Wish Upon a Star (39 page)

‘I’m Ann Fenwick,’ she said. ‘This is my mother.’

Claire got them both started then stood to address the group. ‘I see that you all have needles and you are beginning to get the idea of how to cast on.’

‘No,’ said a middle-aged woman with a high voice and an equally high bridge to her nose. ‘We’re just making these damn knots, sweetie. I think I’ve got it all bollixed up.’ Some of the others laughed.

‘Actually, it
is
a knot that you’ve made, but that’s the first step to casting on,’ Claire explained. All the faces looked at her expectantly. ‘Does everybody have their slipknots on?’ she continued. Most of the women nodded. ‘I’ll come along and check and then I’ll show you the next step which is to knit within that slipknot and then knit within each stitch made after that. Then you’ve cast on and that’s the basis for your garment.’

‘But I so hate this color,’ said the teenager. She was stuck with a small ball of sickly green worsted that clashed horribly with the long violet dress she wore.

‘Yes, that is pretty dreadful,’ Mrs. Venables agreed. ‘But this isn’t for your garment. It’s to learn on and for your gauge.’

‘What’s a gauge?’ the girl asked.

‘It’s the tension that you knit with,’ Claire answered.

A jolly-looking woman in a red silk blouse and smart trousers with pointy shoes laughed. Claire thought her name was Emma Edgers or Hedges. She checked the register. Hedges. Though she looked about Claire’s age, her manner made her seem older. ‘I’m so tense I need either this, a massage or a Harley Street psychiatrist,’ she sighed and a few of the other women giggled.

‘Well, it’s one of the reasons I knit,’ Claire admitted. ‘It’s very relaxing. But I didn’t mean tension in that sense. It’s how loose or tight you make your stitches. We need to measure so that we can predict the size of the garment you make in the end. Some people will have five stitches to the inch, others will have ten. And we need to measure the inches vertically as well as horizontally. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let me check your slipknots and then we’ll begin knitting.’

Now Claire smiled at Mrs. Venables over the heads of the students.

‘It’s important to keep the pull on the slipknot and the pull on your wool as you knit it about the same. Otherwise you’ll have an uneven, sloppy look,’ Mrs. Venables explained.

There were a few, notably Emma Hedges, who had done their slipknots perfectly, but almost everyone else needed some correction. One of the more elderly women—her name was Mrs. Willis—had pulled the wool so tightly Claire was afraid she might break the needle in half when she knit her first row.

When she and Mrs. Venables had got them all started, Claire had them take their second needle and demonstrated the next step over their heads. ‘Pick up your right needle in your right hand,’ she said. ‘Now we’re going to begin to knit. We are going to start with stockinette or stocking stitch, which is the most basic one. It isn’t the knit, purl, knit, purl that you find in the rib. It’s one side knit, the other purl.’

Mrs. Venables smiled. ‘This way you can’t make a mistake and forget which side you are on.’

All of the women picked up their second needle, some awkwardly and some as if they were going to eat a Chinese meal. Claire showed them the two needles in her own hands. ‘Hold the needles like this. Take the right needle and push the point to the back of the first loop on your left needle.’ Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Julie Watts, the woman with the high-bridged nose, push the needle through almost to the capped end. She restrained herself from laughing or jumping up and stopping her. ‘You only put the tip of the needle, between a half inch to an inch, into the loop,’ she told them.

‘Whatever’s comfortable for you,’ Mrs. Venables added, going to Julie and gently helping her. ‘Now take the wool and, holding it lightly between your index finger and your thumb, wrap it around the needle at the back, then draw the wrapped wool through the hole of the slipknot and off onto your left needle.’

‘Wait. Wait!’ several women cried.

‘Let us show you,’ Mrs. Venables suggested.

Claire helped Ann Fenwick’s mother and the teen, whose name was Charlotte. In a few minutes the women were all busy. Claire looked around the room at the faces with their expressions of concentration. She thought, to her delight and relief, that she and Mrs. Venables were pulling this off. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You’ve completed your first knit stitch. It’s the start of the entire row. We’ll come around while you each do it again and again until you all have fifteen stitches on your left needle.’

