Knit One

Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one...

The needles clicked with each stitch made. It was the only sound that filled the air in the square, coming from dozens and dozens of knitters' needles. One would not be faulted for thinking that the clicking was the  mating call of crickets or some such creature.

The women had come at daybreak to claim the best places for the spectacle. Their energy went into the knitting at this early hour, not talking. Over the weeks they had tacitly acknowledged Madame Defarge's right to choose her place no matter the hour of her arrival. The women knew who she was and, while respecting her, feared her more for her blinding, all-consuming desire for retribution. Some said that her husband feared her too.

What were these women knitting? Each something serviceable, but nonetheless crafted to earn the admiration of the other women; mittens, socks, and sometimes something finer for a grandchild to wear. Years of practice meant the women could knit without looking, allowing them to watch the square's centrepiece, the stage for theatricals.

There was a lull in the sound as Madame Defarge made her appearance at the edge of the crowd. As she weaved her way through the seated spectators, the knitters took up their work again once she had passed. It was those at the very front who waited to see where Madame Defarge would choose to plant herself. Someone would have to move.

Bitterness can transform a face. There had been very little joy in Madame Defarge's life but a whole lot of misery to anchor her to an unwavering search for vengeance. She would not rest until every nobleman had paid for what aristocrats had done to her family. Her face was pinched now as she settled herself on the crude stool she had brought with her. Her greying hair had escaped from the red cloth bonnet in an unkempt torment of frizz. Her eyes squinted permanently as she scrutinized all before her, and her lips were barely visibly as her mouth was tightly clamped shut.

From a rough cloth sack, she drew out her knitting. It was a long narrow piece that had nothing to its credit except its length. If one were to guess its purpose, the only item coming to mind would be that of a scarf as it had long ago passed the dimensions for any other article of clothing.

Shouts and cries could be heard in the distance, gaining volume as the carts passed spectators lining the road and approaching the square. It was much like a lit fuse burning its way nearer to the explosive. Those seated didn't bother to turn because they would soon have full view of the tumbrel as it rolled to a stop at the foot of its destination - the guillotine.

A pathetic assortment of prisoners was discharged from the cart,  and with each one, the cheers rose as if welcoming a favourite actor to the stage.

Madame Defarge continued her knitting. Each thrust of the needle into a stitch had her swearing, damning to hell Madame la Guillotine's newest victims. She no longer heard the spectators' calls as her own words burst forth with such venom that the women either side of her shifted away a little, sensing an unhinged mind.

When the day's last victims' bodies had been removed with their heads in bloodied baskets, the crowds had already dispersed. Witnessing the beheading of one cartload of nobles in a day was often enough to satisfy the hatred felt towards them, while demonstrating that one had done one's duty by being present.

Madame Defarge finally realised that she was one of the few remaining in the square. She finished the row of knitting with profanities for each stitch and then, before stuffing the piece into the dirty hemp sack, she wiped her mouth of spit with it. She would be back tomorrow. As long as there were aristocrats to be rid of, she would have cursed stitches to knit.