U3A Writing: Tit For Tat
Meg Sangster recalls the painful day as a convent school pupil when she began to learn the art of tatting.
Whenever I consider my skill levels in arts, crafts and hobbies, I have to come to the sorry conclusion that I am truly a Jack of all trades and master of none. I am not a lazy person - far from it - but in pursuing two careers that spanned a 50-year working life my occupation became my hobby.
However, I have acquired some small talents and well remember the mastering of one in particular.
My mother was convinced that a convent was the best school for girls to get a good education and be moulded into ladylike adults. We were not of the Catholic faith and my father objected strongly. However, my mother won the day, and my older sister and I were duly enrolled as boarders at the strict Ursuline Convent in Armidale, New South Wales. Not a happy memory!
The three R’s were considered only marginally more important than needlework, and for the lesson I am writing about our class was seated in a semicircle around Sister Patrick, rather than at the little wooden desks we used for other studies.
‘Today we shall learn to tat.’ Tat! The name was enough to make me shudder. We had already learned to knit, to crochet, to do macramé. We had mastered all five of the special stitches that could be used to anchor the hem of a white handkerchief. Sister continued. ‘Now girls. Pay attention. To tat is to make lace, and we are going to make an edging for a white linen handkerchief.’ I groaned inwardly.
‘Listen carefully. I shall give each of you a shuttle with cotton already wound onto it. Hold the shuttle in the right hand between the finger and thumb with the thread coming from the back. Take the free end of the thread in the left thumb and forefinger and then stretch it tight over the fingers of the left hand, winding it round the third finger if it will not stay taut.
‘Now pass the shuttle right under the taut thread, then back over, then right over the taut thread and back under, allowing the thread to slip between either the finger and the shuttle or the thumb and the shuttle. It is quite simple. Now practise until you can do it quickly and without dropping the shuttle.’
Within minutes I had the cotton in a tangle of knots and had dropped the shuttle. My dilemma did not go unnoticed.
The good sisters did not need canes or rulers to discipline small girls who couldn’t learn to tat. They had knuckles. Hard bony implements attached to powerful plungers. These came in sets of five, and the most effective was the index knuckle.
When I saw Sister Patrick bearing down on me I made the foolish mistake of cringing, not being wise enough to realize that the further the knuckle travelled before making contact, the more momentum it was gathering for the final thrust.
‘You silly girl. Think. Think. Think.’ The tight knuckle rose and fell, pounding my defenceless skull to the rhythm of her words. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? The shuttle goes under the thread first, then over. I will show you just once more.’
The long thin fingers moved at what must surely have been the speed of light. Like a drowning swimmer the little shuttle flailed the air, caught in a whirlpool of cotton. Then - almost miraculously - a delicate ribbon of white loops began to drip from the turmoil.
I did eventually learn to tat. Unfortunately, my convent experience left me with a very ladylike aversion to all forms of handcraft.
