An English Boy in New York (8 page)

I hesitated.

‘I don't think that will be possible,' Brandi said, stepping in. ‘Ben is very busy.'

‘I'm not that busy,' I said.

‘Yes you are,' Brandi said. ‘Especially tomorrow night.'

‘Well, what about  …  ‘ the intern began.

‘If you'd like to watch Ben knit,' Brandi said coldly. ‘You can come along to KnitFair USA this weekend. Ben will be demonstrating his skills there.'

‘Will I?' I asked.

‘We need to talk about that,' Brandi said.

Brandi wrapped things up after that, which was a relief.

‘Aren't we near Bloomingdale's?' I asked as we left the offices.

‘That's right,' Brandi replied. ‘You wanna pop in?'

‘I want to look at the knitting gear,' I said.

So we went in, and oh my days.

Bloomingdale's knit shop is to Pullinger's what Jessica Swallow is to Susan Boyle. Sorry, Natasha, but that's the truth. There were so many varieties of wool. Types I'd never heard of. Colours that don't exist in other countries. Weaves that had dropped through a portal from another dimension. Rack upon rack of crochet hooks from around the world. Specialist, exquisite hand-carved needles in long cardboard boxes like from Ollivander's wand shop in Harry Potter.

I could have stayed in there for hours. Brandi just stood, texting absently and watching me at the same time, one eyebrow permanently raised. Eventually she coughed and looked at her watch. I bought some basic merino wool in blue and white, Hampton FC's colours. No needles. I needed to conserve my money and I had the free needles to get me by for now. I was glad I'd bought something though because it meant I got a huge paper Bloomingdale's shopping bag, which I'd really wanted. I put my magazine into it and grinned at Brandi.

‘Ready?' she asked.

‘Ready,' I said. ‘Let's go.'

On the way out I couldn't help but notice a lovely knitted top with a cowl that was slightly reminiscent of the Hoopie. I stopped to admire it. I was pleased to see that the design wasn't close enough to the Hoopie to raise any awkward questions about copyright, but close enough to suggest that hooded tops were most definitely in.

After that we went to a radio station. Now that was fun. I was getting the hang of all the questions by then and felt confident I would know what to say. I thought there'd be all sorts of preparation and release forms to complete and someone to explain what swear words I wasn't allowed to use and so on. But not a bit of it. They just ushered me straight into the studio, and the DJ, whose name was Craig something, ignored me for a bit while he chattered inanely and then played a song. As the music faded he began talking over the top.

‘And we're back on the Craig something show on WKPP morning and today we have Ben Felcher with us. Ben, tell us why you're in town.'

‘Erm, it's Fletcher.'

‘OK, Fletcher, tell us why you're here.'

‘Er, I'm here for KnitFair USA,' I said. ‘I won a knitting competition in England and one of the prizes was a trip to New York.'

‘What were the other prizes?' he asked.

‘A book of patterns, a voucher for wool and needles, some champagne, but I'm not old enough to drink so I got fizzy apple stuff instead.'

‘So you knit?' he said. He wasn't watching me as he spoke. He was flicking his way through a stack of CDs.

‘That's right.'

‘Do all boys knit in England?'

‘No. Not at all.' I wasn't sure I liked Craig.

‘How long have you being doing this?'

‘Oh, not long. Nine months maybe.'

‘You must be an expert by now, huh?'

‘Well, I don't know. But I've got pretty fast. That's how I won.'

‘So this is speed knitting?'

‘Speed is one of the criteria on which you're judged. There's technique, creativity, accuracy  … '

‘Yeah, yeah. What I don't get, about knitting,' Craig said, now shuffling through a different rack of CDs, ‘Is what is the goddam point?'

‘Er  …  well. I find it relaxing.'

‘Because, tell if I'm wrong,' he said. ‘But they have machines that can knit, right?'

I definitely didn't like Craig something.

‘Yes, of course.'

‘And they're more accurate, and they got better technique than a person?'

