Needles and Pearls (29 page)

‘In that box on the top shelf.’

‘Elsie was quite cross when she arrived.’

‘She’ll be fine.’

‘And Lady Denby’s been in. She says she’ll be back later.’

‘Okay.’

‘Oliver Benson and Matt Lewis might come too, only I’ve told them they’ve got to knit. It’s all right if boys come too, isn’t it?’

Teenage boys. I wasn’t really counting on that. Some of them are huge, at least the ones I see getting off the bus, with their ties off and their shirts untucked, busy flirting or having mock fights with their massive backpacks slung over one shoulder.

‘Sure.’

‘Oliver really fancies Polly, like there’s any hope we’d go out with boys in our year. That’s so not going to happen. But he’s all right, and Mart’s quite nice.’

‘I’ll look forward to meeting them.’

I only hope they’re medium-sized boys, because I’m not sure the chairs will stand up to any large teenager activity. If they’re anything like Jack and Archie they’ll be leaning backwards and rocking, shortly before the chair legs snap.

An hour later Polly and Sophie are busy knitting while Lauren and Gemma are still trying to cast on, and Olivia’s showing a girl called Clare how to purl. Oliver and Matt are sitting at the far side of the table, struggling to remember which way to put their wool for a knit stitch. They’ve given up trying to cast on after Sophie took pity on them and did it for them, and now Oliver’s giving Polly the occasional longing look, but she seems oblivious. Poor thing, he’s trying ever so hard; when she put some lip gloss on earlier I thought he was going to pass out.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Mackenzie.’

‘Please call me Jo, Sophie.’

She seems quite pleased with this.

‘Is there a loo here, Jo?’

‘Straight down the stairs on the landing.’

‘Thanks.’

‘How’s it going, Gemma? Need a hand?’

‘Yes, please.’

Oliver puts his knitting down.

‘Me too. Jo.’

Polly glances at him, and he reddens.

I help Gemma pick up a dropped stitch and then move round to Oliver.

‘You’re getting the hang of this really quickly.’

He smiles.

‘It’s quite good, when you get going. I might make something for my mum, for her birthday, a scarf or something. Do you think she’d like that?’

Everyone smiles.

‘I’m sure she would.’

Polly takes a sip from her bottle of water.

‘I’ll help you choose the right colours and stuff if you like.’

‘Great.’

What a triumph; he’s thrilled, and looks so pleased I’m tempted to give him a hug. It must be tricky being a boy surrounded by such sophisticated girls with their shiny hair and lip gloss. They seem much more confident than I remember being at that age, and I’m not sure many of the boys I knew would have been able to handle spending the afternoon knitting.

Matt looks at Gemma and grins, which seems to fluster her.

‘Would you help me get something for my mum too?’

‘Course. What do you want to make?’

He looks at his knitting.

‘Something very small.’

Lady Denby arrives when I’m looking at patterns for weird cape things that Polly has brought in from her sister, who’s studying fashion somewhere in London. They’re rather impressive, in bright colours with wide ribbon threaded through as fasteners, or huge safety pins. I can’t see them catching on in Broadgate, but they’re undeniably stylish. And warm too, no doubt. Maybe I’ll make myself one just to see Elsie’s face.

‘Hello, my dear. Busy as usual, I see. Dogs are downstairs so I won’t stop.’

So that’ll be Elsie wrestling with dog leads again. Oh dear.

‘Wanted to let you know we won silver again, Seaside in Bloom. Absolute scandal.’

Oliver picks up his can of Coke.

‘My dad reckons the judges need a backhander if you want the gold.’

‘Wouldn’t be surprised, young man. Disgraceful. But a silver is not to be sneezed at, I suppose, especially two years running. Gold next year, even if we have to bang them.’

Oliver chokes on his Coke as I put the cape patterns down on the table.

‘I think you might mean bung, Lady Denby.’

‘Do I? Quite. Still, I’m sure your window display helped again, so well done. Thought you’d like to know.’

‘Thank you, that was kind of you.’

‘No trouble at all. Nice to meet you all. Good to see young people learning something useful. Excellent skill to have, knitting; never know when it will come in useful. Good afternoon.’

