by T. S. Easton
Then she’d kiss me in the Bronx. As it were. We’d move into a nice brownstone apartment on the Upper West Side and I’d turn into a beardie hippy type and she’d do charity work and have an affair but own up to it and we’d get through it together and I’m going to stop because this whole thing is just turning into a John Irving novel and I don’t even like John Irving.
I’ve got to stop obsessing over Jessica Swallow. I have a girlfriend!
5.47pm
I had a call from Mr Hollis just now. The neat man from Virilia who has taken such an interest in my entrepreneurials.
‘Hello, Ben,’ he said. ‘I hear you’re off to New York.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I’m going to the KnitFair USA.’
‘There might be some fantastic business opportunities there for you, Ben.’
I hadn’t really thought too much about that, to be honest.
‘Our parent company in the US is called Priapia,’ he went on. ‘Now, they have a clothing and textiles arm. It would be useful for you to meet with them.’
‘Would it?’ I asked. I felt tendrils of anxiety suddenly creep down my spine. ‘What would I say?’
‘Oh, it would be very informal,’ Mr Hollis said. ‘They’re all very friendly. Just a chat, really.’
‘What about?’ I pressed.
‘I think you should show them your clever design. The thing is, Ben, you are quite marketable. A young, male knitter, engaging, good-looking, if you don’t mind me saying … ’
Was he coming on to me?
‘Textiles and clothing is a crowded market, Ben,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to get a product to stand out. Your cardigan design, and your story, might just be able to do it.’
‘Really? I’m just a kid from Hampton.’
‘Sometimes that’s all that people are looking for.’
Tuesday 30th April
4.33pm
So I get a call today.
‘Ben?’
‘Yes, Ben speaking.’
‘It’s Freddie.’
‘Hi, Freddie, how’s the verruca?’
‘Hurts,’ he said. ‘I talked to Mum, about going to New Orleans?’
‘New York?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I meant. She says I can’t go.’
‘So now she’s being all maternal, is she?’ I said, a bit annoyed. ‘I mean, who was it who left you and your nine-year-old sister home alone for an entire weekend with nothing more than a multipack of Walkers crisps.’
‘And some custard creams,’ he reminded me.
‘Yeah, all right, but the point remains –’
‘I don’t have a passport,’ Freddie interrupted me calmly. ‘She says I can’t go because I don’t have a passport.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Fair enough.’
Another one bites the dust. Who’s next?
Oh, that’s right.
My mother.
7.52pm
Don’t get me wrong. I love my mum. And we get on very well most of the time, when she’s around. But when I heard I’d won a week in New York for two my first thought was not, ‘Ooh, I hope Mum’s free!’
But I’m desperate now.
‘Do you fancy coming to New York with me, Mum?’
Mum and Dad glanced at each other in surprise.
‘It’s just that Megan can’t come, and I know you love the US. I have a spare ticket. It means missing out on climbing Mount Snowdon, of course … ha ha … ’ but I tailed off at the sight of her embarrassed face.
‘Ah. The thing is, Ben … ’ she began.
‘Oh God, Mum,’ I said shaking my head slowly. ‘You’re not going to turn me down as well?’ I’m such a loser, I can’t even get my mum to go to New York with me.
‘Well, not exactly,’ she said. ‘The thing is, your father and I are coming anyway.’
I paused. ‘What?’
‘We’re coming with you, anyway,’ she repeated.
‘Try stopping us!’ Dad said.
‘No Snowdonia?’
‘Snowdonia will still be there when we get back,’ Dad said.
‘What about Molly?’
‘She’s going to stay with Auntie Angela.’
‘And school?’
‘She’s seven. She can miss a week.’
‘Can you afford to fly to America?’
‘It’s all right,’ Dad said. ‘I’ve been getting loads of work lately. And your mum’s been turning tricks.’
My eyes bulged.
‘I’ve sold one of my tricks,’ she corrected him.
‘Which one?’ I asked.
‘The Corpse Bride.’
