Knit One Pearl One

by Gil McNeil

  “I’m off to the auction now, to get those panels. Well, I hope so anyway. Solid oak.”

  “Are you taking Trevor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Watch out he doesn’t bid for anything.”

  “I’ll leave him in the car.”

  “Good luck.”

  “He’s much better now I’ve got the dog mesh up in the back. He lies down and goes to sleep. Well, sometimes.”

  “Yes, and the rest of the time he rocks the car backward and forward and eats the backseat.”

  “He does not, well not lately. I’ll ring you later, shall I, let you know how I got on at the auction?”

  “Sure. I’ve got my Stitch and Bitch group later on though.”

  I’m not sure I can really face another conversation about Oak.

  There’s a sound of barking and aristocratic canine commands as Lady Denby arrives, with Algie and Clarkson in her wake. Dear God. Today must be Take Your Dog to Your Local Wool Shop Day and nobody’s bloody told me.

  “Is that your dog outside?”

  Martin takes a step backward. “Yes, he’s—”

  “Get him trained then. Can’t have dogs leaping up like that, spreads like wildfire, bad behavior with dogs. People too, come to think of it. Morning, my dear, know you don’t like me bringing mine in, but I can’t leave them outside next to that idiotic wolfhound.”

  “Morning, Lady Denby. I’m afraid we really can’t have them in here, not with the café. Martin was just leaving, weren’t you, Martin? So Trevor will be going too.”

  “Trevor? Extraordinary name for a dog. Always call mine after staff, so much easier to remember. Excellent butler, Clarkson, worked for my father for years. Can’t remember who Algie was—oh yes, the gardener’s boy. Marvelous with soft fruit. Not the boy, the father. The boy was hopeless. Had a motorbike, used to make a terrible racket. Fell off it eventually, much quieter after that. Now, where was I?”

  “Good morning, Lady Denby.”

  Elsie’s shot back downstairs and is now trying to keep a safe distance from Clarkson, who likes licking people’s feet, while simultaneously attempting the half bob/half curtsy she reserves for Lady Denby’s appearances in the shop.

  “Morning, Enid.”

  Martin smiles. If anyone else attempted to call his mother Enid, there’d be ructions, but Elsie seems to have decided that discretion is the better part of valor where our local aristocrats are involved.

  “I’ll ring you after the auction, Jo. Good morning, ladies.” Martin’s whistling as he goes out of the shop, and he winks at me, which Lady Denby spots. Trevor goes into a frenzy of barking and tail wagging, leaping up and putting his paws on Martin’s chest so they end up doing a sort of dance until Martin finally gets the lead untangled.

  “Did he say auction? Hope he’s selling that ridiculous dog, though I can’t imagine who would buy it.”

  “He’s restoring a barn, Lady Denby, so he’s off to buy wood. Shall I take the dogs outside for you?”

  “Please, my dear. Restoring a barn? Excellent, got to keep our old buildings alive. So important. Now, what was it I wanted? Oh yes, told George I’d meet him here. Cup of tea, keeps him going, the promise of a cup of tea. Has he tipped up yet?”

  “Not yet, but do go through, Tom will find you a table.”

  I’m outside untangling dog leads and getting my hands and feet licked when Lord Denby wanders along, looking as vague as ever, and carrying a large metal bucket.

  “Those dogs look familiar, got two just like that at home. Oh, right, Pru inside, is she? Meant to be meeting her, only I’m damned if I can remember when. Excellent. Got it right for once. Might treat myself to a bun.”

  Not if Lady Denby has anything to say about it, he won’t. She tends to stick to cups of tea unless it’s a special occasion.

  I follow him into the café so I can wash my hands in the sink behind the counter. Bloody dogs. I can tell Tom is trying not to laugh.

  “You can stop that right now or I’ll make you do it next time.”

  “I’m allergic to dogs.”

  “Really?”

  “Well no, but they seem to like you.”

  “Yes, and they’ll like you too, once they’ve licked your feet a few times.”

  Elsie is still lurking, ostensibly checking the stock of pattern books and knitting magazines on the shelf unit by the window.

