The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

‘Luke.’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say as casually as I can possibly muster, followed by a very breezy, ‘how are you?’ And this completely throws him.

  ‘Er, yes, I’m alright.’ He coughs. A short silence follows. ‘How about you?’ he adds.

  ‘I’m great.’ And I do the biggest smile ever – so big, I could give Ronald McDonald a run for his money. And because I’ve been on the telephone techniques course at work and I know that he’ll hear it in my voice and, as juvenile and immature as it may seem, I so want him to know that I’m doing fine, actually! Just the way I am. I’m not the crumpled mess I was in the weeks after May the fourth.

  ‘Brilliant,’ he says in an overly bright fake voice followed by, ‘I, er, had to call your mum, you know, to like find out where you are,’ he says, as if it were akin to a waterboarding session. I give him a few more seconds to elaborate further before losing patience.

  ‘Can you get on with it please? Only I’m in the middle of having lunch with friends.’

  ‘Friends? What friends?’ And there’s definitely a hint of surprise, if not suspicion, in his voice.

  ‘Nobody you know.’ Ha! I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the fireplace and do a very immature smirk. There’s a short silence.

  ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I’m worried about you.’ Hmm, he hasn’t been worried about me for the last six months or so. ‘Are you OK? Why aren’t you at home?’ he says, talking too fast.

  ‘I fancied a weekend away,’ I say.

  ‘I see. I’ve really missed you.’ Another silence. ‘I still care about you, perhaps we could meet up and sort everything out?’

  And I’m stunned. Really stunned. Does he have some kind of amnesia? Has he forgotten what he did to me?

  ‘Oh,’ is all I manage in response.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, right now,’ I say, knowing if he’d said this a few months ago, then my answer might have been different – I was so desperate for closure, if nothing else, back then, and probably would have leapt at the chance to meet up with him to talk. But not now; I’m in a different place now.

  ‘I see,’ he says quietly, followed by, ‘I never meant to hurt you, you know, it just sort of happened—’

  ‘Is that the only reason you called?’ I interject. The past is the past and there’s no going back, that’s what Lawrence helped me realise, and he’s right. Besides, I’ve moved on.

  ‘Yeah,’ he pauses, ‘and to say that Mr, er, Mr Bungee …’ He stops talking, and sounds distracted, like he’s trying to remember the details.

  ‘Banerjee,’ I correct.

  ‘Yes, that’s him. He left a message on Friday afternoon, on my mobile, saying he wants to talk to you urgently. And that he’s left loads of messages on your home phone, but you haven’t bothered to call him back.’ Hmm, my back constricts. Mr Banerjee may be a bit traditional in his management style, but he’s not rude and I don’t believe he’d say I hadn’t bothered. Luke has put his spin on it.

  ‘I see.’ There’s no point in pulling him up on it.

  ‘Yeah, so he said that he had no other option than to call the next-of-kin number on your personnel file,’ he blurts out really fast. ‘I just picked the message up, we, er, I,’ he quickly changes, ‘got back from Dubai this morning and I had my mobile switched off. Didn’t want to get stung with a big roaming bill.’

  ‘OK.’ I inhale sharply, immediately parking the ‘Oh God, Mr Banerjee must have found out I’m to blame for Jennifer Ford’s spending spree’ thought that’s tearing around inside my head now. Instead, I let out a long silent breath and impulsively decide to go for it, once and for all, remembering my thoughts from yesterday – that she is my sister after all, that everything Lawrence said about letting go of the past and looking forwards is right. It’s time to draw a line under it. ‘And how is Sasha?’

  ‘Er, she’s …’ He coughs again and then sounds as if he’s clearing his throat in preparation for a big announcement. Oh God, what’s he going to tell me? Surely, they’re not getting married, so soon? Or, nooooo! perhaps she’s pregnant? I place a hand on the mantelpiece as if to anchor myself in readiness. Keep calm and carry yarn, keep calm and carry yarn. I say it fast, over and over inside my head like a mantra. ‘Look, Sybs, this isn’t easy for me you know,’ he starts, gruffly.

  ‘What isn’t?’ I ask, making an effort to keep my voice even.

