Knit One Pearl One (4 page)

Damn, that’s something else to add to my list. I need to call Elizabeth and arrange a time for us to visit the grave. Another opportunity for her to tell us all how marvelous her Nicholas was, and treat me like his driving his car into a tree was somehow my fault. It’s been three years next weekend, but it feels so much longer than that. We’ve come a long way since those early days, when the police came round and everything fell apart. If Ellen hadn’t been there for me I don’t know how I’d have managed. The shock, the grief, the anger, all of it. Now it all feels much more distant. Maybe I’ve done that thing all the books say you’re meant to do, and I’m into the acceptance phase. Maybe forgiveness is on the horizon, although on second thought, maybe not. I don’t think I’ll ever really forgive him. Not for crashing the car, he couldn’t help that; although if he’d ever listened to me when I told him not to drive like a total nutter, well, who knows. But for planning to leave the boys, who idolized him. It was all so predictable, and unfair, and cheap, and he’s already missed so much. And I can’t help wishing he’d met Pearl, although if he was still around I probably wouldn’t have had her. I would never have gone to Venice for that first Christmas after he died, when I couldn’t face our first family Christmas without Nick. I’d never have sat drinking whiskey with Daniel in his hotel room, talking about lost loves. Still, I wish Nick could have seen my gorgeous girl, I know he’d have got a kick out of seeing how like Jack she was when she was born. He’d have recognized her in a heartbeat. She’s much more like Archie now, in temper and steeliness, which is probably a good thing. I think girls need a bit of steel, just in case.

Oh God, I’m feeling tearful now, and I really don’t have the time for this. Not now. I’ll check the order book, and if that doesn’t work I’ll do a mini–stock take. That always helps.

“Hello, pet.”

“Gran, I was just going to call you.”

“Reg has just dropped me off, he’s on his way to the Bowls Club, there’s a row on about who put the scoreboard away last time; silly fuss about nothing if you ask me. Did you want me for anything special?”

“No, just wanted to know if you’ve decided about your cruise.”

“Not yet, pet, I like to take my time, and Reg is getting some new brochures. There’s a lovely one goes round the fjords, and Russia.”

“Why would you go there when you could be in the Caribbean?”

“I don’t like it too hot, you know that, pet.”

“Well, that definitely won’t be a problem if you’re cruising round Siberia.”

She smiles.

“Gran, you’re not fooling me you know. Go on a proper cruise. We can manage for a few weeks. I really want you to have a proper break.”

“I know, pet, but I’m not even sure I want to go gallivanting off, spending all that money. I get lots of breaks now, and what I really like is being with you and the boys, and our Pearl. I never thought it would be so lovely you know, stuck in this shop for all those years with old Mrs. Butterworth making my life a misery, I never dreamed it would all turn out like this. I’m so glad I stuck it now. Reg was saying the same thing only the other day. And when you get to my age, if you haven’t worked out what makes you happy, then it’s too late. And for me, it’s stopping right here.”

“I know Gran, but—”

“I’ll think about it, pet, that’s all I’m saying. Anyway, it’s not like I haven’t been before, we had our lovely honeymoon cruise, which I still think is silly at our age, calling it a honeymoon. It was different with your grandad Tom, but we were so young we couldn’t afford a proper honeymoon, just a night in a hotel in Margate. Terrible place, got bombed flat later in the war, and a good thing too. No, my holiday with Reg was luxury compared to that. And he does look nice in his blazer; I’ll say that for him. So I’ll think about it, I promise. Now then, when do you need me this week? I’m happy to come in, you know, or sit with the children, whatever you need, just say. Shall we have a cup of tea, love? I’m parched.”

“Lovely.”

“And then we can run through the next few days. I’ve brought my diary, Reg got me one, did I show you? Lovely leather one.”

“Yes, you did, Gran.” About ten times actually.

“I’ll just put the kettle on then.”

