by Gil McNeil
‘Shall I take the boys up for their bath, pet?’
‘Yes please, Gran, and don’t let Archie put the bubbles in, or they’ll be up to the ceiling again.’
She smiles. ‘I still don’t know how he managed to get the whole bottle in.’
‘No, neither do 1.1 was only getting a towel out of the airing cupboard.’
‘You need eyes in the back of your head with that one, not like our Jack. He’s as good as gold, bless him.’
‘I’ve put a chair next to the bath so you can sit down. Don’t go kneeling or anything.’
‘Right you are, dear. And I think you’re right, I will go to supper with Reg. People are always talking and most of it’s rubbish, so why should I care?’
‘Exactly.’
Connie arrives at the shop as I’m putting more logs on the fire. She’s got her knitting in her bag and is carrying a large greaseproof paper parcel, which means Mark has made us another treat; last week it was a polenta cake, which was so delicious we had to cut the last slice into slivers to avoid unseemly tussling.
‘It’s pear and almond. I’ve already had some, and it’s very good.’
‘I bet it is. Tell him thanks from me, will you, Connie? I think word’s getting round and people are starting to come just for the cake. Maybe we should forget about the knitting and open a tea shop.’
She shakes her head.
‘No thank you. One restaurant is quite enough.’
Everyone’s arrived by half past seven, and we’re sitting round the table upstairs with the curtains drawn, while Tina tells us about the latest exploits of her son Travis, who we all adore, mainly because he’s not ours; he’s very bright, and a total charmer until he gets bored, when he’s hell on wheels.
‘He was out on our roof on Sunday. Honestly, I nearly died. I’d put him in his room, for a time out, you know, like they do on the telly, but he climbed out the window, and they never do that on the programmes. It took us ever so long to get him back again. Graham had to hold a plate of biscuits out the window in the end.’
Tina runs the local hairdresser’s, where Gran gets her shampoo and set every week.
‘You wonder what he’ll come up with next, don’t you?’
‘Not really, Linda, not if I can help it. I’m just thankful we got him back in before he fell off. Graham was as white as a sheet.’
Linda laughs; she works in the salon with Tina and they’ve been friends for years. ‘Why didn’t he just climb up a ladder, your Graham. I mean, firemen are supposed to be good up ladders, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, but he likes a full crew and the blue lights going before he climbs up things nowadays, and anyway we haven’t got a ladder any more, not since your Pat borrowed it. I don’t suppose you could get it back off him could you, next time you’re talking?’
‘I could ask my solicitor, I suppose.’
Linda’s in the middle of divorcing Pat, who’s moved in with a nineteen-year-old called Kimberly, who used to work at the salon as an apprentice before she got sacked because she was incredibly lazy and terminally stupid.
‘I suppose I could tell him I want to do a swap – I’ll go for custody of the ladder and he can have the kids. That’d wipe the smile off his face.’
‘Give Kimberly a bit of a turn, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Linda smiles at Tina.
‘Wouldn’t it just.’
Cath puts her knitting down. ‘Livvy climbed up onto the roof of our garage once, when she was little.’
Olivia goes pink and gives her mother a furious look; she’s sixteen, going on twenty-six, and thinks her mother is a complete idiot, like you do when you’re sixteen. And sometimes quite a bit older than that, actually.
‘Mum, you’re being really embarrassing. Again. And I’ve told you, my name is Olivia, not Liwy. Livvy makes me sound like a baby.’
Cath hesitates, and Linda gives her a sympathetic look.
‘I don’t want to worry you, Olivia, sweetheart, but that’s what mums are for, being embarrassing. Didn’t you know? It’s all part of the job – they give you a book on it in the maternity ward. And from what we’ve seen so far your mum’s very low-key. You should hear my mum if you want embarrassing. She marched right into the bus shelter near our house once, when I was “saying goodnight” to Kevin Lucas when I was about your age, and she slapped him so hard he fell right over.’
‘I’ve always wanted to kiss someone in a bus shelter.’
We all turn to look at Maggie.
