Divas Don't Knit (37 page)

Half an hour later Mrs Chambers is heading back to her classroom and I’m walking across the playground with a long
list of things to do, including working out a pattern for knitting rugs, and experimenting with knitting with string and raffia and bits of plastic bin bags, and finding some more historical nuggets for the older ones so they can do a timeline. Mrs Chambers has found a picture of some rather tragic-looking knitted leggings from ancient Egypt, and I’ve got one of a knitted lace dress from the Great Exhibition which had nearly one and half million stitches, but we need a lot more. The sleet’s starting up again, so I put my hood up and walk as fast as I can, which turns out to be not very fast at all, particularly since the wind keeps blowing my hood off.

Elsie’s upstairs lighting the fire when I get to the shop.

‘You look half frozen. Come and sit down and I’ll put the kettle on. This weather’s shocking, isn’t it? I thought I’d better light this now, because it’s so chilly up here and you’ve got your group tonight, haven’t you? Oh, and there’s a parcel for you.’

‘Thanks, Elsie.’

There’s a large padded envelope on the table, which looks like it might be the photographs from Venice. Hurrah.

They’re brilliant, especially the one of the boys leaning against a pillar and giggling, with a shadow falling across the stone. There’s a lovely one of them running towards me in the square, with the sun sparkling on the water behind us and there’s a plastic wallet full of negatives, and a scribbled note from Daniel saying work’s gone crazy but talk later.

‘Aren’t they nice? Your gran will love them. Shame you didn’t have them in colour, really. I’ll go back down, then, but I meant to say, I sold another tea cosy, to Mrs Lewis.’

‘Great. I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘They’re proving ever so popular, you know. Shall I start on another one? I’ve still got some of that dark green left?’

‘Lovely.’

I’d like to call him and say thank you, but I’m not sure about the protocol, maybe I’ll just call Ellen and check.

‘Morning, darling. Is it snowing down there? I was going to call you. You’ll never guess what.’

‘What?’

‘Harry’s broken his leg. Well, he’s fractured it. Silly sod.’

‘Christ, how?’

‘Falling down some steps in Dublin, outside the hotel. He’s just called me from the hospital, sounding totally pissed off. They’re putting it in plaster, and he says it hurts like hell. He’s flying home later on, but they’re on easyJet so they’ll probably make him buy an extra ticket for his crutches.’

‘Poor thing. You don’t sound very sympathetic’

‘That’s because I’m not. It’s his own fault for going off on a bender.’

‘Well give him my love, won’t you? And go easy on him. He’ll probably be in a lot of pain.’

‘I know, and I will, I promise, but I don’t think we’ll be able to make it down at the weekend now. I could put him on the roof rack, I suppose. If I had one.’

‘Of course you can’t come down here, don’t be daft. Poor thing. Will they get him a wheelchair at the airport?’

‘Yes, I’m sorting it out, although he wants an ambulance; he’s being a total baby about it.’

‘He’s probably in shock.’

‘Yes, and he’s going to get another one if he thinks I’m going to be playing night nurse; I’m not really a Florence Nightingale kind of a girl.’

‘Call me later, when you’ve got him home.’

‘Okay, darling, and sorry about the weekend.’

Bugger. I was counting on Ellen being around for Sunday; she’s so good at diverting people’s attention. I think I’ll call Daniel later, when I’ve worked out what time it is in New York. Poor Harry. We’ll have to make him a card, and maybe I can
knit him a footrest or something. I wonder if he’d like a tea cosy?

Maggie’s the first to arrive for the Stitch and Bitch group, and she’s very impressed with the new window display.

‘I love tea cosies, there’s something so comforting about them. Are they easy to make?’

‘Very, and they don’t take much wool either.’

‘Perfect project for a winter’s evening then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Great. Well, I’m up for it, if you can sort me out a pattern.’

We’re downstairs choosing colours when Linda and Tina arrive, and decide they’d like to make one too.

‘And those knitted cakes are a good idea if you’re on a diet. We should have some at our Weight Watchers.’

By the time we’re all sitting upstairs round the table, everyone’s decided to join in with Project Tea Cosy, much to Connie’s amusement.

‘A little hat for a teapot, it’s so English.’

Tina smiles. ‘Don’t you have teapots in Italy?’

‘Not really. Some of the hotels do, but not really at home.’

‘Well, there you are. You could be the first person to bring tea cosies to Italy – you’d probably make a fortune. This cake is lovely. You’ve got to tell your Mark to stop making such lovely cakes, you know, I’m meant to be on a diet. How many calories do you think there are in one of these?’

Linda sighs. ‘About three million.’

Tina hesitates, before reaching for another one.

‘Oh, well, in for a penny, in for a pound.’

I’m showing Cath how to knit a row of bobbles.

‘Where’s Olivia tonight?’

‘At home, sulking.’

Linda puts her cake down. ‘What have you done now?’

‘Told her she can’t go to an all-night party on a school night. She’s not allowed to go to all-night parties on any night actually, but especially not on a school night.’

‘You cruel thing.’

‘I know. She’s furious.’

‘She’ll get over it. They’re always furious about something at that age.’

‘She told me I was a helicopter parent the other day; she read it in one her magazines. Apparently I’m always fussing, and I’m on permanent hover, ready to swoop down and muck things up for her. And everyone else will be going, so I’m totally out of touch.’

Linda laughs.