  ‘Well, you know, all this …’ Whaaaaat? ‘And now, er, well, I’ve had to move back in with Mum and Dad,’ he finishes in a decidedly sulky voice.

  ‘Oh?’ I say, and an image of him squashed into the single bed of his parents’ boxroom springs into my head.

  ‘You might as well know,’ he says, begrudgingly, ‘Sasha never wanted me, not really. I panicked, I felt shit and had to get away, that’s why I went with her to Dubai, I needed some space.’ He can barely contain his perceived sense of injustice from seeping into his voice.

  ‘Oh dear,’ is the first thing that springs into my head, closely followed by an internal: awwwww, well cry me a fucking river, for which I have no shame as he then says,

  ‘So I’ve got nothing now.’

  And I end the call.

  Ah, now it makes sense. No wonder he’s claiming to be missing me. Bullshit! Talk about transparent. He wants to wheedle his way back into the flat. Well, it’s tough luck; he clearly doesn’t know me at all, if he thinks I’m that daft to not see what his game is. He can stew in his tiny little boxroom while his mummy moans at him for leaving his skiddy pants on the bathroom floor. At least I don’t have to step over them any more. Ha!

  Moments later, and I’m aware that Cher is in the room.

  ‘You OK, babe?’ she asks tentatively, taking the phone from my gripped hand.

  ‘Um, sure … yes. That was Luke.’ The words are coming out of my mouth, but it’s as if someone else is saying them; I’m on autopilot. And for a moment, I’m not even sure if the call was real. I take a deep breath and get a grip: it was real all right, and it just goes to show the chasmic difference between Luke and me, what on earth was I thinking? This was the man I had seriously considered marrying, and I realise now that I didn’t even know him.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she says softly, giving me a look. ‘What did he want?’ Cher cuts to the chase. She’s pacing around the room now, twiddling her hoop earing, and with a riotous look on her face.

  ‘I have to call my answerphone at home, Luke said my boss is desperate to get hold of me,’ I say, still feeling stunned.

  ‘OK,’ Cher says slowly. ‘Shall I do that for you?’ She has her index finger poised on the keypad.

  ‘No, it’s alright. I’ll do it, thank you.’ Cher nods and hands me the phone. ‘Sasha never wanted him, he said,’ I say absent-mindedly, as I tap out the number.

  ‘Oh!’ She hesitates, and then adds a vague, ‘Good,’ before letting out a long whistle and shaking her head.

  ‘Are you busy?’ I ask. ‘Only, I could do with …’ And my voice wobbles slightly. I swallow and try again. ‘Sorry, it’s Sunday lunchtime, of course you are. You’re rushed off your feet!’

  ‘Never too busy for you, my friend. I’m sure they can cope without me for a few minutes.’ She doesn’t hesitate, and perches on the arm of the sofa as I lift the phone to my ear.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mouth as I dial in with my pin number. A few seconds later, and the automatic voice says there are seven messages. I brace myself and go for it. The first message is from one of the Zumba girls asking if I fancy going again next week, the next four messages are from Gina, starting with a polite ‘Please can you call the office if you’re feeling up to it’ through to ‘Sybil, you need to phone me immediately.’ Oh crap. The sixth message is from Mr Banerjee himself.

  ‘Sybil Bloom. This is Mr Banerjee, senior housing officer, from the housing benefit department,’ he begins formally – like I don’t know who he is already; I’ve only sat in the end desk three banks
behind him for the last nine years. ‘I’m calling because we’re all worried about you, given, your, um, well … your track record over the last few months. I’m aware that you’ve had a difficult personal matter to deal with …’ He coughs and there’s a short pause, followed by the sound of rustling paperwork, as if he’s checking his notes. ‘Maybe you could call me if you’re up to it. There’s been an incident, which is now under investigation, and we feel it might be wise for you to take a bit of time off while this happens. I understand you have a considerable amount of annual leave left still to take before the end of the current year, which will only be lost otherwise, so you could come back to work on …’ another pause, followed by a woman whispering (Gina most likely), ‘the – oh, the fifth of January.’ And the surprise in his voice is palpable. He then goes into a big spiel about my rights and how this will all be put in writing to me, and if I want to talk to someone then that can be arranged too, but a person from HR Services will be in contact with me in any case. ‘Good day.’

