Knit One Pearl One (6 page)

“Yes you did, darling, you could have gone under, especially with him taking out that second mortgage on the house and leaving you with no money and everything. You could have been in real trouble. But you didn’t. You picked yourself up and carried on.”

“Yes, straight into the next disaster.”

“Daniel wasn’t a disaster, darling, your first Christmas on your own was bound to be rocky, going to Venice to your mum and dad was a top plan. And having a magic moment with Daniel was just what you needed.”

“Oh yes, perfect. Being wanton in a glamorous hotel. Very clever. Until I got back home and realized I was pregnant.”

We’re both giggling now.

“Yes, but I’ve told you that was just incredibly bad luck, that would never happen twice; condoms are usually completely reliable; trust me, I should know. God, if I’d gotten pregnant every time I had a magic moment I’d be like Old Mother Hubbard. But you don’t regret having Pearl, do you?”

“Of course not, you know I wanted another one but Nick refused to even talk about it.”

“Well then, and now Daniel’s calmed down and stopped sending those daft letters from his lawyer demanding tests, it’s all worked out fine.”

“Yes, but it’s not exactly an endorsement for boys who can give you a run for your money, is it?”

“I know, but Daniel was a proper match for you; he was an alpha male, that’s all I’m saying, and you’re an alpha female.”

“Yes, but in case you’d forgotten, Daniel’s got a Diva of his own now, and I don’t think Liv will take kindly to his attention straying too far.”

“She sounds like a total cow to me, and she’s definitely had work done, you can see it on her face. Quite recently, if you ask me.”

“I think they all do, Ellen.”

“Your Amazing Grace hasn’t.”

“She’s not my Grace, she’s our local Diva and I’m her knitting coach, that’s all. But she is amazing.”

“I was looking at some paparazzi shots of her skiing, and even in one of those hideous ski suits she looks amazing. And they got her on the slopes; you could see she wasn’t in full makeup or anything. And she still looked bloody gorgeous.”

“Are you still trying to persuade Harry to go on that skiing trip?”

“No, I’ve gone off the idea now. Tom Partridge came back with his leg broken in three places; they had to air-ambulance him home. His wife wheeled him into the studio yesterday and he looked well pissed off. She was pretty chirpy though; it’s the first time she’s been able to keep track of him for years, he’s such a shagger. And anyway the outfits are hideous, unless you look like your Diva; she had a great fur hat on actually, beautiful, but she’ll have to watch it, I bet those animal rights nutters can ski.”

“I’ll tell Maxine the next time she calls.”

“When are they back from the States?”

“A few more weeks, I think. She’s doing loads of publicity for the new film.”

“And you’re the transatlantic knitting coach; see, you can do stuff like that. Not many people could pull something like that off. You just need a bit more après-ski, that’s all. I can see you might not want to tackle another black run like Daniel just yet, but you could still go off piste a bit more.”

“Yes, and end up facedown in a snowdrift, being rescued by a Saint Bernard who’s even more stupid than Trevor. No thanks.”

“Yes, but keep your eyes open for new boys, that’s all I’m saying. You never know, you still might get swept off your feet by a tall, dark, handsome fisherman or something.”

“I’d need more than my eyes open round here, I’d need a bloody huge telescope. Anyway, you know we don’t have fishermen down here, apart from a few old codgers on the pier, and getting swept off our pier isn’t my idea of a good night out.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He could rescue you, mouth-to-mouth and off you go. I’m feeling it, darling. Just don’t wear that tragic old sweater. Make sure you’ve got a cotton shift on or something.”

“Good night, Ellen.”

“Night darling.”

Great. So now I’ve got to fall off the pier and hope I get rescued by a handsome stranger, rather than a pensioner with a folding stool and a thermos flask. I better get the timing right, because I could have quite a wait. A cotton shift would be hopeless; at this time of year you’d only last about thirty seconds in the sea, it’s bloody freezing. Maybe a flannelette one would give you a few more minutes. I saw a pretty one in one of my catalogs, I think, with roses on. Excellent. I’ll add it to my list. Or possibly not.