‘Everyone with a mum who doesn’t give a bugger, more like. You can’t win, can you? Either you let them do what they want, and they end up on drugs and get chucked out of school and they hate you, or you stand up to them and then you’re a helicopter and they hate you.’

Maggie helps herself to another piece of cake.

‘I went in a helicopter once, at an air show, and it was bloody awful. I had to be sick in a paper bag.’

‘I might try that with Olivia if she carries on sulking. At least it might shut her up for a while. Sometimes she talks to me like I’m something she’s found on the bottom of her shoe.’

Maggie smiles. ‘I blame the 1960s. Before that you were either in a sailor suit or in a twinset and pearls like your mother, busy embroidering a tray cloth. But now they have to be teenagers. It’s like they’re honour bound to be revolting, or there’s something wrong with them.’

‘I do know how hard it is for them, I really do. I look at Livvy sometimes and I admire her so much – she’s much braver than I was at her age. But I can’t help worrying.’

Linda smiles. ‘Of course you can’t, that’s your job. Everyone needs someone to worry about them and make sure they’ve had a proper breakfast. That’s what mums are for.’

We sit knitting for a while, listening to the wind outside and catching up on the latest gossip about Mrs Taylor at the chemist’s, who’s apparently having an affair with the man from the wholesaler who delivers the vitamins and health supplements.

‘I’m sure I saw her getting out of his van the other day.’

‘Maybe he was just delivering something?’

Linda doesn’t look convinced.

‘In the car park behind the beach? I don’t think so. And she looked ever so furtive; you can always tell when people go all furtive. Have a look next time you’re in there. Honestly, she’s got vitamins practically stacked to the ceiling she’s put that many orders in. Mr Taylor doesn’t seem to have noticed, though, silly sod: too busy mooning after that new woman they’ve got in to do the prescriptions. Mind you, he’ll catch on sooner or later, and then there’ll be hell to pay.’ She pours herself some more coffee. ‘I keep meaning to ask you, how’s our local film star doing? The baby must be due soon, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I think so, and she was fine, last time I saw her. Getting a bit nervous, though.’

‘I don’t blame her, I was reading something in one of the magazines in the salon about all the things you’re meant to do with babies now. God, I’m glad they weren’t going in for all that when I had mine. Baby maths, violin lessons, all sorts, before they can even walk.’

Angela nods; now she’s a proud grandmother she’s become a bit of an expert on babies. ‘Penny’s got a book on sign language, it’s all very clever. You can teach them signs they can do with their hands, so they can tell you when they want a drink.’

Linda laughs. ‘Mine have been doing that for ages; my Lauren’s got one particular one she’s been using for years.’

Angela giggles.

‘I know. I did think it might not be a terribly good idea, but I don’t want to interfere.’

‘Good for you, Ange. You couldn’t nip round and tell my mum about that, could you? Because she’s always going on at me about my two. Mind you, my Lauren did tell her to piss off and get a life this Christmas.’

Maggie laughs, and we start talking about the library. Cath’s got nearly a hundred signatures on the petition, which is brilliant, but Maggie’s still worried.

‘They’re having a meeting at the library with the parish council and someone from the planning department, so they can view the site, which doesn’t sound very encouraging, does it? It’s like they’ve already made their minds up.’

Angela goes slightly red.

‘When I mentioned it to Peter he went into a huff and said it’s far too early for anyone to be talking about it, which if I know Peter means it’s all practically signed and sealed. So I think we might need more than a petition if we’re going to stop them. I’m very sorry, dear.’

Cath puts her knitting down.

‘There’s plenty of other things we can do. We could hold a protest outside the library when they arrive for their meeting. They’d hate that, and maybe we could get the local paper to do a story on it, or even the radio. What do you think, Jo? You know about the press: would they be interested?’

‘It would be better if we could come up with something new, rather than just standing outside. Something visual.’

Angela coughs nervously.

‘Could we all bring our knitting? Sorry, that’s probably a terrible idea.’

‘No, it’s rather good. We could call it a knit-in and that would make it more interesting for them.’

Angela looks very pleased.

‘We could sit in a circle knitting, and tie ourselves to things.’

‘Brilliant. We could all be in the entrance hall when they arrive and they’d have to step over us to get in. We could call it Knit for Victory, like in the war, only without the air-raid shelters.’

Maggie’s getting enthusiastic. ‘Do you really think the press would be interested, Jo?’

‘Definitely, if we get enough people, which I’m sure we will if I ask Gran and Elsie to spread the word. If it’s a slow news days we might even get one or two of the nationals, and maybe the local telly might do a piece; it’s just the kind of thing they like.’

Everyone’s getting into the idea now.

‘Peter would hate it.’

Maggie smiles at her.

‘Yes, but don’t tell him, will you? Let’s keep it secret for now, so we can surprise them.’

I’m so tired by the time I get home I can’t face ringing Daniel, so I send him a chirpy text thanking him for the photographs. He texts straight back:
Glad they arrived, will call you later, up to neck in summer fashion shoot at moment. PS Shorts are back! Dx.
I text,
Not round here they’re not.
Which is all very gratifying: light and friendly and not awkward at all, and I’m rather relieved; Venice was wonderful, but now we’re back to normal life what I’d like most is for us to be friends, maybe with the occasional interlude, but nothing serious, nothing I have to worry about. Great. So now all I’ve got to do is mastermind the knit-in, and work out what to knit with string and raffia and I’ll be fine. Excellent.