  OH. MY. GOD.

  I can hear the sound of my own blood pumping in my ears. I feel weird – whoever heard of someone’s boss calling to say they can take time off – they must think the cock-up to end all cock-ups is my fault and this is their nice way of saying I’m suspended during the investigation. But I also feel elated too as this means that I can stay off work until after Christmas! And how I feel right now is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. And you know what? I suddenly realise that I don’t actually care what happens to me – just sack me and get it over with already, as I actually hate my job. I do, it’s true. Of course, I truly hope I’m not to blame for Jennifer Ford’s spending spree; I really do, as I’d never do something like that on purpose. I really wouldn’t. I always try to get it right, do the best I can at work. Because I’m not a total idiot or fantasist; I know I have to support myself. As much as I’d love to knit and sew and earn my living that way, it’s just not ever been possible. And then it dawns on me! What if I am sacked? It’s one thing being all blasé and bold about it, but when it really comes down to it, how the hell will I survive with no income? I’ll be evicted if I don’t pay the rent and then Basil and I will end up homeless, which would be utterly ironic given that I had worked in the housing office, as there is no way I’m doing a Luke and scuttling back home to my parents’ house.

  There’s one last message.

  ‘Sybil, darling, it’s Mum. You’ll never guess what, sweetheart?’ She pauses to draw breath. ‘I was in the middle of packing your father’s suitcase for the cruise, and the house phone rang. It was Luke! And he wants to talk to you right away.’ And I swear her voice lifts a couple of octaves in sheer exuberance. ‘He sounded so sad. Maybe he’s missing you and wants to make another go of it. That’s nice, isn’t it? And just before Christmas too. Now don’t be worrying about Sasha – I’ll talk to her, I’m sure she’ll understand.’ I delete the message before she has time to draw another breath and continue on her merry crusade to pair me off with a man, any man it seems, just to save me from myself.

  *

  ‘So that settles it, then. You’re staying in Tindledale for Christmas,’ Cher says, jumping up and giving me a hug after I’ve brought her up to speed on the Jennifer Ford cock-up and how, as of now, I’m officially on annual leave. I pull back. ‘Hey, what’s up?’ she adds, gently lifting my chin to look me in the eye.

  ‘Oh Cher, I wish it were as simple as that.’ I chew at a cuticle, my mind racing at this sudden twist of events.

  ‘What do you mean? Why isn’t it?’ she frowns.

  ‘Well, where I will stay, for starters? Lawrence is fully booked for Christmas with a group of tourists; apparently they come every year from Japan.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that too, Cooper was chatting about it in the bar the other night – said they love the quintessential British countryside. They even have a theme park replica of a traditional English village somewhere near Tokyo – one of the tourists told Cooper all about it on their last trip here.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘Yep. Fancy that. Anyway, they can’t get enough of it, so this group comes every year to experience the real thing – the traditional Tindledale village Christmas. Cooper said it’s marvellous, because they spend loads of money in the village shops and go mad for his special hog roast at the annual Christmas Fair, which takes place on Christmas Eve over on the village green. He asked if I was up for supplying a gazillion vats of mulled wine – they get through it like water, apparently.’

  ‘Sounds amazing,’ I say, and much more appealing than my sad, home alone Baileys and Quality Street combo. But I feel so crap. Crap that I’ve messed up so royally at work. How can I have been so careless to let something in my personal life affect things so much at work? I should have taken time off and stayed at home as was suggested after the wedding that wasn’t, instead of carrying on like a robot, too afraid to stop in case I just broke down and crumbled away into nothing very much at all. I should never have taken the sleeping pills – Ben was right, my head was fuggy, I can see that now I’ve been off them for a while. The clarity that faded away on my so-called wedding day has now returned, but what will Mr Banerjee discover during the investigation? That £42,000 of taxpayers’ money has been squandered on expensive hair extensions and gambled away in Vegas and it’s all my fault? Yes, he’s being nice about it now, but when it comes to light I’ll be sacked for sure. Maybe I should take Ben up on his offer to sign me off work for diminished responsibility or whatever; at least then I’d have an excuse for having cocked up so monumentally. I take a deep breath and will myself to get a grip, as, to be honest, I really don’t want to drag Ben into it all. This is baggage, and I’d rather not have it hanging over me – us – if there’s a chance of something happening with him. No, when he walked me over to the pub and held my hand so firmly, it was lovely, special, and being here in Tindledale is wonderful; I’ll always cherish the memory of this weekend because it’s been brilliant, magical even, and I don’t want that tarnished in any way. I want Tindledale to be totally separate from the rubbish and heartache associated with work and home.