  “Good morning, Moira.”

  Lord Denby calls everyone Moira. He says it saves time.

  “Cup of tea and a bun please, when you have a minute.”

  Lady Denby sighs. “There you are, George. Do sit down, I’ve already ordered. What on earth is that?”

  He glances down and looks momentarily confused. “A bucket?”

  “Yes, thank you, I can see that, but why have you got it?”

  “No idea. Hang on; it’s coming back to me. Need it for the drawing room fire. Other one’s got a ruddy great hole in it. Nothing like wood ash for mulching round clematis. Hydrangeas love it too. Marvelous stuff.”

  She doesn’t look convinced, but they’re sitting sipping tea and enjoying a tussle over whether Lord Denby will or will not have cake while I add a few knitted jam tarts to the café window. Gran’s knitted some slices of Battenberg too, just to keep the pink theme going.

  “Excellent, that’s the ticket, got to keep up your standards, key part of our plan, can’t be doing with Silver again.”

  Lady Denby is determined to win the Gold Medal in the Best Seaside Town (Small) competition this year.

  “Meant to ask, could you provide tea and cakes for the judges? They’ve changed the rules this year, coming down unannounced, sneaky trick, and then they return for the formal visit. But we’ll have our scouts out, so we’re bound to spot them. Just need to make sure everything is looking tip-top from early summer onward, and your windows always do us proud.”

  “Of course, we’d be happy to help.”

  Elsie’s thrilled. “Fancy, the judges in our café. Won’t that be lovely.”

  Lady Denby gives her the kind of look you’d give a parlormaid who was lingering too long over the dusting. I wish I could do it, because I’m sure it would come in very handy.

  “I’ll give you the dates, my dear, as soon as we get the official letter.”

  She pours the tea, and tops up their teapot with hot water from the jug. Connie and I were determined to have proper tea sets, there’s something so cozy about the clink of china teapots and cups, even if it does mean the café dishwasher is on all the time when we’re busy. We’ve got a few little glass teapots too, for herbal teas, not that there’s much call for them. But if we ever get a rush of people needing peppermint tea, we’ll be ready.

  “Excellent pot of tea as usual. Do you know I ordered a cup on the train and they gave me a plastic beaker, with a tea bag floating about, and a plastic pot of milk that it was impossible to open. Absolutely revolting.”

  Lord Denby leans forward to pour milk into his tea and clangs the bucket against the table leg.

  “Better watch out, Pru, nearly kicked the bucket.”

  He’s so pleased with himself for making such an excellent joke he manages to order a slice of chocolate cake from Tom while Lady Denby is mid-chortle.

  “Kick the bucket. Don’t want any of that, do we, Pru, not yet anyway. Want to see us win the Gold first.”

  She gives him a fond look as he picks up his cake fork in readiness.

  “Always been a devil for cake. Worse than the dogs. Goes back to tuck boxes at school, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Only way we survived. Food at my prep school was absolutely filthy; used to have to bribe the porters to bring us in bars of chocolate, or we’d have wasted away.”

  They’re enjoying a light bicker about whose school had the most revolting food as I go upstairs to check on the website orders. Elsie is helping Mrs. Frencham choose a pattern for a sweater in the chunky tweed, and I want to look at the new shade cards for the summer cottons and try
to work out why we seem to have ordered three packs of ten balls of the forest green and none in pebble, which is one of the most popular colors. I bet Elsie ticked the wrong box on the online order form again; she refuses to wear her glasses if she thinks anyone can see her, which plays havoc with her orders. But if I mention it, she’ll sulk for days, so I think I’d better just return them and put in a new order. Either that or hope we get a sudden rush of people wanting to knit sweaters that make them look like Robin Hood.

