The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘The arrears on your secured loan – we have a warrant to seize goods to the value of …’ the clipboard one says, sounding like a recording, having clearly practised the words beforehand. He checks his list and my heart sinks. I clasp my hands up under my chin. Poor Hettie. ‘Four thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two pounds and sixteen pence.’

  ‘Whaaaat?’ I gasp.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll take care of this,’ Marigold breathes, not missing a beat and placing a steadying hand on my arm. ‘There’s obviously some kind of mix-up.’ One of the guys clears his throat before doing a phlegmy spit on the pavement. Jesus Christ. I turn away, trying not to heave.

  ‘Nope. No mix-up. If you can escort us in so we can get it over with you’ll be given a full inventory of the seized goods.’ And the two men go to walk off.

  ‘Hold on!’ I whisper-yell so as not to alert Hettie or the others, my hackles well and truly raised, making my voice sound shrill. ‘You can’t do that.’ But the two men just keep on walking towards Hettie’s lovely House of Haberdashery.

  ‘You heard the lady.’ Marigold marches forward and stands firmly in front of them with her hands on her hips, blocking their path. One of the men goes to barge past her but she grabs the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that, madam.’ The guy lifts her hand away with an extra-menacing look on his greasy, blackhead-covered face.

  ‘Then what would you advise, young man, because I am telling you that there isn’t anything worth that kind of money inside the shop?’ Marigold folds her arms underneath her ample bosoms, sounding even more ‘Lady of the Manor’ now. I glance away, knowing that what she’s saying isn’t strictly true. I reckon Hettie’s mother’s old Singer machine is probably worth quite a bit – it’s in exceptional condition – but I just know that it would break Hettie’s heart if these two were to cart it away like a piece of old junk. We can’t let that happen.

  ‘The loan is secured on the house and the warrant covers all the contents, so we’ll clear the lot – TVs, washing machine, jewellery – if that’s what it takes to recover the arrears.’ A stunned silence follows while the two men try to stare us out.

  ‘So, let me get this clear: if the arrears are cleared then this all goes away?’ I ask, sweeping a hand through the air and shaking my head as if to gain some clarity on the situation.

  ‘Nice try, sweetheart, but nah! It don’t work like that. The arrears need to be cleared and then the rest of the payments have to be made on time, every month, or we come back and take the lot – TVs, washing mach—’

  ‘Yep, I get it – TVs, washing machine, jewellery, etc. You said that already.’ The guy doing the talking gives me a sarcastic smile, which I promptly replicate.

  ‘And the house and the shop if necessary,’ the phlegmy man grunts.

  ‘You will certainly do no such thing. This is outrageous,’ Marigold hisses. There’s a short silence. I rack my brains desperately searching for a solution, anything to stop them from going inside and upsetting Hettie. She’ll be absolutely devastated, mortified with embarrassment too, especially if they do this in front of the others. And what will the rest of the villagers think? They’ll all be upset for her, I reckon, and it’ll take about two seconds for word to get round, not in a gossipy way, as they don’t strike me as the type of people to be like that, the ones I’ve met anyway – apart from Adam, of course, and that bossy witch, Mrs Pocket.

  A plan starts to hatch. I step forward until I’m standing adjacent to Marigold, and square on to the thugs hired by the bank or the dodgy finance company or whatever Hettie’s nephew has roped in to scare old ladies living in rural little villages. Well, they don’t scare me! I see their type every day, hanging out on the corner of my street thinking they’re the bollocks with their status dogs in stupid, oversized studded collars, cos that makes them look hard-as, not.

  ‘How much?’ I keep my voice steady and strong. I can see Marigold in my peripheral vision. The men stare at me.

  ‘Yes, how much?’ Marigold joins in. ‘How much for this horrible misunderstanding to go away?’

  ‘Oh, it ain’t going away, lady,’ the clipboard guy says, with added snark.

  ‘We get that, but I’ve seen the programmes on TV and bailiffs doing deals. Surely you can take a part payment?’ I say, unflinching and looking them right in the eyes. I’ve had just about enough of men thinking they can mess women around. Luke did that, but I survived; I didn’t shrivel up and die, so no! This worm has turned. ‘Come on. I’m waiting for an answer.’ I’m on a roll now. ‘Ten percent should do it and the rest in—’

  ‘Five hundred might buy you some time,’ Clipboard says begrudgingly in Marigold’s direction. ‘I’ll call the guvnor.’ And he pulls out a mobile. I surreptitiously cross my fingers and do a silent prayer – let’s hope he gets a signal.

