‘I’d be delighted to. This is going to be amazing,’ I say, dashing towards the small table.
‘But before you do, I’m going to ask you a question now,’ Hettie states, ominously and very directly.
‘Um, sure …’ I stop moving.
‘Why are you so unhappy on the inside when you look so glamorous on the outside? Apart from the grey skin of course, but we can fix that!’ She shrugs and tilts her head to one side. Silence follows while I reel again from her directness. I open my mouth to answer, and then close it again, realising that I actually have no idea where to begin to explain it all to her, and to be honest, I’m not sure I even want to, because by doing so, it will be as if all the heartache over Luke and my very own twin sister hurting me, and then my feelings of inadequacy and letting everyone down on my wedding day added to messing up at work will just get in the way and tarnish the new life I have here, even if it is only for a weekend.
But it’s a whole weekend to be anonymous with nobody nudging their mate and saying, ‘Ooh, yes, didn’t you know? She’s the one whose boyfriend dumped her at the altar,’ in a hushed voice, like they do at work. Yes, I’ve overheard them, but then I’ve never really fitted in there, never been a part of the clique. I’ve always felt as though I’m swimming upstream and that’s probably because it isn’t what I really want to be doing with my life. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand and try not to wobble into another embarrassing meltdown as I did over breakfast this morning. I really thought I was making some progress, being here in Tindledale and the whole change of scenery, especially after the pampering session with Lawrence earlier on, but maybe I got it wrong … It’s Hettie who moves the moment on.
‘Why don’t I make us a nice fresh pot of tea, dear, and then you can tell me all about it – we can cast on and have a good old knit and natter?’ She smiles kindly, momentarily resting her hand gently on my forearm, almost as a gesture of solidarity, and I can’t stave them off any longer … tears well in the corners of my eyes. I instantly blink them away. Then, much to my surprise, I realise that I don’t actually feel sad, not at all, not in the way I used to. Instead I feel calm and relaxed, free almost. I look into her eyes and smile.
‘I’d love that so much.’
‘Me too, dear. Me too,’ Hettie says.
Later, and after many cups of tea and Lawrence’s truly scrumptious roast beef, rocket, mustard and tomato sandwiches (I had to say that I was hungry and could really do with one, in order for Hettie to even entertain the idea and accept a round of sandwiches for her lunch) and having totally lost track of time, Hettie and I have made exceedingly good progress on the Christmas pudding jumper. We’ve each finished our sleeves, had a good natter while we knitted, and yes, I caved in and ended up telling her all about Luke and Sasha and what happened on that horrible day in the church. I tried asking her about herself and her own past, but she was very reluctant to talk, preferring to listen to me.
‘So, Sybil’ (Hettie told me that she can’t call me Sybs because it’s not ‘proper’) ‘you must soldier on. No point in dwelling on the past. Believe me, it gets you nowhere,’ she says wistfully, carefully folding her sleeve and placing it neatly in her lap.
‘But what about your time in America, Hettie? Surely that was exciting? And what took you there? Was it love?’ I venture, finishing my tea and wondering if perhaps she’ll open up a bit this time. Despite my own disastrous love life, I’m a sucker for a good romantic story. Plus, I’m keen to know if she has any family, someone to look after her when she can’t look after herself any longer.
‘I suppose you could say that …’ A short silence follows and I will her to share the story. I’m fascinated, especially after spotting a black-and-white photo on the mantelpiece above the fire in the kitchen-cum-sitting-room out the back. It shows a beautiful, svelte woman wearing a jewelled turban and a leotard with black tights and high-heeled dancing shoes. She’s sitting on a chair, leaning forward, with her legs crossed and her elbows resting on her knees, hands cupping her chin in a proper professionally staged pose. It’s very glamorous. And it’s signed too.
‘Sounds intriguing,’ I prompt.
‘Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking. Not a man! Although that did follow for a while.’ Hettie places her cup back on the table and looks me straight in the eye. ‘In addition to the knitting of course, my true love was dancing. Still is. It’s what I went to America for … to Hollywood.’
‘Really?’ I say, incredulously. ‘But that’s amazing. I saw the picture on the—’ I gesture to behind the brocade curtain.