I’m kneeling in the window of the shop on Thursday morning, trying to hang little pink hearts on pink gingham ribbon. I’ve got cramp in my arm and I’ve just knelt on one of the pink fairy lights, so now I’m stuck dithering, leaning over the partition tweaking and trying to avoid kneeling on anything else. There’s always a point when I’m doing the windows that I want to chuck everything out in the street and go and get a doughnut. I lit the fire in the workroom earlier, and the lure of one of Mark’s chocolate croissants is growing: exactly what you need on a freezing February morning when you’ve just crushed a fairy light.

I’m worried I may have overdone it on the pink: I’ve knitted small hearts in pale pink and a crisp white cotton, and some cashmere and silk ones in tea rose pink, and filled them with dried lavender, and Gran’s made some pom-poms, which I’ve hung from the partition, although they’re a bit more shades of Pepto-Bismol than I intended. Mrs. Marwell has just popped in to tell me she thinks it looks lovely, but I’m still not sure. Maybe when I drape the mohair shawls over the partition that will sharpen it up. Elsie’s knitted one in bright candy pink with small silver beads knitted in along the edges, and I’ve made one in garnet, and one of the cotton ones in amethyst, so I hope that will make it all look a bit less My Little Pony.

“Have we got any headache tablets, Jo?”

Christ, all the pink must be getting to Tom as well. I thought he looked a bit under the weather when I arrived this morning; he was making himself a triple espresso and told me he’d been out with the band until 4:00 a.m., before retreating behind the counter to serve Maggie with her early morning coffee on her way in to the library. Mind you, I’d be needing way more than a couple of headache tablets if I’d been out until 4:00 a.m. I’d probably need those things people use to jump-start their cars—one more bit of proof, if proof were needed, that he’s nineteen and taking his gap year while he works out what he wants to do with his life, and I’m forty, with three kids, and no gap year anywhere in sight.

“I think there’s some aspirin upstairs in the kitchen cupboard.”

“Great. That window looks brilliant by the way. Are those heart things hard to make?”

“Not really.”

“Could I do one then? Only this Valentine’s Day thing’s a really big deal for girls, isn’t it?”

“I think it depends on the girl, Tom.”

He nods, and then winces. “Yes, but it’s one of those things where they say they don’t care and then they really mind if you don’t make a big fuss, isn’t it? My mum goes nuts if my dad forgets. She locked him in the garage one year.”

“I bet he didn’t forget after that.”

“No, but then he forgot her birthday, and she locked herself in the garage, and that was much worse.”

“Why?”

“We hadn’t had supper.”

He grins. “Anyway, I haven’t got much cash at the minute, so I thought, Well, if I made something, a token gesture kind of thing?”

“That’s a good idea.”

“So would you help me then?”

“Sure.”

Elsie’s been hovering and can’t resist joining in.

“Well I think that’s lovely, making something for your mum. My Martin used to make me things like that, and I’ve still got them all. There’s some of your lavender left Jo, you could put some of that in. And it’s nice to know where it came from, so you be sure to tell her; Jo dries it herself and everything. And the price they charge for those little sachets, and most of them are dust, no real smell at all.”

“Can we wait for the aspirin to kick in first, Jo?”

“Of course. I’m here until three today, or I’ve got my Stitch and Bitch group tonight if you want to come along to that.”

“That’s all women, isn’t it?” He looks rather panicky.

“We might make an exception, just this once.”

“No, you’re all right; I think I’d rather have a go on my own if that’s okay, without a load of women watching me make a total idiot of myself. Oh, sorry, Elsie. But maybe after lunch, when we’re a bit quieter? Do you want a cappuccino, Jo, decaf, extra foam?”

“Perfect.”

“Coming right up. Tea, Elsie?”

“Yes please, dear.”

“There’s still a couple of croissants left if either of you fancy one?”

“I’ll just have one of my biscuits, thanks.” Elsie doesn’t hold with croissants, she thinks they make too much mess. Flaky pastry isn’t something she encourages.

“Sounds like another good idea, Tom, I’ll just finish off here, and I’ll be right with you.”

Excellent. This café lark is definitely working out way better than I’d hoped.

I’m changing the roll of paper in the credit card machine when I see Martin and Trevor the bloody Wonder Dog are outside. Martin’s trying to persuade him to sit while he ties him to the railings, but Trevor’s having none of it, and by the time he’s got him safely tethered, Elsie and I are both standing behind the counter, watching him.