‘Is that the one where you murder someone in the audience?’
‘I don’t murder them, I accidentally kill them and it’s not real,’ Mum said impatiently. ‘Anyway. Now I’m suspended by the Magic Circle, and your father has his bad knee, we thought it might be a good time to get away.’
‘Well, that’s … a big surprise,’ I said. I wasn’t really sure how I felt about both of them being there, to be honest. I’d been looking forward to getting away from Dad for a while, but if I wasn’t going to be going with Megan, then it wasn’t as if they’d be cramping my style. And since I couldn’t find anyone else to go with me, then at least I’d have some company.
‘I won’t be able to do sightseeing with you,’ I said. ‘At least not every day.’
‘I’m sure we’ll keep ourselves busy,’ Mum said, winking at Dad.
‘Your mum’s going to look up an old flame,’ Dad said.
‘What?’ I said. ‘What old flame?’
‘His name’s Diablo,’ Dad said archly.
‘Diablo is not an old flame,’ Mum said to me, blushing. ‘We were in the same class at Magic School. We practised our prestidigitation together.’
‘I’ll bet you did,’ Dad said.
‘If you’d rather I didn’t see him … ’ Mum began.
‘I don’t mind,’ Dad said. ‘But if he tries to stick his sword into your magic box I’ll … ’
‘I’m going to my bedroom,’ I said hurriedly, darting for the door.
I spent the rest of the evening knitting a pair of orthopaedic compression stockings to combat DVT on the plane. I tried them on and they’re a snug fit all right. Not particularly attractive, but very definitely orthopaedic.
Dear Ben,
It was good to talk to you the other day. I just wanted to pass on the details of our parent company in the States.
Priapia
175 5th Avenue
New York, New York
I’ve taken the liberty of contacting one of my associates, Robert D’Angelo. He has asked if you could pop in to see him at 10.00am on Wednesday 15th May. He’d love to see a sample of the Hoopie and chat to you about your interest in knitting. It will be a casual, informal meeting, but please note that punctuality is very important in US business.
Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions.
Yours sincerely,
James Hollis
Virilia Investments
Wednesday 1st May
I went to visit Mrs Frensham today. Considering the circumstance under which we met – me knocking her over with a stolen bottle of Martini Rosso – we’ve become quite good friends. You might say it’s odd: a teenage boy being buddies with a pensioner, but she’s good company now that she’s stopped trying to decapitate me with giant lollipops, and we share a mutual interest in the craft of knitting.
It was too cold to sit in the Knitshed, so Mrs Frensham and I sat around her gas fire instead chatting and stitching. Jasper, her dog, lay between us, farting occasionally. The outdoor work I was doing for Mrs Frensham as part of my community service (following aforementioned Martini Rosso incident) is pretty much all finished, but our Monday night sessions have become an institution and I couldn’t possibly stop visiting now. She usually finds a few jobs for me to do around the house before we get down to the serious business of knitting.
M
rs Frensham is working on a pair of hand warmers at the moment, which I’m actually a bit jels about. I don’t have time for little luxuries such as hand warmers. It’s all big-scale Hoopies and tank tops for me. I’m also doing a Hampton FC scarf for Dad’s birthday. It’s a double-knit using extra warm 4-ply. Scientifically designed to withstand the absolute zero temperatures at the ground.
Mrs Frensham was on the NY hitlist but when it came to it I had my doubts about actually asking a sixty-four-year old woman to come on holiday with me. I’d only put her down in the first place because I wanted to reassure myself that I had lots of friends. In fairness, she does love knitting and I always feel comfortable and relaxed in her presence, but I’m not sure that necessarily would carry us through a flight to New York and a week in a three-star Manhattan hotel. Our odd friendship works because we have a comfortable routine, in a familiar, safe environment and I probably shouldn’t mess with that.
‘How’s that girl of yours?’ Mrs Frensham asked.
‘Megan? She’s OK.’
‘Introduced you to her parents yet?’
‘Oh yes. I get on well with her mum, she has fantastic Tupperware.’
