Nan's sewing machine

I have always loved Nan’s old Singer sewing machine and the wrought iron table it sits in. I loved tracing my finger round the shapes of the iron lace sides leading from the wooden table top down to the feet. I loved making the big wheel at the side spin and seeing how fast I could make it go. It was no longer attached to anything. The belt from the machine was now around another wheel attached to a motor fixed to the underneath of the table.

Mum can remember when it worked without the need for electricity. She has uncomfortable memories of those days. The more cross Nan was with Grandad, the faster she pumped the treadle. The rapid clattering and clonking as the machine raced along, became louder and more intense. But to me, Nan and her machine were a marvel. She could attack a piece of fabric with a pair of scissors and stitch all the shapes together to create a garment that fitted perfectly, all without the aid of a pattern.

The overlocking machine also fitted into the table. It needed three threads which were always left in the machine. “It’s too complicated to rethread,” Nan said as she tied the new cottons from cone shaped reels to the previous colours. As the machine sped on, a thin sliver of fabric was shaved off, leaving behind a finished edge.

It had its own place within the family. “That’s a good machine,” everyone proclaimed. “It’s industrial.” And it was. I’m sure the only time it stopped was when Nan was in the kitchen. It once sewed all the football shirts for a team in The First Division, before it became The Premier. I didn’t like the team they were for. Their fans did not have a good reputation. But my Nan had made all the shirts and that was something to be proud of.

Nan, Mum, Jo and I often went to Romford to go to Nan and Mum’s favourite fabric shop. It was in the corner of a little shopping centre, just off the market. It was a huge shop filled with all kinds of material of every colour and design. They might have been the shop’s best customers.

Mum used to make her own dresses to go dancing in. The fabric would take over the living room floor as she laid out the pattern pieces and cut them out. Jo and I have also inherited Nan’s creativity, and like her, we don’t use patterns. I find them frustrating. I much prefer to make it up as I go along.

The sewing machine is mine now. It was the only thing of Nan’s I wanted when she died. Jo offered to look after it for me as I have such a small flat. “Thanks. But I’m sure can find a space for it”, I told her. She loves it as much as I do.