“There’s no need to stand there looking like that. He’s still learning how to Sit, but he’s getting better at it.”

“Just not outside shops?”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t be quite so superior about it or I’ll give him back.”

“Well give him back then; send him to Spain to live with Mr. Pallfrey. I never agreed to adopt the silly thing.”

“He just doesn’t know his own strength, that’s all. But he’s getting much better; you’ve got to admit that.”

Elsie sniffs. “Not by the state of your jeans he’s not, he’s always pulling you over. Anyway, some of us have got better things to do than talk about silly dogs. I’ll go and sort that new stock out, shall I, Jo? Shall I put it on the shelves in the workroom?”

“Please, Elsie, next to the Scottish tweed.”

“Right you are. And Martin, I’ve done those shirts, if you want to pick them up.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

He shakes his head as she goes upstairs. “I keep telling her, she doesn’t need to iron them. I’ve got an iron.”

“But no ironing board?”

“I did have one, it’s just . . . Well, never mind.”

“Trevor killed it.”

“It was very old; Mum had been keeping it in the shed, for spare.”

“A spare ironing board?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Well at least I know where you get it from.”

“What?”

“Being bonkers.”

“Thanks, I only came in to ask you out to dinner, and now I’m being told I’m bonkers.”

“Sorry.”

He’s smiling. “I thought maybe on Saturday? Only I should probably book somewhere what with it being Valentine’s Day. Do you think Connie might have a table?”

“I doubt it. They’ve been booked solid for weeks now, and this Saturday’s not ideal, we’ve got Fiona on Sunday.”

“Fiona?”

“My ex-sister-in-law. Married to James, Nick’s brother. That Fiona.”

“Oh, right. That’s this weekend, is it?”

“Yes. I told you.”

“Of course, well, if you’ve got other plans.”

“Don’t make it sound like we’re off on a jaunt, we’re having lunch with Nick’s family and then visiting his grave. It’s not my ideal weekend.”

“No, of course not, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t, sorry. I’m just a bit nervous about it, that’s all.”

“Nervous? What have you got to be nervous about?”

Sometimes I wish he wasn’t quite so literal.

“Just silly stuff like Fiona giving me her special recipe for lemon curd and showing me her cleaning rota again. She makes sure every bloody inch of her house gets polished at least once a week you know, and she hoovers twice a day. It’s almost scary how perfect everything is; I feel like I’m up for a slattern of the year award every time I see her. And Nick’s mother is still sulking about me having Pearl. It doesn’t fit her image of the grieving widow. I think I’m meant to spend the rest of my life in black, sobbing.”

“Doesn’t she know, I mean, well, you know . . .”

“About her favorite son having an affair and wanting a divorce? No, she bloody doesn’t. It didn’t seem like the ideal time to tell her, what with it being his funeral. And then after that, well, it just seemed too cruel. So I’m the brazen hussy who isn’t honoring her son’s memory, and Pearl is, well, not a member of her family, put it like that. It’s going to be a total bloody nightmare. But the boys want to go.”

“Of course. God, sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

He leans over the counter and pats my arm, which is somehow mildly annoying and yet rather sweet at the same time.

“Does she really have a rota for cleaning?”

“Yes, she bloody does. It’s up on the notice board in her kitchen, all color-coded and cross-referenced with her diary for the girls’ school and that stupid Golf Club she belongs to with Elizabeth. She could handle logistics for a small country it’s so complicated, but there’s no way she’s going to let a Ladies’ Match get in the way of her keeping her bathroom tiles sparkling. She shows it to me every time we’re there; she even printed out a copy for me once, when Nick and I first got married. I think she was hoping I might finally see the light. Discover the joys of polishing things.”

He laughs. “I could do with someone like that at the barn.”

“You so couldn’t, Martin, not unless you got a major supply of Valium. Either that or you’d find her collapsed in a heap, hyperventilating clutching her mop.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Is there still a big hole in the middle of the kitchen floor?”

“Yes, but I’ve told you, I haven’t decided where to put the pipes yet, not until I decide about the new cesspit. There are some really good compost loos now, you know, with sawdust, and that way I wouldn’t have to buy a tank.”