‘Fantastic what?’
‘Tupperware. All the lids fit all the boxes. You get shallow boxes, middle-sized boxes and deep boxes. But the lids are interchangeable.’
‘Oh, when you said “Tupperware”,’ said Mrs Frensham, ‘I thought you were meaning something else.’
‘Funny you should say, but last week I did see a bit of Mrs Hooper’s Tupperware,’ I told her. ‘When she left her bedroom door open a bit. I caught a glimpse in the mirror as I walked past. She has a very impressive collection,’ I added. ‘Of actual Tupperware, I mean.’
‘I’m sure she does,’ Mrs Frensham said.
I’ve got to watch myself on the double entendres, or else I’ll turn into my parents. Damn them!
We paused for a while to concentrate on our respective knitting, the only sounds the pleasant click of the needles, the hiss of the gas fire and the quiet gurgle of Jasper’s digestive tract.
‘I hope you haven’t told Megan how much you admire her mother’s Tupperware,’ Mrs Frensham said after a while, as though reading my thoughts.
‘I might have mentioned it,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Good-looking woman that Naomi Hooper,’ said Mrs Frensham.
‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘Anyway, Megan’s refusing to come to New York with me.’
‘I’m sure she has her reasons.’
‘Yeah, like she’s gone off me.’
‘Maybe,’ Mrs Frensham said absently.
‘Do you think she’s gone off me?’
‘She might.’
Mrs Frensham’s honesty was in some ways refreshing but at the same time completely unwelcome.
‘Actually,’ I said defensively, ‘it’s to do with her gran being ill.’
Mrs Frensham looked up sharply. ‘Lottie? Lottie’s ill, is she?’
‘Do you know her?’
‘Yeah. She’s a Portsmouth girl like me.’
‘Were you in the same class at school, then?’
Mrs Frensham threw a pincushion at me.
‘She’s twenty years older than me, you little twerp!’
‘Oh sorry.’
‘Do I look the same age as her, is that what you’re saying?’
‘No,’ I said.
Yes, I thought. They were both white-haired and wrinkly. They dressed the same. How was I to know?’She was my teacher,’ Mrs Frensham. ‘Lovely lady.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Though she can’t remember my name. She calls me Simon.’
‘She used to know a lad called Simon,’ Mrs Frensham said, a faint smile came over her face. ‘Handsome bloke.’
‘Really?’ I asked, feeling pleased with myself. ‘I suppose that’s why she thinks I’m him.’
‘Maybe.’ Mrs Frensham looked at me doubtfully. ‘So you think Lottie being ill is the reason she’s not coming with you?’
‘That’s what she said.’ I shrugged. Who knew what the truth was.
Dammit! I’ve just looked closely at the Hampton FC scarf I’ve been knitting for Dad and have realised I’ve misspelled Hampton as Hamton throughout. His birthday is tomorrow, I’ve no time to knit another.
Hamton FC. Twelve times.
What can I do?
10.15pm
I emailed Marie from the Knitwits! podcast and she got back to me straight away, asking if I’d like to meet up and record an interview while I’m over in New York. This is a big deal. I have no idea how many people listen to that podcast but there must be loads. Everything about it is proper quality, except for Marie’s sidekick, Alanna, who’s slightly irritating. And also they’re going through a phase of knitting mainly animal-shaped cushions at the moment which doesn’t interest me so much, frankly. But apart from that, it’s the best knitting podcast I’ve found. She’s going to contact me again while I’m in New York to arrange the exact time and place.
So who’s next on the list after Mrs Frensham? Joe Boyle, who I put on as a joke. Hampton FC’s star forward is not going to want to spend a week with a knitting weed in New York, even flying Executive Club. And anyway, what would we talk about? We don’t have anything in common except that we both fancy his girlfriend and it might make things awkward if that came up.
So after Joe is Natasha. The full-figured girl who runs Pullinger’s, where I get my wool. She’s an interesting possibility.