  By the time I’ve collected Jack and Archie from school and walked home, I’m in the mood for a nice little lie-down. But I’ve still got to feed everyone, and then get back to the shop for the Stitch and Bitch group. Connie’s walked back with us, so the kids are watching cartoons while we have a peaceful half hour sitting at my kitchen table and trying to persuade Pearl not to keep bringing us saucepans. She’s wearing the pink plastic tiara I bought at the supermarket on Saturday—it was either that or the full fairy dressing-up outfit—it’s her new favorite thing. She even wears it on top of her balaclava, given half a chance. Diamanté, pink shiny stones, and pink plastic; it’s completely perfect as far as she’s concerned.

  “Mum, tell him, he keeps singing.” Jack’s giving me a beseeching look.

  “Just ignore him, love.”

  “He’s doing it really loud.”

  Archie appears in the doorway. “I am not, and anyway, Mrs. Berry says I’ve got a lovely singing voice.”

  Jack shakes his head and puts his hands over his ears, which makes Cinzia laugh.

  “You sing to us here, Archie, yes?”

  “No. I want to watch cartoons with everybody else, and just do singing if I want to.”

  “Mum, tell him.”

  “Okay Jack, don’t make such a fuss, and Archie, you can’t sing while people are watching telly. Either sing somewhere else or sit with the others. But not both.”

  Please God, let him choose the telly.

  He tuts as they both go back into the living room.

  Sometimes I think I should get myself a special umpire’s armband. Or a blue helmet, like the UN use for conflict zones. I wonder if bloody Mimi had one. Probably not. Too busy sleeping with my husband. But I blame him for that; she probably didn’t even know he was married, not at first; he never wore a wedding ring, he thought they looked silly on men. But once she knew, she should have put her blue helmet on and posted herself somewhere else. Actually, I’ve never liked the French; they’re far too snooty about food, and they don’t seem terribly good at laughing at themselves, which is a pretty vital life skill as far as I’m concerned. Although that might be just my life.

  Connie yawns. “I am so tired; this baby never sleeps, not at night.”

  “I’ll give you a lift home if you like; it’s a long walk up that hill.”

  “No, Mark is coming, with the biscuits for tonight. Lemon shortbread, I think.”

  “Lovely. But make sure you don’t overdo it tonight okay?”

  They’ve got a group booking in the restaurant, a design firm from Whitstable who’ve just completed a big job, so Connie can’t make our Stitch and Bitch group tonight.

  “I will be fine. Don’t be fussing.”

  Cinzia says something in Italian, and Connie mutters something under her breath which makes Cinzia laugh.

  “What?”

  “She is reminding me, she was talking to my mother last night, and she made her promise. If I am tired, she must ring her, and she will come and make me stay in bed all day.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Cinzia nods. “Yes, and I will do it.”

  “You will not.”

  “Yes, I will. And you cannot stop it, because La Mamma, she always wins.”

  “Not round here they don’t, Cinzia, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. Pearl, please don’t do that.”

  She’s bored with saucepans now and is trying to open the cupboard under the sink, where I keep all the cleaning stuff. Reg has put a child lock on the door, so it only opens a few centimeters. It’s a bugger to open at all actually, but at least it means I don’t have to race across the kitchen every time she toddles toward the sink.

  “More.”

  “No, love, we can’t open it now. It’s nearly suppertime.”

  She stamps her foot. “More.”

  “No, Pearl, we can’t open it now.”

  She hurls herself on the floor and starts shrieking. Great. Time to launch Operation Tantrum, again. Fortunately, Cinzia knows the drill and goes into the living room to watch telly with the kids while Connie and I sit ignoring Pearl, pretending not to hear the earsplitting shrieking. Only another mum can really pull this off; with child-free people there’s always that slight tension, where you know they think you should have some magic trick to stop the yelling, and if you don’t you’re clearly a crap mother. I’m giving Pearl the occasional arms-folded, have-you-finished-being-silly-yet look, which she’s ignoring. It’s quite hard not to laugh at my little princess with her tiara askew, throwing such a major stop, although I’m sure it’s a scene repeated in palaces around the world. But at least in my kitchen I get to be the Queen.

  She’s running out of energy now, but still furious. This is the crucial bit. If I get the timing wrong, as I often do, she’ll launch herself straight into round two.

  “Have you finished, sweetheart? You can carry on being silly if you like, but the door has to stay shut. But when you’ve finished, I’d really like a cuddle.”