‘Yes, that was taken in 1953, I had just turned twenty-two,’ she muses.
‘It’s you?’ I make big eyes.
‘Yes, believe it or not,’ Hettie nods, smiling wryly. ‘I wasn’t always this old.’ She glances down at herself with a look on her face as if she’s seeing the wrinkled, bony body of an old lady for the very first time. ‘But that was before—’ She stops abruptly and her face crumples slightly. I manage to resist the urge to leap from my armchair and scoop her up into an enormous cuddle.
‘And the signature? Is that yours?’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. She’s clearly distressed again about something as she’s now clasping and unclasping her hands and staring at the knitted sleeve in her lap.
‘Oh no, Gene did that,’ she mutters, not looking up.
‘Gene?’
‘Yes, dear, Gene Kelly!’ she says in a breezy voice before lifting herself from the armchair, placing the sleeve on the table and padding out to the back, leaving me to reunite my jaw with the rest of my face. I’m literally speechless. Wow! The actual Gene Kelly. But he’s a legend. I know he’s long gone, but honestly, he’s up there with the icons – Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra and the like, and everyone knows that these guys live on for all eternity. And it just goes to show; I would never have guessed that she was a dancer in Hollywood – the little old lady who lives in a tiny village in the English countryside. And didn’t Lawrence say that her ancestors, the Honey family, had been here for centuries? If that’s the case, then how did Hettie get to go to Hollywood and dance with Gene Kelly? But, more intriguingly – why on earth did she come back?
I’m contemplating following Hettie out to the kitchen, wondering if she might want to be alone for a bit, when the bell jangles and the shop door opens, bringing in a fine flurry of snow and a blast of chilly air. Basil galvanises himself into action and does a lame bark before bouncing over to see who’s at the door. The figure stamps welly-clad feet on the mat before pushing the hood of its tattered old brown waxy Driza-Bone mac down, and ah, I recognise her: it’s the flashlight woman from last night.
Hettie reappears, darts a glance in my direction and I can instantly see that the moment has vanished; she has her stoic face in place and her guard well and truly back up.
‘Marigold,’ Hettie says warmly, stepping forward to clasp the woman’s hands in hers before dipping down into a little curtsey then standing tall again and giving her friend a hug. Marigold or should I say, Lady Fuller-Hamilton, squeezes Hettie’s thin frame affectionately, and I’m sure I spot a glimmer of shock on her face as she rubs her hand up and down in between Hettie’s shoulder blades but she keeps the smile firmly in place and, after letting Hettie go, she takes a step backwards.
‘Oh, Hettie, we’ll never tire of that old joke will we?’ Marigold laughs, shaking her head.
‘I don’t think so, but then it’s your own fault for marrying the earl’s younger son!’
‘Hmm, much to the old earl’s chagrin.’ Marigold frowns, shaking her head.
‘And to think, you could have had your pick of the village lads.’ The two women chuckle some more at the seemingly in-joke. ‘So, what brings you in here?’ Hettie says, the first to compose herself.
‘Well, I drove past earlier on my way up to the village and saw you both through the window, knitting and nattering away you were, and I thought I’d pop in on my way back, and be exceedingly nosey.
’ She flings her head back and does her trademark roar of a laugh – I realise it as such now, remembering the laugh from last night – which now seems like an eternity ago. I can’t believe I’ve only been in Tindledale for less than a day – I feel as if I’ve been here for ever, but what’s that old adage? Time flies when you’re having fun. ‘And hello again, dear,’ Marigold says, smiling in my direction. ‘Such a pity about Sonny and Cher’s unfortunate sleeping arrangements, but I trust you are comfortable at the B&B? Lawrence will look after you, that’s for sure. A true gentleman.’ And she does her roar again.