Three things in favour:
1) She has a genuine interest in knitting.
2) We get on well.
3) Megan might be jealous.
Three things against:
1) I suspect that Natasha secretly fancies me, which could make things difficult.
2) She talks ALL THE TIME.
3) Megan might be so jealous she dumps me.
Thursday 2nd May
Popped into Pullinger’s after school to pick up more Hoopie wool. Natasha was working. She was wearing a low-cut top and kept leaning over the counter blinking at me.
‘So, I’m going to New York next week … ’ I began.
‘I LOVE New York,’ she said. ‘So romantic.’
‘Well, it’s only to KnitFair USA,’ I said, playing things down.
‘God, I wish I was going to KnitFair USA,’ she sighed. ‘I’d give anything.’
‘Mum and Dad are tagging along,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘How sad is that?’
‘Brilliant!’ she said. ‘Your dad is so funny.’
‘Is he?’
‘And your mum’s magic tricks! So clever.’ She blinked quickly again.
Having trouble with your contact lenses?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said, looking puzzled. ‘I’ve not got them in today.’
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be pretty busy in New York … Media commitments and so on.’
She gazed at me like I was Harry Styles. ‘Wow. You’re going to be on the telly?’
‘Probably not. Newspapers, maybe. I have my own PR person. Her name is Brandi, would you believe?’
‘Brandi?’ She interrupted the blinking for a moment so she could raise an eyebrow.
‘She works for the Knitting Guild Association of America, or something,’ I explained.
‘People in PR can be a little false, don’t you think?’ Natasha suggested.
‘I’m sure she’s not like that.’
‘Just be careful, Ben.’
‘I will,’ I said, hurriedly paying for my purchases and heading for the door.
I mentally crossed off the one person on my list who would have bitten my arm off for the ticket if offered. I felt a bit bad about not asking her. But some people just want it too much.
Who’s next on the list?
Oh God.
6.45pm
Gave Dad his Hamton FC scarf just as he was about to head out on a twenty-mile bike ride. This is how middle-aged men like to spend their birthdays, apparently.
&
nbsp; He held the scarf like it was the Turin Shroud.
‘It’s beautiful, Ben,’ he said quietly.
‘It’s just a scarf,’ I replied, embarrassed by his reaction. ‘And I spelled Hampton wrong.’ He looked up at me, his eyes slightly moist.
‘That just makes it even more special,’ he said. ‘No one else will have a scarf quite like this.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Thanks, Ben,’ he said. ‘I’ll wear it on Saturday. In fact I’m going to wear it now.’ And then he went off on his bike, wearing brightly coloured Lycra, the scarf wrapped three times around his neck. Dad’s obviously at that age where he’s quite comfortable being a figure of fun. He honestly doesn’t care what he looks like. Both he and Mum are either completely unaware of how embarrassing they are in public or else they like it. I think parents get off on embarrassing their children. How else to explain the ridiculous clothes, the awful music, the kaleidoscopic outdoor Christmas decorations?
Friday 3rd May
4.12pm
‘You should have come to the party, innit?’
‘Yes, I heard about the party,’ I said. ‘It sounded grim.’
I’d caught up with Gex in the park, and we sat around there for a while, wasting time watching the younger kids from Gex’s estate throw bricks at passing trains on the Portsmouth line. Now we’d come back to his little house on Ratchett Street (or Ratshit Street as Gex calls it) with the mattress in the front garden. I like to think that if I’m ever down on my luck and reduced to sleeping rough, I know there’ll always be a bed for me in Gex’s front yard. It’s a bit rough round here. If Hampton were New York, Gex would live downtown. Very downtown. Possibly under the town. Today he was dressed as a gangsta-rapper, with shades, a singlet and a huge gold watch. We were eating cheese toasties in his kitchen.
‘It was the nuts, man,’ he said. ‘It really kicked off.’
‘I heard the police were called.’
‘Yeah! They didn’t do nothing,’ Gex said, shrugging. ‘Just took a couple of lads off and then we got back to it.’