Boys Don't Knit (8 page)

My bike is in the shop for repairs, by which I mean it's at Dad's garage waiting for him to get around to fixing it. I may have seen the last of the bike this term, to judge by previous experiences having Dad fix it. He's so cheap, why won't he pay for me to get it repaired down at Evans's?

‘Why don't you pay?' he said, when I suggested this.

‘I don't have any money,' I pointed out.

‘What about your pocket money?' he said.

‘Dad, the last time you gave me pocket money John Terry was well-respected.'

‘So your mum doesn't give you pocket money then?'

‘She sometimes lets me keep what she finds behind my ear,' I told him.

‘And what's that, usually?'

‘Fifty pence, maybe. Occasionally a pound. Sometimes not even money, just stuff she's carrying around. Last week she gave me a dishwasher tablet.'

‘Well, then you should get a job,' he said, exasperated.

‘When would I find time to work?' I asked. ‘On Mondays I'm at Mrs Frensham's, Thursday night I'm at kn— pottery. You have me helping at the garage on Saturdays. I'm supposed to be studying for AS levels this year.'

‘What about a paper round?' he suggested. ‘Try getting out of bed a bit earlier.'

‘How am I supposed to deliver the papers without a damn bike!' I shouted.

He stopped and turned to me, pointed a buttery knife. ‘You get yourself a paper round, and I'll fix your bike for you, how's that for a deal?'

‘Aaaargh!' I yelled, before storming off to my room.

Mum's away AGAIN. I feel uneasy when it's just me and Molly and Dad around the house. I wish Mum would come back. We're OK for a few days, the three of us. And I don't mind Dad trying to do blokey things with me, not at first. But after a few days we start to really irritate each other and bicker. Mum smoothes all that stuff over, neatens everything up.

I finished the tank top tonight. I've got to say, it looks amazing, and fits me perfectly.

Popped into Miss Swallow's Pottery class before Knitting tonight as I needed some fresh clay for the ziggurat I'm pretending to make.

‘You promised me a photo of it ages ago,' she remarked. ‘I'm intrigued, I must say.'

‘I've decided you have to wait until I've finished,' I said. ‘I want it to be just right.'

‘Fine,' she said. ‘But it had better be good.'

For half a second I wondered about suggesting she came to my house to inspect it. Imagine that, having Miss Swallow in my bedroom, checking out my ziggurat. But of course I didn't have the nerve.

‘Have you knitted anything so far?' she asked, handing me a lump of clay in a plastic wrapper.

‘I knitted this,' I said, indicating my tank top.

‘You knitted that?' she asked, feeling the tank top, her fingers brushing lightly against my chest.

‘It's brilliant! You're amazing.' She looked up at me and gave me one of her mega-smiles, and a close-up of her slightly imperfect teeth.

‘No, you're amazing,' I wanted to say.

Then a thoughtful look came over her face.

‘Look, I don't suppose you'd knit one for me, would you? I'll pay. How much, twenty-five pounds?'

‘You want a tank top?' I asked.

‘Not for me, for my boyfriend.'

‘Oh,' I said unenthusiastically.

‘It would need to be a bit bigger than that one,' she said.

I nodded. So he's huge and I'm tiny. Rub it in, why don't you?

‘A lot bigger, in fact, around the chest.'

‘OK. Got it,' I said a bit snappily. ‘Can you find out his chest measurement?'

‘Sure.' She mega-smiled at me again, turning back to her pots. I was just shuffling out of the door, when she called my name.

‘Ben?' she said. ‘I've just thought. You know I sell my pots on Etsy, don't you?'

‘Um. Etsy?'

‘It's a website. Like eBay, but specifically for people who make their own products,' she said. ‘You should start up a page there. Sell your tank tops, and  …  anything else you make. People will pay for hand-made things, you know?'

‘I'll check it out,' I said, feeling a bit better.

After the encouragement Miss Swallow had given me, I showed Mrs Hooper the tank top. She was astonished.

‘Ben, you have a gift. Look at these tight purls, these could have been made by a knitting machine.'

‘Nah  … ' I began modestly.

‘Really, Ben. You have natural talent. You should be proud.'