‘Well, maybe, but there's creativity  … '

‘But that's just down to the guy who programmes the machines, yeah? He does the creativity.'

‘Well, I suppose.' I was getting a little cross with Craig by this point. It wasn't as if I was some crooked politician. Or some businessman caught with his hand in the till. I was just an English boy in New York.

‘And you're no way near as fast as a machine.'

I shrugged. Not wanting to answer.

‘That's right, isn't it? The machine is much faster.'

‘Depends on the machine,' I replied sullenly. ‘Depends on the knitter.'

‘Wait,' he said, stopping his search for a song to look at me finally. ‘You think you can beat a machine?'

I shrugged again.

‘You're shrugging. He's shrugging. You can knit faster than a machine? That's what you're telling me?'

I don't know what made me do it. Maybe because I didn't want him pushing me around, maybe because I felt I needed to stand up for God, for Harry and England. But for whatever reason. I leaned forward and fixed his eye.

‘Damn right I can,' I said.

‘That was awesome!' Brandi said, bouncing up and down as we left the building and walked out into the mild spring sunshine. Big American cars rattled by, just about every second one a yellow cab. Businessmen and women walked briskly up and down the street, carrying huge cups of coffee, talking on cellphones. People yelled at each other for no apparent reason. This was New York! I felt exhilarated. I felt as though I
could
knit faster than a machine.

Which, obviously, I can't.

Brandi took me for a celebratory bite to eat after that.

‘I know this great place,' she said. ‘You like
Jewish
food?'

‘I don't know.'

It turned out that I really
did
like Jewish food. What's not to like? I had chicken soup with matzo balls.

‘Wow,' Brandi said, watching me eat. ‘You were hungry.'

‘It's this town,' I said. ‘Ever since I arrived I've been hungry all the time.'

‘Jet lag,' Brandi said. ‘I always eat like a pig when I have jet lag.'

‘That's why pigs don't like to fly,' I said.

She was drinking diluted grape juice. It was still three hours before she able to eat again. I'd decided I really wanted to be around for one of the two-minute eating windows.

‘How many matzo balls do you think you could eat in two minutes?' I asked. I wanted to see those amazing teeth in action.

‘Thirty-two' she replied instantly. ‘I really go for it. It's not a pretty sight.'

‘I'm sure you're very demure, even with a mouth full of matzo balls,' I assured her, before I registered what I'd just said.

Thank God my parents weren't here.

But again, Brandi was oblivious.

‘You're so sweet,' she replied. ‘Thank you.'

As we came out of the restaurant I saw a giant billboard that caught my attention.

There was a picture of an unshaven man with lots of curly hair. He looked a lot younger, and hairier, than Dad.

‘Diablo,' I said, pointing. ‘My mum knows him.'

‘Really?' Brandi asked. ‘He's hot!'

‘You mean his career is doing well at the moment?'

‘That too,' she said, gazing up at Diablo's glowering face.

The billboard left me a little unsettled but I soon forgot about it during the next round of interviews. I felt tired after my poor night's sleep but it was kind of fun too. The irritating Craig something had got me worked up. Besides, I was determined to stay up so as to get over the jet lag as quickly as possible. We saw one more newspaper on 6
^th
Avenue and then there was another building full of magazines somewhere on the East Side, near the river. I don't remember exactly. It was all a bit of a blur by then. What I enjoyed about it most was simply going inside the buildings to see what was inside. Waiting in reception, meeting real-life New Yorkers, being led through crowded offices with Americans talking loudly and drinking coffee. I couldn't get enough.

Then we arrived at the
New York Courier
offices. The windows were open, even though it was cool, and I could hear the traffic honking a few floors below. There was an older journalist there, a guy with thinning hair and braces. I've never seen someone wear braces in all seriousness before and I was too busy staring at them to really listen to his first question.

‘Ben?' he said.

‘Yes, sorry. What?'

‘I asked how it was that you can knit faster than a machine?'

‘Yes. Sorry?'

