear a reminder of the promise of Imbolc, the potential of new life to grow into maturity and fulfilment. Most women completed a nightdress during the first day and would then knit vests, caps, jackets and long booties from the finest wool the next day.
The Barn buzzed with enthusiasm as this was one of the favourite Dark Moon tasks. Groups of women sat around together on the log stools and benches or at the trestle tables, some of the younger girls with aching wombs making big nests of cushions and sitting on the floor. Everyone worked diligently on their nightdress, warm and contented in the haven of the Barn – everyone except Sylvie who sat to one side with her mother. She surveyed the women sadly, not sewing the tiny pieces of linen with their enthusiasm.
‘It’s such a shame, Mum,’ she said quietly. ‘Look at them all sewing and putting their best efforts into making such beautiful tiny things. They don’t realise, do they?’
Miranda glanced at her daughter who’d seemed a lot happier today and had been so for the last couple of days. Her face wore a whisper of that dreamy contentment which Miranda had always envied, knowing its source. She’d been so worried about Sylvie but perhaps things between her and Yul were now on the mend.
‘Don’t realise what, darling?’
‘They’re still making all these lovely baby clothes just as they’ve always done and by the end of this Dark Moon there’ll be a great wicker hamper of beautiful new baby things. But where are the babies to wear them? The birth rate at Stonewylde is so low now, and once this batch of teenagers has grown up it’ll be even lower. We just don’t need baskets and baskets of new baby clothes made every year, especially not when everyone uses old things until they fall apart. There’re probably enough baby outfits at Stonewylde already to last for the next fifty years, and yet every Imbolc it’s the same, more and more being produced.’
‘I see what you mean – I’d never thought of it like that. But it’s nice for young mothers to have new things for their babies, isn’t it? I always longed for lovely pure white clothes to put you in.’
‘But Stonewylde isn’t about using new things, is it? Everyone makes things last and that’s how it should be. Do you know what actually happens to all these little outfits? And has happened for a while now?’
‘Well, I imagine … oh! You mean they’re sold on Stonewylde.com?’
Sylvie nodded sadly.
‘They keep some in the clothes store but the rest go to the warehouse and are advertised on the website. Stonewylde baby-clothes sell for a fortune, I believe, because they’re of the highest quality and so beautifully made. Hand woven fine linen, homegrown organic wool, and all that hand stitching and exquisite embroidery, all that loving care put into them. And then sold to strangers with too much money to burn – it isn’t right.’
Miranda put down her sewing, which had suddenly lost its charm. She’d imagined a tiny Stonewylde baby wearing the nightdress, not a rich woman’s offspring. She sighed.
‘I see what you mean. But ultimately everyone benefits, don’t they? I mean the money made from Stonewylde.com is ploughed back into the community so everyone gains in the end, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so, but … it seems immoral to me, almost exploitation. At least the women should be told what’s happening.’
‘But then they wouldn’t look forward to it – or put in so much effort,’ said Miranda. ‘It’s bad enough now with Harold’s quotas. Maizie was telling me again the other day about the growing ill-feeling in the Village over those quotas and how people aren’t taking such care any more.’
‘Exactly – they feel exploited. And what happens to all the money? I’ve never really got involved with the accounts – Yul and Harold