‘Well I have.’
‘Take it from me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be – bloody freezing, from what I remember, and pretty embarrassing when the bus comes and you don’t get on.’
‘Yes, but still, I’m definitely going to add it to my list of things to do before I die. Oh, damn it, I think I’ve gone wrong again. I’ve got a hole in the middle now. Is that from dropping a stitch?’ Maggie holds up her knitting for me to see.
‘Probably. Let’s have a look.’
I show her how to pick up the stitch that’s formed a mini-ladder; she’s making a cushion cover, in different shades of purple and grey, which is quite brave for a beginner. But you can tell she’s going to be a serious knitter, because she loves all the different textures. She works at the local library, but she’s also an artist in her spare time, and she’s quite shy when you first meet her, but her paintings are enormous, apparently, and rather rude, according to Gran, so I’m dying to see them.
‘My mother used to make me play the piano when people came to tea, and I absolutely hated the piano. I still have nightmares about it. I’m sitting on the stool and I can smell the beeswax polish and hear the clock on the mantelpiece, and I’ve got absolutely no idea what I’m meant to be playing. And then I wake up. God, I’d have had so much more fun with someone called Kevin.’
‘Is everyone ready for some cake?’
There’s a chorus of appreciative murmuring, so I go into the kitchen and start putting glasses on the tray, and Olivia comes in and offers to help.
‘You can take the tray in for me, that would be great.’
‘I was wondering … I hope you won’t mind, but Mum said you wouldn’t, only, well if you ever needed a Saturday girl, or anything like that, I’d love it. I really would. If you ever needed anybody. Only I’m trying to save up, for clothes and stuff, and Mum makes me do jobs if I want extra money, like doing the cleaning. In the house.’ She pauses, for the full horror of this to sink in. ‘Which is so not fair. I hope you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I do babysitting, too. Only not babies, because Mum says I’m too young. But little ones, you know, toddlers and stuff. I take Jack Palmer to the park sometimes – his mum’s just had a baby – and he’s so sweet, I really like it, actually, only don’t tell Mum, will you?’
I smile at her. ‘I promise. Let me think about it, would you? I don’t need anyone in the shop right now, but I might need someone to babysit.’
‘Great. I’ll take this tray in, shall I?’
‘Please.’
I carry in another tray with the coffee and a bottle of wine, and we sit eating cake and trying to think of new words for ‘delicious’, because Linda says it’s much better than that, and she’s right. We finally agree on ‘delectable’, and Connie promises to tell Mark. I’m really enjoying myself tonight; I was too nervous for the first couple of weeks, trying to make sure everyone was having a good time and getting the complete beginners started off, but it’s much easier now I know people.
Linda’s moved round the table and is sitting next to Angela Prentice, who’s so timid and quiet and she’s like the Invisible Woman; she practically quivers when she speaks, and she’s married to Peter Prentice, the local estate agent who sold me the house, who’s got to be the most pompous man in Broadgate. He’s on all the local committees, and takes himself very seriously, and when you see them together Angela’s usually trotting along at least ten paces behind
him, dressed like a Mormon in long shapeless skirts and headscarves. But Connie and I reckon there’s something going on underneath all the quivering because Peter sits outside in the car every week looking stony-faced when he collects her, and she’s making a fancy white baby blanket for her daughter Penny, in a complicated feather stitch with a picot border, on tiny needles. And she’s asked me if she can leave it at the shop while she’s working on it, so we’re thinking Peter probably doesn’t approve. We’re determined to solve the mystery, only we’re building up slowly because we don’t want to frighten her. So far all we’ve managed to find out is that Peter doesn’t like courgettes.
Linda’s trying to persuade Angela to try some cake.
‘No thank you, although it does look very nice.’
‘What about a glass of wine then?’
‘I don’t really drink, apart from at Christmas.’
‘It’s nearly Christmas. Go on, give yourself a treat.’
‘Well, maybe just a small glass.’
Linda pours her half a glass. ‘Is the blanket for your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘When’s the baby due?’
Connie and I lean forward slightly.