It’s like a military exercise, keeping track of our week. Cinzia has her English classes in Canterbury, so Gran has Pearl on Monday mornings, and they go to baby music, which Pearl enjoys, particularly the drums apparently. Reg sits cross-legged on the floor with her because his knees are better than Gran’s, while she catches up on the gossip with Mrs. Nesbit, who makes the tea. But all in all, despite the tricky timetabling, we seem to manage, unless anyone is ill, or the kids are on holiday, when it all goes pear-shaped and I have to make it up day by day. But Elsie is always happy to do extra shifts in the shop, and Gran’s friend Betty helps out too, so we usually get there. And it’s not quite as overwhelming as I thought it would be in those first few weeks after Pearl was born. Although there was one morning when I’d finally got her off to sleep, and I was sitting by the till, with her Moses basket by my feet, looking at the order book, and then I woke up nearly an hour later to find Elsie had draped a blanket over my shoulders and was making the customers tiptoe past while I was facedown on the counter, still holding the order book. Which wasn’t a perfect example of entrepreneurship, but people seemed to like it.

“Right then, pet, you’ve got me for half an hour or so, what needs doing?”

“You could help me with the windows.”

Gran loves doing the window displays with me. “Lovely.”

We rearrange the hot-water-bottle covers, and adjust the little wooden figures that are meant to look like they are skiing down the cotton wool slopes, while I drape hats and scarves over the partition along with a couple of mohair shawls in dark forest green and apple green, with white fairy lights in the cotton wool snow. I’m knitting another shawl in soft cotton, in a dark orange marmalade color, but I haven’t quite finished it yet.

By the time Reg has collected Gran, and we’ve talked about cruises again, and whether they do or do not want a balcony, and I’ve talked to Mr. Prewitt and put in orders for more cotton and the chunky tweed, it’s nearly half past one and I’m knackered. The café’s busy, so I sit upstairs in the workroom and light the fire. People often bring a drink and a slice of cake up with them from the café while they look through the pattern books; Elsie’s convinced we’ll end up with sticky balls of wool from people browsing while they’re eating; she keeps a packet of wipes behind the till specially, but so far she hasn’t had to swoop in and demand anyone wipe their hands.

It’s so lovely watching the flames on the kindling wood, with no customers, and no small people needing any attention. It’s hard to believe you could see the sky through the holes in the roof after the fire, when everything was black and soaking wet. But with the new plaster and paint, you’d never know it happened. Downstairs is still pretty much how it was, only brighter and warmer, but upstairs is where there’s been the biggest transformation. The whole of the space above the shop is now the workroom, with the fireplace and the big table, and lots more shelves, and a new sofa and armchairs by the window where the old kitchen used to be. Above the café we’ve made a small office in the front and a large kitchen with the café dishwasher and huge fridge. We’ve managed to fit in a storeroom too, with floor-to-ceiling shelves for extra stock, which means we can order larger quantities and get better discounts. But almost best of all, we’ve actually got a parking space now, in the lane behind the café; the wool shop never had a back door because we’re right on the corner, but the café does, so now there’s somewhere for delivery vans, and I can leave the door open and nip into the shop for five minutes if Pearl is asleep in her car seat. Elsie keeps an eye on her, or Laura, so it’s not as dodgy as it sounds, and it made a real difference when she was tiny and waking her up led to so much squawking.

I’m in serious danger of falling asleep when Mrs. Bullen comes up wanting to look at patterns for Fair Isle cardigans for her granddaughter. We’re back downstairs choosing colors when Mark arrives.

“Afternoon, Jo. Connie said you were getting low on chocolate, and the pistachio, so I thought I’d bring some more stock over.”

“Thanks, Mark.”

He unloads the tubs of ice cream and puts them into the big glass-fronted display fridge in the café while Mrs. Bullen finally decides on purples and pinks to contrast with the grays and whites. The pattern has a lovely pale blue which we haven’t actually got in stock, but apparently it doesn’t matter, because her granddaughter is now insisting on pink and more pink since her new baby brother arrived. I find a pretty rose pink as a substitute, and a ball of pale lilac, which I let her have at half price since it’s the last one on the shelf.

“I can’t wait to get home and get started.”

“Well don’t forget, come back in if you need a hand with anything.”

“I will, thank you, dear.”

Mrs. Bullen often gets confused with patterns, and the last time she made a cardigan she ended up with two left fronts and no right, so now she tends to pop in and check she’s on the right track. We’re always happy to help, and Elsie loves it; she can give top tips and catch up on all the latest gossip at the same time.