She was still going on about my natural talent when I tried to leave after the class. I was starting to feel slightly uncomfortable. I haven't had so much praise since I stopped wetting the bed.

‘Ben, I meant what I said before, about you having a natural talent,' she said.

‘Now, this might not be of interest to you. And you might feel you don't have the time, but the UK Knitting Championship is getting under way soon. They're having regional heats, and there's a junior category.'

‘Championship? Are you serious?' I asked. ‘I've only just started.'

‘Ben, those patterns you designed, they are seriously impressive. Your technique is brilliant. You won't have to take on anything complex, they'll just be looking for basic weaves at the junior level. It's about technique, pattern design and speed.'

‘So what, I just submit some pieces of work and they judge them?'

‘Yes, but there's also a showcase event. You have to knit in a room with other contestants. You won't know what the pattern is until the event itself, then you're given two hours to complete.'

‘Like
Masterchef
?' I thought about it.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Except without the TV cameras.'

‘But will anyone be watching?'

‘Yes, of course.' She nodded. Like that was a good thing. ‘There'll be a live audience.'

She gave me a brochure about the event which featured a rather uninspiring photograph of a group of round-shouldered knitters sitting in rows in a convention centre. They all looked like they could do with a few yoga classes.

I'd have to think about this. On the one hand, the idea really excited me. Proving myself against others my age. Challenging myself. And if I'm serious about maybe selling things on this website Miss Swallow told me about, then Winner of the UK Junior Knitting Championship, or even Finalist, would look good on the CV.

On the other hand, was I ready to go public? It would be hard to keep my knitting habit under my beanie should I achieve any kind of success.

Also, I was enjoying the quiet escape offered by the class. Did I really want to try and take that further? Surely this was about simple pleasures? Sitting with nice people, in a room, knitting garments that no one was likely to wear. Success might change all that, turn me driven and goal-focused. Did I really want to be the Frank Lampard of the knitting world?

‘Anyway, think about it,' Mrs Hooper said, with eyebrows slightly raised at the intense expression of concentration which I guess had come over my face.

‘I will,' I said, a hand in my pocket squeezing clay between my fingers. ‘I will.'

School was good and bad today. Good because I had double Maths in the morning and I can't get enough of quadratic equations. They're very like knitting in a way. It's about using a simple tool, a pencil in this case, to turn basic values into complete patterns. When I'm deep inside a calculation, my mind just shuts everything else out and all I can see is the equation itself. Nothing else can bother me. I'm totally engaged in a single-minded pursuit of just one thing.

The bad bit happened when I went out for lunch. I was looking for Joz and as I walked down past the science block, I ran slap bang into Lloyd Manning. He gave me a shove.

‘Watch where you're going, Bellend,' he snarled.

‘Sorry,' I said, backing away. But of course one of his huge friends, Jermaine, had walked up behind me and I bumped into him instead. He shoved me from behind.

‘What's wrong with you?' Jermaine said. ‘You a retard?'

‘Look, guys,' I said, ‘I don't want any trouble.'

My heart was beating fast. Last term George Foxwell had made the mistake of mentioning Lloyd's episode in the sponsored toilets and ended up with a broken nose and gravel rash from being dragged across the netball court.

‘Then stay out of my way, Retard,' Manning growled.

He shoved me against a wall. Though Lloyd and his mates are only fifth-formers, they are all much bigger, and fatter than me. I felt my cheeks redden with the humiliation.

They didn't take it any further though, and walked off after that, Jermaine pretending to slap me as he passed, causing me to flinch. They sniggered and disappeared round the corner. I brushed myself off and carried on, only to spot Megan across the court. She was looking my way, presumably having watched the whole thing. Great.

I've been waiting for an opportunity to go and talk to Megan. I've sent her a friend request on Facebook but she hasn't accepted yet. If she does, maybe we could DM and that might help get things moving. Today, after the incident with Manning and his gang, was not the time to make my move.

Dad has finally admitted he doesn't know anything about pipes and has contacted a proper plumber about the water problem. It's getting ridiculous. There's no pressure, and the little water that does come out is all manky.