I follow her downstairs to find Elsie trying to keep Algie and Clarkson at arm’s length by keeping the counter between her and them. Clarkson’s edging round the corner as Lady Denby takes over and yanks him back.

‘Thank you, Enid.’

‘It’s Elsie, actually, Lady Denby.’

‘Is it? Are you sure?’

Elsie looks momentarily confused.

‘Always had you down as an Enid. Must dash – left George in the car. Lord alone knows where he’ll have got to by now. He will get out and go for wanders. So annoying. Still, the boys usually track him down.’

She yanks the leads again, and off they trot.

‘You’ll have to tell her.’

‘Sorry?’

‘She can’t keep bringing those dogs in; it’s not nice.’

‘Any ideas how I’m going to pull that one off, Elsie?’

She smiles.

‘Are they behaving themselves up there?’

‘Beautifully. One of the boys wants to knit something for his mum.’

‘Does he? Well, bless his heart. I always loved the things my Martin made for me. We still use the little table he made me in woodwork, you know, and they did seem very polite, I will say that for them.’

‘They are, they all seem really nice.’

‘Well, I’ll give it a chance, I’m all for giving people a chance, you know that. But if there’s any funny business I’ll call you, shall I?’

‘Sure.’

‘I used to see one of them when he was little. Always in with his mum, he was. He was mad on
Thomas the Tank
Engine
and she used to knit him jumpers. She made him a dressing gown too, I think.’

‘Well, for heaven’s sake don’t ask him about it now – he’s trying to impress the girls. God, I’ve got all that to come, haven’t I? With the boys.’

She smiles.

‘Your Jack will be fine; it’ll be your Archie who’ll need watching, he’s such a charmer. Shall I go up and see if they’d like a biscuit? I saw you’d got a new tin of shortbread, and they’re always starving at that age, aren’t they? I could make a cup of tea, if you fancy one?’

Excellent.

I knew the tin of shortbread would lure her up there sooner or later.

By lunchtime on Sunday I’m exhausted. An emergency supermarket sweep after I realised our summer-holiday routine of soporific days on the beach with picnics, in between sessions in the shop and trying to get the salt out of the boys’ hair at bathtime, is all very well, but it does tend to mean that things like what we’re actually going to eat at my birthday picnic slip right off my list.

Ellen and Harry are due later, and most of the Stitch and Bitch group are meeting us on the beach later, along with Connie and Mark, who are coming with the kids once Mark’s finished the lunches in the pub. They’re closing the restaurant this evening. Sunday night’s always pretty quiet and there’ll be bar snacks for anyone who’s desperate.

I’ve told Mark not to worry about making anything for the picnic, which I’m really starting to regret now. I’ve made vast quantities of potato salad with chopped chives, and I’m marinating salmon steaks in honey and ginger and a splash
of soy, actually a bit more than a splash since the nozzle on the bottle wasn’t quite as small as I thought. The chicken can be plain for the people who like to pick chives out of their mother’s potato salad, but after I’ve got all the food in Tupperware boxes there still doesn’t look like enough, and I’m running out of plastic boxes. I could ring Gran, who has an epic collection of useful containers, all with matching lids, but then she’d Help, and I wanted to do most of the food myself, even though she’s insisted on making the cake.

‘Mum.’

‘Yes, Archie.’

‘It should be fancy dress, your party.’

‘It’s a beach party, love.’

‘Yes, but we could all be fishes. Can I have a fish costume for the party, please?’

‘No.’

‘Or I could be a cowboy with my potato gun. Where is my potato gun?’

‘I don’t know.’

And even if I did I wouldn’t tell him.

‘I think fishes would be better. And Mum?’

‘Yes?’

‘When’s lunch? I’m starving.’

Bugger. I’d forgotten about lunch.

‘Have some cereal.’

‘For lunch?’

‘Yes.’

He looks at me, and finally starts to recognise the signs of a mother close to crisis.

‘I don’t want Shreddies.’

‘Don’t have them then, have Weetabix.’

There’s a fair amount of tutting and sighing, but I’m too busy banging saucepans and trying to stop the rice from going
into sticky clumps while I get the skin off the roasted peppers and the peas come to the boil to bother about tutting.