“Here, Jo, try this, would you?” Mark hands me a glass dish and a spoon, and Laura’s already started on hers. Great; I love it when we do tastings. The ice cream is still our best seller. I thought it might slow down in the winter, and it has a bit, but since Mark keeps to his mantra of seasonal food, and introduces new flavors every couple of weeks, demand has stayed fairly steady.

“Not too sweet?”

We both shake our heads; too busy enjoying it to waste time speaking.

He smiles. “Good. The first batch I made was too sweet. Clementines can be tricky like that. I’m glad it’s okay.”

“It’s so much more than okay, Mark.”

Each time he brings in a new flavor I end up revising my Top Ten List. Damson, blackberry, salt caramel, the peach one he made in the summer, lemon meringue, hazelnut, and the chestnut one he made at Christmas. The raspberry ripple with old-fashioned vanilla. And the gooseberry fool was pretty epic too. Actually, maybe I’ll just have a Top Twenty, because the honeycomb is lovely too, and the black currant. I think I might need another mini-scoop.

“Looks like the sorbet is getting low too. I’ll do some more tonight, I’ve still got stacks of frozen berries in the freezer.”

“Lovely.”

“I’ll do some more sherbet too, shall I?”

“Perfect.”

“Right, well I better be off, we’ve got a big group in for dinner later, and Con’s on at me to pull out all the stops. Some family birthday, so they’ve ordered a cake.”

“Lucky them.”

Laura looks longingly at him as he goes out and sighs. “I wish I could meet someone like him. Maybe a bit younger. But basically just like him. The ice cream alone would make it worth it.”

“Maybe you should check out the local catering college?”

She smiles. “Have you seen them? Either they’re seventeen and nervous or they think they’re God’s gift. No thanks. Mark’s so clever with the new flavors, you know; some of our regulars come in just for that.”

“Actually, I think that was Connie’s idea. They serve the ice cream at the pub too, and they like the menu to change so they can keep things seasonal. They’ve taken on a new apprentice now, just for the pastries and ice cream.”

“I know, he was telling me. Actually, that’s the only thing I don’t like about him really.”

“What?”

“That he’s got such a lovely wife.” She grins.

“Yes, that is a drawback, I can see that.”

“It’s bloody typical. All the good ones are married, or gay.”

“Tell me about it.”

She laughs, and then we realize Elsie has come into the café and has heard me. She’s not pleased. Damn. Not only have I inadvertently cast aspersions on Martin, which is something only she’s allowed to do, but we forgot to call her in for the Tasting. Bugger.

“You’ve got to try this, Elsie.”

“I’ve just had my lunch, thank you.” She sniffs, clearly annoyed. Great.

Laura winks at me as I follow Elsie back into the shop.

Things are still pretty frosty when Martin arrives.

“Hi, Jo. Hello, Mum. I’d love a coffee.”

“I’m not using that silly machine; you can have tea and like it. Better for you.”

“Okay.”

She goes into the café, and Martin looks puzzled.

“What’s up with her now?”

“Mark brought some new ice cream in, and I forgot to ask her to help us taste it.”

“Oh dear, I’m sure she’ll get over it.”

“Yes, but how long will I be getting the sniffing routine?”

“Well, she’s still not speaking to my aunty Doris over that shortbread.”

“And when did that happen?”

“Three years ago.”

“Thanks, Martin, that’s very encouraging.”

He grins. “Sorry. Look, have you got a minute? I’ve got something to show you.”

Oh God, I hope it’s not another bit of floorboard. Or a kitchen brochure.

Buying the wreck of a barn to renovate was definitely one of his better ideas. It combines his passions for carpentry and all things wooden with bargain hunting and reclaiming old materials, so it’s eco-friendly too. I’m sure it will be stunning if he ever finishes it. But it does seem to involve me in more conversations about oak versus walnut than I ever imagined possible.

“I’ve got about fifteen minutes before I need to leave to get the boys. Can it wait?”

“I’ve found a new book—well, an old one really—with patterns, for cabinets and cupboards, for the kitchen. I got it at the library.”

“Great.”

“Do you think I need a plate rack?”

“Sorry?”

“There’s one with a sort of rack, for plates, built into the cupboard. Would that be good?”

“Depends on how many plates you’re going to have. You’ve only got three so far.”

“Two actually, Trevor got a bit excited when the lorry turned up yesterday with the bricks, and he knocked the table over.”