‘Oh yes, he’s the perfect host too,’ I reply politely, not even going there on the ‘how does she even know that I’m staying at the B&B?’ thing, because it’s a given, of course she knows; everyone knows about everyone here in Tindledale. Apart from me, and I want to know all about Hettie and her amazing life as a dancer with Gene Kelly in the golden age of Hollywood. I make a mental note to see if Lawrence knows, or Ruby perhaps. And then it strikes me. Oh my God. What if Hettie was in that film, the famous one, the one Mum loves and always sets up the Sky+ to record when it’s on over Christmas, to watch when she gets home after the cruise. Singin’ in the Rain, that’s the one. Oh, how exciting. I make another mental note to get on Google and type in Hettie Honey at the first opportunity. I wonder what Hettie is short for? Hmm, I’ll ask Google that too.
‘So come on then, what’s going on? You two looked as if you were having a whale of a time together. And you know me, Hettie, never one to miss out on the fun. Are you sure you won’t come along to my bridge club? We have such a marvellous time, I’m sure you’d enjoy it Hettie, and then there are the jollies; we’re all off on a day trip next week to a Christmas market in Germany – perfect place to pick up some nice stocking fillers,’ Marigold says, and in my periphery vision I can see Hettie clasping her hands and looking anxious again, so I jump in.
‘Knitting and natter! As you saw on your way past, exactly that. Hettie kindly offered to help me with a knitting project that I need to have finished in record time,’ I say brightly, and Hettie stops clasping.
‘Knitting! Ooh, I’d love to see. I haven’t knitted for years, but I always loved it as a girl. What are you making?’ Marigold pulls her mac off and wanders over to pick up the pattern from the low table between mine and Hettie’s armchairs. ‘Ah, a splendid Christmas jumper. What a jolly idea. Lucan would love one, the grandchildren too. How much do you charge?’ Marigold looks first to Hettie and then to me.
‘Oh, we, er, well, we haven’t really got that far.’ Hettie pats her bun and glances in my direction.
‘Yes, we’re still working out the prices for the bespoke knitwear but you’re more than welcome to join our new knit-and-natter group if you wanted to knit a jumper of your own,’ I say, taking a chance on this being OK with Hettie – they are friends after all, and the more the merrier. Besides, it’ll be nice for Hettie to have the company after I go home.
‘I’d love to, but I’m not sure my knitting skills are up to a whole jumper,’ Marigold says.
‘Then you can make yourself useful and knit the scarf to go with this set,’ Hettie says, in her usual brusque way, but Marigold doesn’t seem fazed.
‘Oh, what fun. When can I start?’ She looks around the shop for somewhere to sit.
‘No time like the present. Here,’ Hettie lifts a pile of old newspapers to reveal yet another armchair. Smiling, I jump up and push it over to the window next to the other chairs to form a cosy semi-circle.
‘In that case, I’ll fetch in some mince pies from the car. I just picked up a batch from The Spotted Pig and can’t wait to sample one. Kitty’s cakes are always exceedingly good, as that Mr Kipling would say. And I’m sure you two could do with a cake break.’ Marigold claps her hands together and does her roar, seemingly pleased with the plan, before turning towards the door.
‘And I’ll put the kettle on,’ Hettie beams, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. Once Marigold has closed the shop door behind her, Hettie leans into me and whispers, ‘She’s not much of a knitter you know, I used to babysit her when she was a child, and I tried my best to teach her. But you can hardly go wrong with a scarf now, can you?’ I smile as confirmation. ‘You should have seen the flock of sheep she made for the church nativity scene one year, shocking they were.’ Hettie purses her lips and bats a bony hand in the air. ‘Only managed to knit two lambs and her sewing together was so atrocious, the seams unravelled within minutes. Minutes. Even the vicar was aghast.’ Hettie does a snort of disapproval and I have to stifle a giggle. ‘But she has a good heart; her father was a pig farmer and she married well,’ Hettie rushes to finish, barely drawing breath as Marigold comes back through the shop door with a cake box tucked under her arm and a bulging net of logs swinging in her left hand.
‘Is the chimney open in here, Hettie?’ Marigold yells out to the back where Hettie has scarpered, before dumping the logs by the grate of the little fireplace set in the wall next to the old yarn section. Hettie pops her head around the curtain, her cheeks flushed.
‘Yes, I think so, but I don’t have any coal …’ Hettie’s voice trails off, not having seen the logs in her rush to scoot away after gossiping. I have to suppress another giggle. ‘I have firelighters and matches though,’ she adds quickly, before ducking back behind the curtain to retrieve them.