  ‘Sure does!’ says Cher. ‘And stop being so hard on yourself – if you slope off home like a martyr just to sit on your spike, what will that achieve? You’ll just miss out. So what, you cocked up! I’m sure you’re not the only person ever to have made a mistake at work. It’s not like you stole the money on purpose, and you did have a lot going on, to be fair, mitigating circumstances and all that,’ she continues, pragmatically.

  ‘Maybe, but it is a pretty big mistake and it’ll be near-on impossible for me to find another job if I’m sacked. Of course, I’m delighted at the prospect of staying here for Christmas, but I can’t shake off this feeling of failure, of cocking up at work, big time.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sure that’s not true. Look, it’ll be fine: you never know, it might not be anything you’ve done in any case. Computer error. Happens all the time, and when they find out, your job will still be there. But until it’s all sorted out, you can stay here. I’ve got beds on order from Ikea, which should arrive tomorrow, so you can give me a hand to put them together, in situ, Clive is hopeless at stuff like that.’ She grins, having it all worked out.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really,’ Cher laughs.

  ‘And you’re sure you wouldn’t mind? Basil too?’ I grin, warming to the idea.

  ‘Now you’re being daft. Of course you and that cheeky mutt, you idiot!’ she says kindly.

  ‘I need to go home though, at least to collect clothes and make-up and stuff.’ I feel excited now, the shock of being asked to take some time off – read, suspended, I’m convinced of it – having sunk in a little.

  ‘Or you could just wear jeans for the duration like everyone else does in Tindledale; I’ve cut back considerably on make-up since I’ve been here. All you really need is some wellies and you can easily pick up a pair in Market Briar.’

  ‘Hmm, I could cer
tainly do with a pair,’ I say, hardly bearing to peep down at my fetid Converse.

  ‘Well, I’m heading there tomorrow to bank this weekend’s takings, so you can come with me. There’s even a cute little Boots just off the market square if you really need a new lippy.’ Cher purses her lips and flutters her eyes in a silly way.

  ‘And you know how much I love Boots,’ I say, my mind in overdrive.

  ‘Well, there you go. Come on, it’ll be fun. Dr Ben will be pleased, that’s for sure. He popped in for a pint and a packet of crisps when you were on the phone to Luke and asked if I thought you might be coming back to Tindledale some time soon. So now you can tell him yourself. I bet he asks you out again.’ She nudges me gently and I smile. ‘And your new knitting buddies will be thrilled to have you around for a bit longer, I’m sure. I heard them all chatting, something about an order that had come through. Very excited they were, and poor old Hettie looked near to tears.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, jumping up, excitement bubbling some more. Poor old Hettie indeed – I’m worrying about losing my job, when it could be much, much worse. At least I’m not on the verge of having my home, my memories, and my whole world, repossessed. No wonder she’s been terse and outspoken, her heart is probably a bit broken too. ‘Thanks Cher.’ I give her a big hug.

  ‘What for?’ She scrunches up her face.

  ‘For sticking by me, and for not judging me, and well, for putting everything into perspective.’

  ‘Hmm, not sure how I’ve done that, but it sounds like a compliment so I’ll take it,’ she beams.

  ‘And so you should, my lovely, loyal friend.’

  ‘Awwwww, that’s what friends are for!’

  When I make it back out to the snug, Ben is standing by the bar, and he grins and waves me over.

  ‘Nice to see you’re still here,’ he starts, offering me his packet of crisps, which I wave away after saying a polite, ‘no thank you’. ‘I thought you were leaving today.’ He fidgets with his glasses.

  ‘I was, but change of plans – I’m staying for a while longer. For Christmas, in fact,’ I tell him.