‘January.’
‘Is it your first grandchild?’
‘Yes.’
‘I bet you can’t wait.’
‘No, it’s all very exciting.’
‘Where does she live, then, your daughter? Penny, did you say her name was?’
‘Yes. She’s in Manchester.’
‘Her work’s up there, is it?’
‘Yes.’
Angela takes a tiny sip of her wine and I notice her hands are shaking, and I’m pretty sure everyone else has noticed too. She puts the glass down on the table, and picks up her knitting.
‘Oh dear, I think I’ve made a mistake.’
She gives me a desperate look; she’s usually a very precise knitter, although her tension is so tight you can almost hear the stitches squeak, so I think she probably just wants rescuing from Linda.
‘Let’s see, oh yes, here. That’s easily fixed. Just go back a row, and pick it up there. How are you doing, Linda?’
Linda grins and shows me her knitting.
‘Fine, I think.’
She and Tina are making squares for a blanket for the latest Davis baby.
‘I’m really enjoying it. It’s so nice in the evenings when I’m watching telly, it makes me feel like a proper mum, sitting there knitting. And it stops me eating crisps, too.’
Tina nods.
‘I like it, too. It’s nice having something to do when Travis is asleep and I’m waiting for Graham to get home.’
‘I like it because it helps you pass the time while you’re waiting for something exciting to happen.’
Tina smiles at Olivia. ‘You’ll end up with a very long scarf if you’re waiting for something to happen round here, love.’
I move round the table and sit next to Connie, who’s doing a complicated flower pattern on a cotton cardigan for Nelly in pale lavender, with bright pink centres for the flowers; she’s quite an experienced knitter, but we’re changing the pattern slightly to make the sleeves shorter, and she wants to use different colours and knit beads in as well, so I’m showing her how to thread the beads onto the wool when Maggie asks me how to add in a new colour.
‘You just need remember to wrap the wool round each time you change colours or you’ll get holes. Put it round like this, yes?’
‘That’s so clever. I thought you had to carry the wool along the back or something complicated like that.’
‘You do, in Fair Isle, but this is intarsia, which is better when you’re doing solid blocks of colour.’
‘It’s much easier than I thought it would be.’
‘Most things in knitting are, really.’
‘Especially if you’ve got someone who knows what they’re doing explaining it to you. Did you decide what you’re doing for your window? Are you still thinking about an autumn theme?’
‘Yes, I thought I’d do autumn leaves and scarves, and conkers, and maybe a branch propped up, to hang the leaves on.’
‘Knitted leaves, do you mean?’
‘Yes, and pom-poms, in oranges and reds.’
‘That’s a good idea. God, this wine’s lovely. Where did you get it?’
‘From Connie.’
‘It’s Passito di Pantelleria. We get it from my uncle, and it’s one of my favourites. We buy all our wine from him – it’s much cheaper for us, and much better.’
‘You couldn’t get me some too, could you, next time? I’ll pay you, of course. Only it’s so delicious.’
Connie smiles. ‘Sure.’
Linda puts her knitting down. ‘There, that’s another square finished. You never know, we might actually get this finished before the baby’s born. What else are you planning for the window, Jo? You’ll have to do something special for Christmas, you know. You’ve got to keep up your standards now we’ve won the silver medal; I hear her ladyship came in to tell you.’
‘Yes, she did, and Elsie nearly fainted.’
She laughs. ‘I know. We heard all about it from Betty. It’s good, though, us winning. It’s about time the local council did something useful instead of just buggering up the roads. There was another crash along on the front, on Monday. A lorry was trying to overtake a bus, silly sod. He wasn’t badly hurt or anything, but someone’s going to get killed along there one of these days. Oh God, sorry. Me and my big mouth. I’m sorry, Jo.’
For a minute I’m not sure what she means.
‘I was so sorry – about your husband, I mean. It was so awful.’
There’s a silence. Damn. I sort of assumed they all knew, but we’ve never actually talked about it.
‘Yes, it was.’
‘And the poor boys.’
