on everything from tacketing to tape-slotting, kettle-stitches to meeting-guards, whether thongs should
be raised or recessed, the difference between oversewing and overcasting, and which thread would work with which paper.
‘May I go and play in the street, Mama?’
‘Of course you may. Thank you for your help, you useful girl. I shall be in here if you need me.’ I rigged up the old sewing-frame,
and started to sew the various sections together and on to the main cords for the books.
So recently thrown into the pits of peril, I was at last starting to feel sunshine on my face as I laboured in our own cause.
My carpet-needle wove in and out between the pages of the sections and the vertical cords of the frame, and through its regularity
I tried to convince myself that we were back in the old days when money was less of a worry, and that when I had finished
sewing, there would be only a minor amendment to our usual practice, which was that I would be doing Jack’s work instead of
Jack, and Peter’s work instead of Peter.
Despite a short break at midday to prepare lunch for Peter and Lucinda, I had sewn all the books and albums by one o’clock.
I stood by the chair where Peter was dozing under his newspaper.
‘I’m ready for the forwarding, if you wish,’ I said. Then I went back into the workshop, punched the holes and prepared the
vellum thongs for the tacketing. Soon he was by my side, scanning the assorted piles of naked pages.
‘But we cannot use any of these. It would be a waste of finest Dutch! Have we not some inferior paper upon which I can instruct
you? This is going to be difficult, if you have not even the brain to determine something so fundamental.’
‘We could disband an old volume of ours. The Pilgrim’s Progress , or the Scott?’
‘Possibly. You are thinking, at least.’
‘Or . . .’ I started rummaging in the scraps drawer. ‘. . . here, would this do?’ I held up an old set of papers, yellowed
at the corners and torn here and there, but soundly sewn, approximately two hundred pages thick, uncut and unploughed.
‘I asked you to make that years ago, didn’t I? I believe I instructed Jack on it,’ he said wistfully. ‘It will do, but it
needs re-hammering first.’
And so we began. I took Jack’s leather apron and wrapped it over my pale blue work smock. I heated up some glue as Peter laid
out the leather and marked out on it ten shapes of varying sizes.
‘We are in luck, for once, in this sorry situation. There is just about enough left over to use on your mockery of a journal.
So we shall have one trial run, before starting the serious matter.’
Once the glue was liquid, I painted a thick coat into the back and stippled it between the sections, cut the strings a couple
of inches above and below, and started to round, groove, and back the book. But it was harder than I had anticipated, and
Peter was not forthcoming with assistance. He simply asked, as I hammered unevenly, ‘Did you ask Diprose how he likes his
spines?’
I shook my head.
‘Idiot,’ he said. ‘What if he’s one of those dreadfully fashionable flat-spine men? Let me see what you’ve done. Move it over
here. Now turn it over.’ He stayed silent for a while, the air hissing between his teeth, which he clenched whenever he was
concentrating.
‘Not quite a third-of-a-circle, but not flat at least. The first rule. Never over-round your spines. And why? Why?’
‘Because . . .’ I looked up into the corner of the window frame as if I could read the answer there. ‘The spine won’t be sufficiently
flexible. The margins will be reduced by the extreme curvature. If forced beyond its capability the spine may spring up in
the centre of the pages like a ledger. This could strain the sewing.’ I may not have been the student, but I had attended
the lessons, which was little solace when it came to struggling with the clamps of the press, cutting the millboards
be raised or recessed, the difference between oversewing and overcasting, and which thread would work with which paper.
‘May I go and play in the street, Mama?’
‘Of course you may. Thank you for your help, you useful girl. I shall be in here if you need me.’ I rigged up the old sewing-frame,
and started to sew the various sections together and on to the main cords for the books.
So recently thrown into the pits of peril, I was at last starting to feel sunshine on my face as I laboured in our own cause.
My carpet-needle wove in and out between the pages of the sections and the vertical cords of the frame, and through its regularity
I tried to convince myself that we were back in the old days when money was less of a worry, and that when I had finished
sewing, there would be only a minor amendment to our usual practice, which was that I would be doing Jack’s work instead of
Jack, and Peter’s work instead of Peter.
Despite a short break at midday to prepare lunch for Peter and Lucinda, I had sewn all the books and albums by one o’clock.
I stood by the chair where Peter was dozing under his newspaper.
‘I’m ready for the forwarding, if you wish,’ I said. Then I went back into the workshop, punched the holes and prepared the
vellum thongs for the tacketing. Soon he was by my side, scanning the assorted piles of naked pages.
‘But we cannot use any of these. It would be a waste of finest Dutch! Have we not some inferior paper upon which I can instruct
you? This is going to be difficult, if you have not even the brain to determine something so fundamental.’
‘We could disband an old volume of ours. The Pilgrim’s Progress , or the Scott?’
‘Possibly. You are thinking, at least.’
‘Or . . .’ I started rummaging in the scraps drawer. ‘. . . here, would this do?’ I held up an old set of papers, yellowed
at the corners and torn here and there, but soundly sewn, approximately two hundred pages thick, uncut and unploughed.
‘I asked you to make that years ago, didn’t I? I believe I instructed Jack on it,’ he said wistfully. ‘It will do, but it
needs re-hammering first.’
And so we began. I took Jack’s leather apron and wrapped it over my pale blue work smock. I heated up some glue as Peter laid
out the leather and marked out on it ten shapes of varying sizes.
‘We are in luck, for once, in this sorry situation. There is just about enough left over to use on your mockery of a journal.
So we shall have one trial run, before starting the serious matter.’
Once the glue was liquid, I painted a thick coat into the back and stippled it between the sections, cut the strings a couple
of inches above and below, and started to round, groove, and back the book. But it was harder than I had anticipated, and
Peter was not forthcoming with assistance. He simply asked, as I hammered unevenly, ‘Did you ask Diprose how he likes his
spines?’
I shook my head.
‘Idiot,’ he said. ‘What if he’s one of those dreadfully fashionable flat-spine men? Let me see what you’ve done. Move it over
here. Now turn it over.’ He stayed silent for a while, the air hissing between his teeth, which he clenched whenever he was
concentrating.
‘Not quite a third-of-a-circle, but not flat at least. The first rule. Never over-round your spines. And why? Why?’
‘Because . . .’ I looked up into the corner of the window frame as if I could read the answer there. ‘The spine won’t be sufficiently
flexible. The margins will be reduced by the extreme curvature. If forced beyond its capability the spine may spring up in
the centre of the pages like a ledger. This could strain the sewing.’ I may not have been the student, but I had attended
the lessons, which was little solace when it came to struggling with the clamps of the press, cutting the millboards
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