  She hesitates, and looks at me as I cross my arms again and try to look Determined. She gets up and readjusts her tiara. Trying to pretend nothing has happened, she saunters over for a cuddle, but she’s still doing that hiccuping breathing they do when they’ve gone straight past being cross and right into hysterics.

  I pick her up, and she snuggles into my shoulder, and her breathing starts to calm down as I pat her back.

  “Brava.” Connie winks at me.

  I’m just about to make a start on supper when the unmistakable sounds of barking and scrabbling at the back door announce the arrival of Trevor.

  Excellent. Another sodding canine moment, like I haven’t had enough today.

  “Porca miseria.”

  “Precisely.”

  Connie laughs, but Cinzia picks up Pearl and waves at an increasingly hysterical Trevor, who is now leaping up at the kitchen window.

  “No, it is good, we will play football, in the garden, and I will be putting on the coats.”

  “Thanks, Cinzia, but isn’t it a bit cold?”

  “No, it will be fine. And then the Principessa, she will not be screaming again, yes?”

  “That’s true. Well, okay then, but only for ten minutes?”

  “Bambini, who wants to play football?”

  There’s a stampede from the living room, and before we know it we’re all out in the back garden, and Trevor’s in goal, as Mark arrives with the biscuits and joins in the fun. I’m trying to ignore how muddy everyone is getting. That’ll be another load of washing to put on this evening, once I’ve checked to see what Pearl’s posted in the bloody machine.

  Martin misses a vital penalty and gets sent off by Nelly, who seems to have appointed herself as referee and player, which is proving to be a very useful role; it’s a wonder some of the big professional teams don’t go in for it.

  “How did the auction go, Martin?”

  “Yes, well, that’s why I came round really. Only it was such a bargain, and I’d already started bidding when I realized, I thought it was the next lot, and then, well, anyway, I got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “It needs work, but it’ll be great when I’ve finished, and it’s something I’ve always wanted, so.”

  “Martin, you don’t have to explain it to me. It’s your money, you can buy what you like.”

  “Yes, but it will take a fair bit of time, and—”

  “What will?”

  “The boat.”

  “You went to an auction to buy wood
and ended up buying a boat?”

  He grins. “What do you think?”

  “What kind of boat?”

  “A fishing boat, with an outboard engine and everything. Well, I’m not sure that actually works, but I can replace it. And the mast is okay, although I might need new sails. But it’ll be beautiful when I’ve restored it. Technically, it’s called a smack.”

  “Which is exactly what your mum’s going to give you when she finds out, so that’ll be handy.”

  He grins again. “I was hoping you might help me with that.”

  He’s looking so pleased with himself. Twit.

  “Are you going to get a special hat?”

  “Sorry?”

  “One of those captain’s hats?”

  “I’m not going to be one of those wanky weekend sailors, you know. I might even take up fishing.”

  “Right.”

  “I might.”

  “You don’t actually like fish, though, do you, to eat I mean?”

  “No, but I can sell it, and anyway I like grilled fish. It’s just all the sauces I’m not that keen on.”

  “Like your mother’s parsley sauce? Honestly, I’ve never seen a grown man make so much fuss about a bit of parsley.”

  Connie is laughing now, and then Mark gets sent off, for arguing with the referee, and agrees that parsley sauce can be a total travesty, but there’s a great recipe for a sauce involving capers and boiled egg, and would Martin like it, and what kind of boat is it, and before I know it they’re deep in conversation about what kinds of fish he might be catching in between kicking the ball occasionally and trying to stop Nelly sending anyone else off.

  As far as I know, Martin has never sailed a dinghy round the harbor, let alone a whole fishing boat out at sea. Dear God, I’m having visions of him in a South Coast version of The Perfect Storm. Which Elsie is bound to blame on me somehow.

  “When are you going to tell your mother?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You heard me. When are you breaking the good news to Elsie? I need to know. So I can make myself scarce in the shop. And also, and this is really important, I want you to stress that this has got nothing to do with me, okay?”