  ‘Yep.’ He’s through! Thank God. He must have that one bar that Dr Ben gets when leaning out of his skylight window. ‘Nah. Yep. Yep. Nah. Yep. OK, boss.’ And he ends the call. ‘Five hundred now and the balance in full within two weeks.’

  But that’s right before Christmas! It could even be Christmas Eve! What happened to the season of goodwill? Hettie’s an old lady who’s been duped by her only living relative and it’s just so unfair. I’ve a good mind to hunt the nephew down and force him to stump up the money to pay off the loan that he tricked her into signing up for in the first place. I bet he knew this would happen and it’s all part of some hideous plan to get her out of the house and off the land so he can then buy it back at a rock bottom price when it goes to auction following repossession.

  The bailiff unzips his jacket and stuffs the mobile away – and oh my God, he’s wearing a bulletproof vest. Sweet Jesus, what did he think was going to happen here today? That Hettie might attack him with a fistful of knitting needles?

  ‘Perfect!’ Marigold claps her hands together in glee and I glance at her sideways in horror, praying they don’t cotton on to her not being the real Henrietta Honey. ‘Oh, um, sorry, I’m just so relieved.’ She fiddles with her hair and smiles sheepishly before hugging her arms around her body, shivering in the sub zero wintery air. I hadn’t even noticed how cold it is out here; it’s weird how a rush of adrenalin does that to a person. And how the hell are we going to scrape together that amount of money at literally no notice? Perhaps the village store has a cash machine; I could probably do it, if the direct debit for this month’s rent hasn’t left my account yet. It’s Marigold who saves the day. ‘I’ll get my purse. Do you take Amex?’ she says, in a very breezy voice. The two men stare at her, goggle-eyed and speechless, both doing the gormless breathy thing again. Maybe they are genuinely stupid, because they haven’t even asked for Marigold, aka Henrietta Honey’s, ID or anything – but then if they get the money, even just some of it, then what do they care?

  ‘Sorry, what, um, er, Hettie really meant was, do you take cards or does it actually have to be hard cash?’ I squirm, but to my utter surprise he replies.

  ‘Debit cards only.’ And whips out a handheld card machine.

  ‘Hurrah! How very civilised!’ roars Marigold, making me want to shrivel up in the corner of the bus shelter and quietly evaporate.

  ‘Hey, Sybs. Come on in honey.’ Ruby is at the back of the shop, a gorgeous little boutique crammed full of all kinds of goodies. Frank Sinatra is singing ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ from a red Dansette record player, creating a cosy, nostalgic feel. A rainbow of old-fashioned paper chains are looped from a chandelier in the centre of the ceiling, cascading out to each corner of the shop. Red crepe Santa lanterns are swinging in a row on one wall that’s papered in Elvis Presley print, the iconic black-and-white Jailhouse Rock image. It’s so kitsch and fascinating; like stepping back in time to another era. There’s even a shelf with a row of old-fashioned sweet jars with cola cubes and pear drops. Blimey, there’s even one stuffed full of Parma Violets. I haven’t had those in years.

  I weave my way through,
in between the racks and racks of vintage clothes. The suitcase is in my arms as the handle is broken and no amount of gaffer tape was going to keep it all together. A festive red poinsettia plant is perched on top – I bought it from the florist three doors along – and Ruby’s jeans and blouse, together with the Christmas pudding jumper, matching mittens and a long, crimson-coloured scarf are nestling inside a paper Hettie’s House of Haberdashery carrier bag looped over my left wrist. I’d found a stack of bags languishing under the counter. So with my handbag swinging precariously from my shoulder and Basil bouncing beside me on his lead looped over my right wrist, I have to be extra careful not to bump into the mannequins. Each one is dressed in a pretty dress: short and fitted, classic designer, long and floaty, and all with coordinating accessories like big hats, beady necklaces. One even has a swingy black bob and aviator shades on and is definitely a favourite; it’s wearing a glorious fuchsia pink patterned Pucci maxi dress with a matching resin wrist cuff.

  ‘Wow, your shop is fantastic!’ I say, ducking down into Ruby’s little office that’s cleverly concealed under the staircase, the bannister of which is adorned with twinkling Christmas tree lights, and they’re woven in and out of the spindles too, creating a magical Santa’s grotto effect. There’s a miniature Christmas tree and even a kitsch little nativity scene with plastic figurines and a manger.