“No, because nobody would ever come round, and you and Trevor could just make do with a bucket.”

He smiles. “So you think I should hook up to mains drainage then, or replace the old cesspit?”

Since when did the merits of mains drainage become one of my specialist subjects?

“I’d rather not think about it at all, if I’m honest. But yes, since you’re asking, I think you need a proper loo, not something that includes sawdust.”

“Fair enough. I got those brochures, by the way.”

Oh, good, more brochures. He must have practically every brochure in existence now.

“For what?”

“The bath. There’s a great one, with jets and everything.”

As well as being a budding eco-warrior, Martin loves gadgets. He’s a sucker for anything electronic, especially with flashing lights and complicated programs. He’ll spend days carving the perfect banister, even though the barn doesn’t actually have any stairs yet, but he’ll also spend an entire weekend installing what seemed like miles of cable, just so he can turn off all the lights with one click of a button on the remote-control unit. Unfortunately, Trevor then buried the remote control in the garden, so he’s got to buy a new one, but in theory it’ll be great.

“I’m off to the auction now, to get those panels. Well, I hope so anyway. Solid oak.”

“Are you taking Trevor?”

“Yes.”

“Watch out he doesn’t bid for anything.”

“I’ll leave him in the car.”

“Good luck.”

“He’s much better now I’ve got the dog mesh up in the back. He lies down and goes to sleep. Well, sometimes.”

“Yes, and the rest of the time he rocks the car backward and forward and eats the backseat.”

“He does not, well not lately. I’ll ring you later, shall I, let you know how I got on at the auction?”

“Sure. I’ve got my Stitch and Bitch group later on though.”

I’m not sure I can really face another conversation about Oak.

There’s a sound of barking and aristocratic canine commands as Lady Denby arrives, with Algie and Clarkson in her wake. Dear God. Today must be Take Your Dog to Your Local Wool Shop Day and nobody’s bloody told me.

“Is that your dog outside?”

Martin takes a step backward. “Yes, he’s—”

“Get him trained then. Can’t have dogs leaping up like that, spreads like wildfire, bad behavior with dogs. People too, come to think of it. Morning, my dear, know you don’t like me bringing mine in, but I can’t leave them outside next to that idiotic wolfhound.”

“Morning, Lady Denby. I’m afraid we really can’t have them in here, not with the café. Martin was just leaving, weren’t you, Martin? So Trevor will be going too.”

“Trevor? Extraordinary name for a dog. Always call mine after staff, so much easier to remember. Excellent butler, Clarkson, worked for my father for years. Can’t remember who Algie was—oh yes, the gardener’s boy. Marvelous with soft fruit. Not the boy, the father. The boy was hopeless. Had a motorbike, used to make a terrible racket. Fell off it eventually, much quieter after that. Now, where was I?”

“Good morning, Lady Denby.”

Elsie’s shot back downstairs and is now trying to keep a safe distance from Clarkson, who likes licking people’s feet, while simultaneously attempting the half bob/half curtsy she reserves for Lady Denby’s appearances in the shop.

“Morning, Enid.”

Martin smiles. If anyone else attempted to call his mother Enid, there’d be ructions, but Elsie seems to have decided that discretion is the better part of valor where our local aristocrats are involved.

“I’ll ring you after the auction, Jo. Good morning, ladies.” Martin’s whistling as he goes out of the shop, and he winks at me, which Lady Denby spots. Trevor goes into a frenzy of barking and tail wagging, leaping up and putting his paws on Martin’s chest so they end up doing a sort of dance until Martin finally gets the lead untangled.

“Did he say auction? Hope he’s selling that ridiculous dog, though I can’t imagine who would buy it.”

“He’s restoring a barn, Lady Denby, so he’s off to buy wood. Shall I take the dogs outside for you?”

“Please, my dear. Restoring a barn? Excellent, got to keep our old buildings alive. So important. Now, what was it I wanted? Oh yes, told George I’d meet him here. Cup of tea, keeps him going, the promise of a cup of tea. Has he tipped up yet?”

“Not yet, but do go through, Tom will find you a table.”

I’m outside untangling dog leads and getting my hands and feet licked when Lord Denby wanders along, looking as vague as ever, and carrying a large metal bucket.