‘Marvellous! It’s perishing in here so let’s get a fire going and then someone can cast me on; I’ll be fine to knit away if you can help me with that – it’s the bit I struggle with,’ Marigold roars, assembling the firelighters and logs around some scrunched up sheets of old newspaper she’s taken from a pile. In no time at all, the logs are crackling and the shop starts to warm up nicely. Basil, seizing the opportunity, repositions himself on the tiled hearth to bask, yet again, in the heat. He’s going to be ruined for ever now when he has to make do with dull, inanimate radiators back home in the flat in London.
Hettie returns with the tea tray, which she sets down on the table and then busies herself with sorting out wool and needles for Marigold. I stifle a yawn.
‘Oh dear, keeping you up are we?’ Hettie says, casting on for Marigold before handing her the needles and wool to continue. ‘Knit one purl one. Simple,’ she says to Marigold before looking back to me.
‘Yes, sorry, I’ve not been sleeping well—’
‘Then why don’t you dart off up to the village?’ Hettie says, giving me a knowing look. I’d told her about the message on the newspaper and she agrees with Lawrence. ‘Oh, how exciting. An illicit rendezvous,’ is what she said then. But now ‘Perhaps a nice book will help you to sleep,’ Hettie adds suggestively, making very big eyes, and Marigold cottons on – her knitting face (steely concentration, complete with poking-out tongue) freezes.
‘What’s going on?’ She stops moving her needles and looks first at me and then to Hettie with a quizzical look on her face now. I inhale sharply.
‘You can tell her,’ Hettie nods reassuringly. So I do.
‘Then you absolutely must get up to the village. Oh my, this is so romantic!’ Marigold practically squeals in delight. ‘Get into the bookshop before it closes. Oh, I’m so glad I popped in; this is the most fun I’ve had in ages. Just between us girls,’ she pauses to do illicit left-then-right eyes as if someone might be listening, while I smile at her calling us girls, ‘the bridge club can be very stuffy, but Lucan likes me to be involved, says it’s nice for us to show an interest in village life and the other members expect it now after all these years,’ she sighs, then takes a big bite of a mince pie, carefully cupping her hand underneath so as not to get crumbs on the scarf before pulling a hanky from her sleeve to wipe her fingers and mouth.
‘And we’ve made good progress on the pullover so I’m sure we can spare you,’ Hettie says, reaching for her cup of tea. ‘If you go now, you can hop onto the next bus.’ We all glance at the wall clock and see that it’s nearly four o’clock. On the hour, every hour.
‘B
ut Hettie, I can’t just abandon you to knit on without me, not when you’re doing me a favour in the first place,’ I say, feeling very cheeky.
‘Nonsense. I’m here to help out now, and you’ll be back tomorrow,’ Marigold insists. ‘I’ll rope in some of the other girls too, for the mittens, and I’m sure Ruby won’t mind a few extra items – hat and scarf sets make very nice stocking fillers.’ Cue her roar again. ‘My neighbour, two fields over, is a very keen knitter.’
‘Is that Louise?’ Hettie asks.
‘That’s the one. Mrs Zass-Bangham, do you know her?’
‘She used to pop in for her wool, but not for a while now …’ Hettie’s voice trails off.
‘I think she buys from online these days.’
‘Online? Where’s that?’ Hettie asks suspiciously, as if there’s a mysterious competitor sprung up in Tindledale somewhere, which might account for her lack of customers in recent years.
‘It’s in the computer. Lucan does all the banking there too.’
‘It has a bank?’
‘Well, not an actual bank like the HSBC Portakabin next to the parish council office where Dolly’s sister in Stoneley works,’ Marigold says earnestly, while I can’t help thinking that this is just like watching a live episode of Mrs Brown’s Boys. Mind boggling.
‘Dolly with the younger husband?’ I chip in, hazarding a guess that there aren’t two women called Dolly who live in Stoneley.
‘Yes, that’s the one. Lovely lady. And a very lucky one too with that devilishly handsome new husband of hers,’ Marigold roars. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Well, not really, we just met on the train from London.’
The Great Christmas Knit Off Page 10