She moved from woman to woman. Two—one of them Leonora—dropped their needles and had to begin all over, but Claire helped them. Virtually everyone but Emma Hedges dropped stitches, and their yarn and the tension was all over the place, but all of them completed their first row of stitches and Claire had them start on the second.

‘What is this?’ one of the younger women asked picking something off the shelf.

‘It’s a bobbin,’ Mrs. Venables answered. ‘You use it for alternating colors.’

‘Funny-looking,’ Julie commented. ‘Looks like a piece from a children’s game.’

Charlotte picked up an item Claire had placed on the table earlier. ‘This looks like a weird protractor.’

‘It’s a gauge,’ Claire explained. ‘It actually has many uses.’ She took the item from Charlotte and held it up.

‘It’s an essential piece of equipment,’ Mrs. Venables said. ‘And we’re not simply trying to sell them,’ she added with a smile. ‘See the different sized holes along the top?’ The women looked at the gauge with interest. ‘Those are for checking the size of your needles. Sometimes the numbers on the needle heads wear off—especially on the plastic ones—or sometimes you’re dealing with double-pointed needles which don’t have numbers on them. So all you have to do is slide the needle into the holes until you get the perfect fit.’ She picked up a needle from the table and demonstrated.

‘Now, as for the cut out area of the gauge…’ She showed it to the group. ‘When you look at it more closely, you’ll see there is a small ruler along the bottom. This allows you to measure the length of the garment. Then you can turn the gauge in this direction.’

‘What’s that for?’ Ann Fenwick asked.

‘From that you can easily count up the number of rows that equal the height you are trying to achieve,’ Mrs. Venables said.

Claire handed the gauge back to Charlotte. The class was drawing to an end now, and as the women finished off their knitting they one by one began to rise and look for their own gauges, then at the yarns and the knitting bags. Soon Mrs. Venables was busy with questions about various products and wools, while Claire tidied up.

She looked round at the group with satisfaction. Ka-ching! Mrs. Venables’s till would be busy. Claire smiled. Screw Nigel. Despite his pessimism the class was definitely a success.

‘Do you know who she is?’ Imogen asked excitedly.

It was Sunday morning and Claire was telling Imogen about the women in the class. Im, who hadn’t apologized for not coming, listened absently until Claire mentioned Ann Fenwick.

‘
Lady
Ann Fenwick? Her mother is the Countess of Kensington, you know.’

‘Really? She was there too.’ Claire thought of the cheap old cardigan. It wasn’t quite what she expected a countess to wear, but she supposed they didn’t walk around with crowns on their heads. ‘Are they royalty?’ she asked.

Imogen laughed. ‘No, no. Just higher aristocracy. They were created in the sixteenth century.’ Claire raised her brows. For once she was going to ask what the hell Imogen was talking about. And she did.

‘It means,’ Imogen said, ‘the time they were raised to the nobility. New creations aren’t anything like as important as the old ones. I mean if you received a title from Edward VII it isn’t like one from Elizabeth I.’

For a moment Claire thought of her father calling the Bilsops ‘an old family’. Somehow she didn’t think the term meant the same thing in Tottenville as it did in London. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘she’s not very good at knitting and neither is Ann.’

‘Lady Ann,’ Imogen corrected gently. ‘When someone has a title before their name you need to use it even in casual conversation. It’s not like my Honorable. That’s only for formal use.’

‘If you say so,’ Claire responded. ‘Anyway, it all went very well. I hope they all come back.’

‘Well, I shall certainly come,’ Imogen said. ‘I meant to be there yesterday.’

Claire doubted it. She felt Imogen’s enthusiasm had more to do with Ann Fenwick than with an interest in perfecting her ribbing. But it didn’t matter. Claire began to straighten up the kitchen, while Imogen asked her about the other attendees. No one else seemed to make the grade in Imogen’s eyes, though. As she put a mug in the sink Claire noticed an envelope on the counter beside it. It was addressed to her.

Claire lifted it and turned. ‘When did this come?’ she asked. What she meant was how long had it been sitting there amongst the clutter. But Im, on her way into the bathroom, just nodded.

‘I meant to tell you,’ she said, as she closed the bathroom door. ‘Must dash—I don’t want to be late for Malcolm.’

Claire took the letter back to her room and sat down on the chintz chair. She carefully opened the envelope.