‘You've said you can knit faster than a knitting machine. I find that incredible and I'd like to hear more about it.'

‘Well, hold on  … ' I started, looking over at Brandi for rescue. But she was immersed in tapping something out on her phone and was no help whatsoever.

‘When I said that  … ' I went on hesitantly. ‘I just meant that in certain circumstances, it might be possible  … '

‘Sounds like you're back-pedalling a little,' he said, smiling. ‘Can you beat a machine or not?'

‘It depends on the machine,' I said. ‘And the garment.' It was sort of true, I imagined. Some older knitting machines took an age to complete a row. But the new ones could complete a garment like the Hoopie in fifteen minutes. It took me an hour at my absolute best. And that had been a freakish performance, one which I wasn't sure I could repeat now.

‘It's just that on the radio this morning you said you could beat a machine,' he continued, refusing to let it go. ‘So when I heard that I thought maybe you were telling the truth. Because let me tell you, if you can beat the machine, you got a story. I got a story. If you can't beat a machine, then you're wasting my time, and yours.'

Honestly, this was like being at school and having Mr Grover quiz me about how much of my essay I'd cribbed from Wikipedia (answer: about 20% and it was only the one time when I'd had an anxiety attack after Lloyd Manning had cut the straps on my school bag). How exactly had it come to the point where I was being grilled by foreign journalists over my knitting prowess?

‘Look, kid, I'm a busy guy,' the journalist growled. ‘Can you outknit a machine or not?'

I had to set him straight. Nip this in the bud. I didn't care about the story. I hadn't expected anyone to be interested in me anyway.

I shook my head. ‘I  … '

‘Yes, he can,' Brandi suddenly chimed in quickly. ‘He's just being modest, aren't you, Ben?'

I gave Brandi a what-are-you-doing? look. She winked at me.

‘I've seen a video of him on YouTube,' she said. ‘I'll email you the link. His hands
are
the quickest thing you've ever seen. It's really quite astounding.'

‘Look,' said the journalist. ‘I've been fashion editor of this paper for seventeen years  … '

‘You're the fashion editor?' I asked, staring at his braces.

‘I've seen knitting machines work,' the journalist went on, ignoring me. ‘They are seriously quick. Especially the modern ones.'

‘My boy can beat them all,' Brandi said.

I winced as the journalist nodded and scribbled something down on his notepad.

Brandi took me back to the hotel after that and we popped into Dino's for a coffee.

‘That was great!' she said excitedly. ‘Wasn't that great?'

‘What are you talking about?' I said. ‘That man thinks I can knit faster than a machine.'

‘Can't you?'

‘No, of course not.'

‘But you told Craig that you could.'

‘I just said that because he was annoying me.'

‘You shouldn't let interviewers get
under
your skin,' she said. ‘They do it to provoke you into saying something controversial.'

‘You might have been better off telling me that
before
I did the interview,' I pointed out.

‘Don't worry about it. It's not as if anyone's going to check,' she said.

‘I hope not,' I said. ‘I don't like lying.'

‘Really? You're pretty good at it,' she said. Denise came and gave us our coffees. This time Denise smiled at me. She looked a bit perkier than she had last night.

‘Did you get some sleep?' I asked her.

She laughed. ‘I sure did.'

Brandi raised an eyebrow as the waitress walked off.

‘What?' I said.

‘Quite the ladies' man, huh?'

‘No, it's just that last night  … ' I stopped. ‘Oh, whatever, it's not what you think!'

‘You're lying again.'

‘No I'm not.'

Brandi took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I'm just teasing. I think you're amazing, Ben. I really enjoyed today.'

‘Yeah, me too,' I said.

Back at the hotel, I walked into my room and my first thought was that we'd been burgled by someone with reverse-OCD. Someone had taken every last item out of Gex's suitcase and distributed it carefully around the floor so that everything was exactly equidistant from everything else. Even though Gex hadn't slept in the bed last night the bedclothes were messed up and in a heap at the foot of the bed. There was also an odd smell.