  ‘The kids love it,’ Ruby explains, seeing me looking. ‘Keeps them amused while the mums shop.’

  Ruby looks effortlessly chic in navy silk palazzo pants, teamed with a white cotton wrap top that she’s tied into a huge floppy bow that trails elegantly from her hip.

  ‘And you look amazing,’ I say, trying to sound breezy – can’t let my girl crush completely ruin me.

  ‘Thanks, lady,’ she mumbles, through a couple of dressmaking pins that are poking out from the corner of her mouth. ‘Dump your load down there.’ Ruby points to a dusty-pink crushed velvet armchair over by a window that looks out on to a pretty courtyard garden that’s covered in snow with just the twigs of a few bushy pot plants peeping through at the borders. I do as I’m told before handing her the plant.

  ‘To say thank you,’ I beam.

  ‘Oh, how sweet. And thank you.’ She carefully presses her cheek against mine so the pins don’t catch my face. ‘But what for?’ she asks, turning back to check the hemline on a gorgeous Japanese silk kimono.

  ‘For, well … for everything. For lending me the clothes.’

  ‘Ah, don’t be daft, it was my pleasure.’ Ruby pulls a vague face and wafts a dismissive hand in the air, making me smile.

  ‘Oh, and there’s this for you too.’ I point to Hettie’s suitcase. ‘’It’s crammed full of vintage clothes, shoes, stockings, that kind of thing. Hettie wondered if you might want to buy some, or all of it, to sell on in your shop.’

  ‘Ooh, how exciting,’ Ruby says, eagerly dropping the hem of the kimono to pull the gaffer tape from the suitcase instead. She riffles through. ‘I’ll take a proper look later, but on first glance, some of these items are American couture – see here.’ And she shows me the label inside a lovely salmon-pink satin sheath dress. ‘Very nice. This is from a boutique on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan – it opened in the Fifties and is still there, I think – very exclusive.’ Ruby does big eyes. ‘This dress probably cost a fortune back in the day.’ She nods her head, clearly impressed.

  ‘Ah, well that makes sense, Hettie did tell me that she lived in America for a while.’

  ‘There you go – I’m an expert when it comes to vintage couture,’ Ruby says in her usual self-assured way. ‘Tell Hettie I’ll catalogue the contents and put them on my website; I think my overseas customers are going to love this collection. I’ll just deduct an amount for shipping and she can have the rest of the revenue. I know she struggles financially,’ she adds matter-of-factly.

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ I beam.

  ‘Pah, it’s nothing. If I can’t help an old lady, then there’s something seriously wrong in this world. It’s just a shame that she won’t let us help her more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I crease my forehead in concern; hoping word of the bailiffs calling hasn’t gone around already.

  ‘Oh, the whole village knows that she’s struggling to make ends meet, but she won’t take so much as a sticky bun. Kitty in The Spotted Pig offered her one, even pretended it was a leftover from the day before, but Hettie still insisted on paying for it. I’d have ripped Kitty’s arm off – I love a nice gooey cake – and even better if it’s free.’ Ruby nods her head as if to confirm her stance on the matter.

  ‘I guess Hettie is just a bit proud. Probably a generational thing,’ I say tactfully, not wanting to be seen to be gossiping; I get enough of that about me at work, so I know what it feels like. Marigold had a debit card in the glove box of her car (I know! You’d never risk that in London) and she got a receipt – the bailiffs barely glanced at the card which was a massive relief as they’d soon have seen Marigold’s name on it and not Hettie’s, but I guess as long as they’re getting paid, then what does it matter to them? After they’d left, we went into the oast house and found Hettie in the bedroom, still rummaging for the decorations. Marigold explained what had happened, we’d figured it was for the best, and she even offered to clear the rest of the balance, but Hettie, panic-stricken and thoroughly humiliated that her debt problem had been publicly revealed, flatly refused, so we’re now hoping to raise the funds through the online shop. Sharpish. The bone knitting needles are up to four hundred pounds now, so that’s a start, and I’ve listed practically everything else in the shop on eBay. Hopefully, the contents of Hettie’s suitcase will fetch a good price too.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Ruby says. ‘So, changing topic entirely, did you get it on with our gorgeous-but-doesn’t-know-it Dr Ben?’ She plants both hands on her hips, clearly impatient for an answer. ‘He is one hot dude. Lady boner alert.’ She does kissy lips in the air.

  ‘Ruby!’ I snigger, diving into a nearby rail of gorgeous tops and blouses to hide my flaming cheeks.