‘Yes, that was the worst part really, having to tell them.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m still not sure I got it right.’
Waking them up in the morning, and trying to find the right way to explain, with Jack asking me why if Nick was at the hospital the doctors couldn’t fix him.
Maggie coughs, as if she’s about to say something, but Connie beats her to it.
‘Yes, but no sad things here. We all just relax, yes? And leave the sad things for other times.’
Cath smiles at her. ‘Exactly.’
Everyone’s still looking at me.
‘Right, well I’m definitely having the last piece of cake now.’
Linda looks relieved. ‘Go on, love, you have it.’
Everyone relaxes, but they’re all much more affectionate when they’re leaving, and Olivia hugs me, which she’s never done before. Connie drops me off on the corner of our road, and I kiss her goodnight, in a non-bus-shelter kind of way. She’s been teaching me some Italian phrases, and I want to try them out.
‘Porqui miseria, it’s cold tonight.’
‘No, porca, not porky. Porca miseria.’
I try again.
‘Perfect.’
‘Oh, look, here come Mr Pallfrey and Trevor. Porca miseria, I hope the boys are asleep.’
She laughs.
I walk up the road, thinking about kissing boys in bus shelters. It might be a bit late to start now but you never know. Maybe I should make a list like Maggie’s, of things I want to do in the next few years. Not in the house, or for the shop, just for me; I’ve always wanted to learn Italian, so maybe I could find a local class. It would really annoy Mum, which would be a hidden bonus, but I’m not sure there’s enough room in my brain for too much new information; something else would get wiped out to make room for it. I’d come out of my class chock full of fabulous new vocabulary and discover that I couldn’t remember where I’d parked the car. God knows what useful things I’ve jettisoned already, just learning a few phrases, but I can’t find my front-door key, so I have to knock on the door, which gives Gran a bit of a turn. We’re in the kitchen when
Reg arrives to drive her home, which wakes Archie up, so I wave them off and then go up to settle him back into bed. But he’s having none of it, and wants a story. And a drink. Porca miseria.
I’m in the shop the next morning, standing behind the counter rummaging through a drawer full of buttons, when a woman comes in, wearing sunglasses and talking on a tiny black mobile phone.
‘Where the fuck are you, Bruno? I’m in a wool shop – you can’t miss it, the window’s full of fish. No, I’m not joking. Why would I be fucking joking? So if you could just stop driving round in bloody circles and get over here, I’d be seriously grateful.’
She turns to me and smiles, and suddenly I know who she is. Jesus Christ, Grace Harrison is standing in my shop giving me a megawatt smile; the same smile she gives George Clooney just before she jumps off the bridge holding his hand in Falling in Love Again. The smile that greets Ralph Fiennes when he gets back from a vital mission as a Second World War pilot in Wings and A Prayer. Bloody hell.
‘I’m sorry about this. I’m trying to avoid a photographer.’
When she says ‘photographer’ she gets the kind of expression on her face that you’d get if someone had just walked up to you and been sick all over your shoes. At least I think she does, but it’s quite hard to tell with the dark glasses.
I can’t think of a thing to say. I’m standing here like a total lemon, completely mute with awe. Christ.
‘My car will be here soon.’
‘It’s probably stuck in the new one-way system, it’s really awful, the traffic gets stuck by the bus stop, along the sea front, and nobody can get past.’
Great. Now I’m babbling like a loon.
Her phone beeps.
‘Yes, I’ve just been hearing about the bus stop. I thought you’d had special training in counter hostage manoeuvres. Didn’t they do bus stops? Just get here as soon as you can.’
She clicks her phone shut and gives me another dazzling smile. ‘I’m sorry about this. Would it be all right if I wait in here?’
‘Of course.’
Like I’m going to say no, please wait outside on the pavement. I’m guessing she’s trying to decide if I’m going to ask her for an autograph or go into another blurt about the traffic; God, it must be awful, launching people into idiotic babbling everywhere you go, just like Ellen, but much worse. So it’s probably quite important that I act like a normal person, preferably before she leaves.