Dear Claire
,

Thank you for the new address. I hope you don’t mind that I gave your last one to your friend Tina. I was surprised she didn’t have it, but perhaps I shouldn’t have been, nor should I have given it to her. Sorry if I have made a mistake. I won’t give out your new address again unless you tell me
.

I was very pleased to hear that you seemed to have landed on your feet. If I have one regret in life—and believe me I have more than one—not traveling as much as I would have liked is almost the biggest. I’m so glad you’re getting the opportunity to. Be sure to visit Syon House. It’s right outside of London on the way to Heathrow. (As I remember that’s the A4, but I could be wrong.) Anyway, it’s the first Palladian house in England and it changed British architecture forever. There’s nothing in it, but it doesn’t matter. Promise me you’ll see it. I passed it for years before I ever found the time to stop. Things at home are fine, though my dog, Brady, seems to need an operation on his hip. It’s very upsetting, but he’s in pain and the veterinary surgeon has promised me he’ll come through just fine. Funny how attached we get to our pets
.

There’s lots going on in the office. It seems that Junior has gotten into some kind of trouble via the project of young Wainwright’s that soured. We’re not sure if it was simply an unwise recommendation to a mutual fund manager or something worse. Mr. Crayden is very upset about it. In his later years he has come to regard the Security Exchange Commission as a kind of mafia with a whole series of hits planned. He lives in fear that his name will somehow get on the list. I’ve tried to reassure him, but this doesn’t look good. Anyway, it seems the stock that Junior recommended was one of Michael’s offerings. Did either of them know it was about to tank? Don’t know, but it certainly has made some people very tense. Just as well you’re not here
.

Enjoy every moment
.

Abigail

Claire folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. She was sorry that Abigail was worried about her dog, and she would write back to her immediately. But she was more fascinated by the news about Michael. Had Mr. Wonderful made a really big mistake? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine him winding up in any trouble. Anyway, she told herself firmly, it was none of her business and she wouldn’t allow herself to think about it. And she’d be sure to visit Syon House. She’d look it up and see if there was a bus or two that she could take to get there. It would be a perfect way to spend her Sunday.

Claire spent the next week wandering around London, working on the garden at Mrs. Patel’s, helping out in the grocery and—in spare moments—helping Mrs. Venables go through her paltry inventory and the catalogs she might order stock from. It was a full week, and a pleasant one.

She also went to visit Toby during this time and helped him arrange some of his books. Although he preferred to spend most of the time telling her what the story was about as he picked up each volume. She couldn’t explain what she was feeling about him. It wasn’t as sexual as the attraction she had felt for Michael, but she was drawn to Toby and she liked being around him.

Claire had been in London for just over a month, now. But she felt quite settled in. She had begun to keep a sort of daybook that recorded the places she’d been, her reactions and conversations she’d overheard. She also kept a growing list of terms in the back of the book—words she’d never heard of or ones that meant something else than they did in the States. The intention was to prepare herself for any conversation.

But she wasn’t prepared for the next Saturday’s class. She arrived early this time, but was shocked to see a crowd of at least twenty women milling around outside Knitting Kitting. Claire could hardly believe it. Had Toby or Nigel had more calls? The women seemed to be of various ages and dress-styles. A few of the younger, more fashionable ones were in either very long or very short skirts. Claire saw Charlotte, laughing with two young black girls, and Emma Hedges, who also had someone new with her. Claire rushed up to the group. It was only then that she saw something even more astonishing. Clearly, Mrs. Venables had gotten downstairs early and had opened the doors because the shop, too, was filled with women. Claire recognized Mrs. Willis and Ann and some of the others from last week, but the rest were new. She tried to push her way into the store but found her way blocked.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait your turn like everyone else,’ one of the more matronly women scolded. She turned to a friend. ‘This seems to be very badly-run indeed.’

‘It isn’t,’ Claire said. ‘Well, I mean, it won’t be. I’m the teacher. Just give me a few minutes.’

The women moved back and Claire had a chance to enter the shop, though that meant the door pressed against several of the women who were already fingering the yarns. One or two more protested as she tried to push past them. Outside, the group had only been murmuring, but inside there was a great deal of talking and some higher-pitched complaining.