Started designing my pattern today. I've come up with something I'm just calling Pattern Mk 1 at the moment. It's a loose-fitting top, with a tight, complex weave. It has a wide neck but I'm not sure about that. It's supposed to be unisex but I think it looks distinctly feminine. It would help if I could draw better, but the pictures in my head never look the same once I've drawn them. I wish I could ask Joz to help, he's so good at drawing. Still, a work in progress and I'm feeling positive about it.

Despite lacking a bike, I took my helmet with me over to Mrs Frensham's today and put it on as I approached, not wanting to take any chances. I'd been psyching myself up on the ride over and I knocked on the door a bit nervously, triggering the yapping dog again. I was worried about that dog. I heard Mrs Frensham come shuffling down the hall and then the door opened.

‘Hello, Mrs Fren—' I managed before having to reel away from her walking stick, which she was waving at me aggressively. Simultaneously, the little dog shot out and sank its teeth into my ankle, making me scream with pain. Understandably, I kicked out.

‘Leave him alone, you bully,' Mrs Frensham shouted at me, unfairly. She came at me with the stick again.

‘Mrs Frensham, it's me, Ben Fletcher,' I called, hands held up in surrender. ‘I'm here to Give Something Back.'

‘I'll give you something back,' she cried, lifting up the cane to finish me off. What would Katniss do? I thought as I closed my eyes and waited for the blow.

But the blow never came.

‘Fletcher, you say?' Mrs Frensham stood over me, the warrior-queen, weapon held high.

‘The one they phoned about?'

‘Yes,' I replied, nodding furiously. ‘The probation service.' The dog was emitting little growls, still chewing agonisingly on my ankle.

‘Get off him, Jasper,' she said, aiming her own kick at the dog. Jasper leapt back, looking disappointed.

Mrs Frensham finally lowered her cudgel and nodded at me. ‘Better come in then.'

I kept my helmet on and followed her into the house. It smelled like lavender and pot-pourri and some kind of boiled meat. Human flesh, possibly.

We walked right through to the back and Mrs Frensham took me outside into the garden. She walked towards the shed. I limped after her, my ankle aching and a little damp, though whether that was with Jasper's saliva or my blood I wasn't sure I had the courage to check. Why were we going to the shed? I suddenly thought. What was in there? Body parts?

Mrs Frensham opened the door and we peered inside. It wasn't body parts, it was junk. Old junk, mostly piles of paper. It all looked like it had been there a long time.

‘My late husband was a bit of a hoarder,' Mrs Frensham explained. ‘This was his shed. Been like this since he died.'

‘You want me to clear it out?' I asked.

She nodded. ‘Never been able to bring myself to do it,' she said. ‘But it's silly, keeping it all there.'

‘And what should I do with it all?' I asked. ‘Do you want it all thrown away?'

‘If you find any photos or letters,' she said, ‘keep those. Everything else can go, unless it looks important.'

‘Important?' I asked

‘Use your common sense,' she snapped. ‘Or maybe you don't have any common sense.'

‘I have plenty of common sense,' I replied, stung.

‘We'll see,' she said and handed me a roll of bin liners before stalking off back into the house. Jasper gave me a look of contempt and waddled off after her.

I looked back at the shed, groaning with dusty piles of old newspapers, pieces of broken furniture, old bike parts, mouldy cardboard boxes and thousands and thousands of mouse droppings.

And then it started to rain.

I sighed and began work, first trying to clear enough space in the shed to stand out of the rain. Once I'd started though I went solidly at it for two hours, until Mrs Frensham came out to check on me. It all took a long time as the piles of papers which were nearest the door weren't just newspapers, but had other documents in there too. Old accounts, files of business correspondence, magazine clippings. I had to go through everything to make sure it wasn't important. The stuff I wasn't sure about I put into a separate box, out of the rain.

I'd filled maybe a dozen bags with rubbish when Mrs Frensham darkened the doorway behind me like the Reaper come to take my soul. She nodded briskly at the work I'd done, even though I felt I'd hardly made a dent in the junk pile. She had a quick look at the documents I'd thought might be worth keeping and then added the box to the rubbish pile.

‘All right,' she said. ‘You can go.'

And that was that. My back killed from all the leaning over when I got home. My fingers were covered in paper cuts, my face was covered in filthy from the dust, and I didn't smell nice. But it didn't matter, because I was Giving Something Back.