  ‘Well, he is! Why deny it? And I saw you holding hands as you walked around the duck pond.’ She laughs too. ‘A date is a date, and trust me, the good ones are few and far between, so you need to catch Cupid’s arrow while you can,’ she sighs.

  ‘It wasn’t really like that,’ I protest, trying not to smile as I select a sumptuously soft pastel-pink cashmere polo-neck jumper for closer inspection, but instantly wonder: then what was it really like? Is it too soon to meet someone else? Is my trampled-on heart up to it? I am only just over halfway through my year of heartache – and then I realise that I’m getting way ahead of myself. He probably felt sorry for me, thought I needed cheering up, and a good night’s sleep. That’s all. Who knows? And I have to go home tomorrow, so there’s a high chance I’ll never find out.

  ‘Trust me, it’s always like that!’ Ruby says.

  ‘Hmm, maybe. How much is this?’ I ask holding up the jumper and not seeing a price tag.

  ‘Everything on that rail is thirty pounds, but if you want two then you can have them for fifty.’

  ‘Ooh, in that case, I’ll have this one as well,’ I say, performing a pincer movement on a gorgeous navy sailor top; it even has the big boat collar and puffy short sleeves with little gold anchor detailing at the edge.

  ‘Good choice. Come on, follow me to the changing room and then I’ve got a surprise lined up for you. Want to have some fun?’ She tilts her head to one side, her eyes sparkling.

  ‘Maybe … it depends,’ I say warily, not wanting to commit until I know what she has in mind.

  ‘Burlesque. You told me last night that you would love to give it a go,’ Ruby says casually, giving me a sweet smile. I open my mouth and quickly close it after a ridiculous Scooby Doo ruh roh sound comes tumbling out. Major cringe. ‘Yep. Admittedly, when I made it over to the Duck & Puddle pub, you had already necked several brandies, but you definitely said it. Don’t you remember? Dr Ben
was busy pretending to be interested in old Tommy Prendergast’s totally imagined hernia – last week he was convinced he was having a heart attack because his pulse wouldn’t stop racing but it turned out he was sugar rushing, having scoffed his way through a whole Christmas chocolate selection box. But yep, you definitely said it.’ She shakes her head in amusement.

  ‘Um, well, I do remember you telling me that you dance burlesque, but I was joking about actually having a go myself. Really, I couldn’t.’ I hold my palms up in protest, panic tearing through me. OK, I may have gushed out something about wishing I had the guts to try it; funny what you say after a few too many brandies, isn’t it? But with a hangover head in the cold light of day, no way. I’ll look ridiculous. Ruby’s staring at me now, doing a snorty, flared nostril thing. ‘Anyway, I haven’t even shown you the jumper or the matching mittens and scarf yet. Don’t you want to put it in your window display right away? Look!’ I grab the carrier bag, pull out the jumper and hold it up to show her as a distraction. She gently takes it from me.

  ‘Wow. Thank you. It’s gorgeous and just what I had in mind,’ she says, taking a good look, before placing it on a nearby chair.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I say, not daring to meet her gaze. A short silence follows.

  ‘You don’t have to go for the nipple tassels. Just try on an outfit, trust me … you’ll love it,’ she says excitedly, clapping her hands together in glee.

  ‘But what about the customers, what if someone comes in?’ I gulp, just about managing to avoid a repeat Scooby performance; she’s clearly not taking no for an answer.

  ‘Darling, I’m not expecting a stampede of customers; this is hardly Oxford Street, now is it?’ She casts a regal hand towards the front window overlooking the little snow-covered village High Street with the olde-worlde shops and no one around. It makes me laugh. ‘Come on. It’s the perfect lift; you’ll be flying high afterwards with no memory of ever having been betrayed by your own sister – the one who organises foxhunts! Can’t say I really agree with all that. And I grew up in the countryside so I know what a nuisance foxes can be, but still …’ She rolls her eyes and shakes her head in disgust. Hmm, I think I may have said something about Sasha too, last night. ‘And that … whatever his name is.’ She pulls a face as if Luke isn’t even worth mentioning, which is a bit harsh as I did love him, I truly did, of course I did, once upon a time. Didn’t I? Oh well! And then it hits me. I’ve just thought about Luke, but with absolutely no physical or emotional reaction attached. No ice-cold swirl in the pit of my stomach, or tearing, searing, tight band of brokenness wrapped around my heart. Wow! I actually think I might be getting over him. Hallelujah!