Jack wanders in.

‘What’s for lunch?’

‘We’ve got to have cereal.’

‘What?’

Archie gives him a Look.

‘I don’t want Weetabix.’

‘Have Shreddies, Jack, and then you can both help me get all this into the car.’

‘Have you got balloons, Mum?’

‘No, Jack, I haven’t.’

He tuts.

‘It’s not a proper party without balloons.’

‘Well, don’t come then.’

They both sigh.

If anyone starts trying to whistle again I think I might start throwing sticky clumps of rice.

Ellen arrives at three, with Harry, who’s in disgrace after arriving home with a traffic cone on his head at half-past five this morning. He’s lying on the sofa ‘helping’ the boys with their Lego while Ellen and I retreat to the kitchen.

‘Jesus, how many people are coming?’

‘I don’t know, stacks.’

‘Well, they won’t go hungry, darling.’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Have you made your potato salad?’

‘Yes, but don’t tell Archie it’s mayonnaise or he won’t eat it. It’s salad cream; he thinks it’s like ice cream.’

‘Sure. I’m starving. Bloody Errol had me on that running machine for hours yesterday. I’d sack him, only I’d be the size of a house if he didn’t bully me so much.’

She’s wearing a tiny white sundress with pink polka dots, and looks like an advert for something slimming. Even her hair looks slim.

‘You look great.’

‘Thanks, darling. So what are you wearing?’

‘This?’

‘No, you’re not. Those trousers are terrible. It’s your party – wear something nice.’

‘They’re cool.’

‘Not from where I’m standing they’re not. Please. Wear the dress you had on at the wedding. That looked great on you.’

‘At your wedding, you mean, the violet silk one? No, I’m saving it.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘Good point.’

By five it’s starting to cool down, and the light’s gone all soft on the beach when we arrive. There are still quite a few people sitting inside their windbreak encampments, but you can hear the sea in amongst the noise of people chatting or packing up for the long drive home; it’s my favourite time on the beach, especially when the tide’s out like it is today.

‘Here, give me the big bag. It’s down these steps, right? Where’s the beach hut?’

‘About halfway along. Oh.’

Gran and Reg are here already and have covered the hut in streamers and balloons, much to the boys’ delight.

‘Hello, pet, hello, Ellen. What do you think? We thought we’d make a bit of an effort. What are you doing carrying those bags? Reg, get them off her before she does herself a mischief. Sit down and have a cup of tea.’

‘There’s more in the car.’

‘We’ll get it in a minute. You’ve got to pace yourself – I keep telling you. Sit down, Ellen, love – I’ll go and fill the kettle. All mod cons we are here. Cup of tea coming up.’

Ellen smiles, and hesitates by one of the parrot sun loungers.

‘Christ, where on earth did you get the chairs?’

‘Gran and Reg.’

‘I’m glad I’ve got my sunglasses on.’

‘They’re very comfy.’

‘They’d have to be.’

By six the beach is lovely, still warm, but without the chilly breeze that sometimes blows in at the end of the day. I’m wearing my grey mohair shawl with the silver beads around the edge, and everyone’s complimenting me on my dress. Ellen’s even painted my toenails for me, which I’ve pretty much given up on until I’m less spherical, and she’s making her special punch, which is usually lethal so I’ve been adding lemonade when she’s not looking. Not that I’m going to be drinking any, but I’m not sure any of us are quite ready for a completely plastered Elsie.

‘God, this is perfect. Fuck spending hours in departures and then twelve hours on a bloody plane when you get a view like this.’

The tide’s gone right out now, and the kids are building sandcastles and army bases to some complicated plan of their own devising, running backwards and forwards to the sea with buckets of water. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, and I’ve got more birthday cards than I’ve had since I was little. They all seem to have brought a present, which is sweet; Maggie from the library has given me a lovely old copy of
Mrs Beeton,
after we were talking about how much we love reading recipe books at last week’s Stitch
and Bitch, and Tina and Linda have brought me posh-looking bath stuff for pregnant people, and are busy admiring my fabulous new cream-leather handbag from Ellen. Olivia and Polly are giving it very longing looks in between trying to sneak glasses of punch when their mothers aren’t watching.