Needles and Pearls

by Gil McNeil

  ‘Harry’s not like that.’

  ‘I know, but let’s face it, he’s never going to earn any decent money, so it’ll be down to me to keep everything going, and I’m fine with that, at least I think I am. But then I look at other women working full-time so some fucker can sponge off them and be a house husband, and it’s always total bollocks.’

  ‘I can’t see Harry doing that.’

  ‘I know. But he might. Freelance work can dry up, particularly if you can’t be arsed to get out there and hustle, and then what would I do? And I hate the way everyone keeps saying you’ll be having babies next, like you’re not a real woman unless you’ve got puke on one shoulder and a handbag full of Wipe Wets.’

  ‘Wet Wipes.’

  ‘Those too. It’s total bollocks.’

  ‘I know, but you want children, you said you did, so what do you care?’

  ‘I don’t want people expecting me to have them. Didn’t you feel like that?’

  ‘No, mainly because Mum was never that keen. She’d have preferred it if I’d stayed at work and concentrated on my glittering career.’

  She smiles.

  ‘I keep getting the occasional glimpse of something, like when you see the perfect shoes in a window when you’re in a taxi, but when you go back they’re not there, or they haven’t got them in your size. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What if I hate it? Being married and having babies and everything. What will I do?’

  ‘Have a panic and get on with it, like the rest of us?’

  ‘What if it’s not enough?’

  ‘Of course it won’t be enough, not for every second of the day. Nothing ever is. But if you love him, and he loves you, it’s a bloody good start.’

  ‘But you and Nick were like that once; you were so perfect together.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that, not really. I think I always loved him more than he loved me. When I look back on it, I can see that now. He was the beloved. And I was so bloody grateful.’

  She smiles.

  ‘You’re selling yourself short, as usual.’

  ‘No, I’m not, Ellen, and anyway, you and Harry are different. He adores you. And Nick and I wanted such different things.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘I wanted the boys to be happy, and he wanted to be a famous reporter and sleep with younger women.’

  She laughs.

  ‘Bastard. But promise me, if I fuck it up, you’ll help me bail out.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I can come and live with you by the seaside and knit?’

  ‘Any time.’

  ‘Good. That’s my emergency exit sorted. Right, let’s get down to the spa. Rebecca’s booked us in for the full works; they’re doing some sort of pregnancy version for you, with special stuff.’

  ‘Oh God. I haven’t got the right kind of pants on for a spa.’

  ‘Please. You’re pregnant. They won’t be expecting Agent Provocateur.’

  I’m pretty sure they won’t be expecting vintage M & S, with unreliable elastic in a fetching shade of frequent-wash grey either, but never mind. I suppose it’ll make a nice change for them.

  The combination of the spa and copious amounts of champagne managed to transform Ellen’s mood last night, and she was threatening to start a round of strip poker when I went up to bed. Harry’s Glaswegian relatives have turned out to be a real treat, particularly his Auntie Nell, who’s a total star, although she’s very bossy, like Gran; she made me sit with my feet up on a chair at one point, which amused Vin no end.

  It was nearly twelve by the time I got the boys into bed; they’d gone past the slow-motion stage like bunnies in the Duracell ads, and straight into Tired and Tragic. But at least they’re both still asleep when I wake up at ten-past nine, which is the longest lie-in I’ve had since I can’t remember when.

  I even manage a quick bath before Archie wakes up, in one of his I’m a Little Sunbeam moods, which is encouraging, particularly since I’ve got to try to get him into a kilt. The wedding’s not till two, so all the media types will have a chance to get here from their various smart hotels in Glasgow and Edinburgh. So I think I’ll build up to the kilt thing as slowly as I can.

  ‘Are you hungry, darling?’

  ‘Yes, but not for porridge.’

  ‘Okay. You didn’t have to try it yesterday, you know.’

  ‘Jack dared me.’

  ‘Well, today you can have pancakes, if you like.’

  ‘And sausage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And can we go swimming again?’

  Possibly not after pancakes and sausage, unless we want to see if Uncle Vin can remember how to do mouth-to-mouth.

  ‘Let’s see, but we could go for a walk. We might see a deer.’

  ‘Can I have cartoons first?’

  ‘Yes, but quietly. Let’s not wake Jack up.’

  I give him a glass of juice from the minibar. I’ve moved the booze and pricey peanuts to a high shelf in the wardrobe, and restocked with juice and water and emergency Smarties, which I brought with us in a cool bag; I know arriving at smart hotels with your own supplies isn’t overwhelmingly stylish behaviour, but paying for the room for two nights and renting the car has already blown my budget for the next couple of months, so I’m trying to keep our bill down as much as I can.

  I’m making myself a cup of tea when Jack wanders in, with his kilt on over his pyjamas.

  ‘Look, Mum, you can wear it over your trousers.’

  Archie shrieks with laughter.

  ‘You’re wearing a skirt like a girl.’

  ‘Shut up, you’ve got to wear one too. Tell him, Mum.’

  Actually, now might be a good time to break out those Smarties.

  We’re standing outside the doors to the ballroom, almost ready for the off, with Ellen looking breathtaking in Vera Wang. Her hair is up and she’s wearing a diamond tiara with matching earrings, so she looks incredibly glamorous and yet somehow understated and elegant at the same time. I’m in a violet silk brocade smock with a matching coat and shoes, just like the two mini bridesmaids; Ellen’s mum finally triumphed on the small-relations front, and the dressmaker managed to produce two simple shift dresses for them in record time.

  Ellen’s cousins are thrilled that their girls are playing such a pivotal role, and Miranda, the mother of the smaller one, has been driving us crazy with requests for extra rehearsals and suggestions about flowers, but Rebecca’s keeping a very beady eye on her. Archie and Jack are both in their kilts, only Archie’s insisted on wearing his swimming trunks under his so there’s a fair amount of rustling going on.

  Ellen’s smiling and holding her dad’s hand while Rebecca has one last tweak of her dress and talks quietly into her radio mike as a moment of calm finally descends. And then the door opens to the sound of trumpets and The Wedding March. Ellen’s told Harry she’ll be walking up the aisle to the theme song from Titanic, on bagpipes, so I’m guessing he’s pretty relieved, and Archie and Jack start to walk slowly holding their posies of roses, keeping as far away from the bridesmaids as possible without actually breaking into a run, and I manage not to tread on the dress or drop the bouquet when Ellen hands it to me. So far, so good.

  They’re putting on their rings and Harry can’t seem to speak and has three shots at saying his name, while I try to find a tissue and Archie starts to fidget, with more rustling noises. And then they’re married, and everyone’s kissing and posing for photographs and trying to get their bridesmaid daughters into pride of place in the group photographs.

  Ellen’s as high as a kite, and gives me a long hug in between photographs when she whispers that she’s never felt happier, which makes me reach for the tissues again. And Harry gives me a kiss and thanks me for keeping Ellen from killing anyone, particularly him, in the past few days. So I feel I’ve passed the bridesmaid test with flying colours, which is a huge relief, and then Ellen insists on some photographs of just her a
nd Harry and me and the boys, which doesn’t go down very well with Miranda, but we manage to get into lunch without anyone throwing a fit.

  The toasts are mercifully short and not too libellous, and then it all turns into a weird mixture of a networking event for all the media types, many of whom have arrived in helicopters, and a family wedding with reminiscences about who said what to who at the last wedding. The media brigade are all looking very pleased with themselves, and it’s strange how alien they seem; I recognise quite a few faces, people I worked with ages ago who are now senior news producers or in the upper echelons of management, and they’re all looking like they’re at a smart London wedding, but they don’t seem to be able to talk about anything but work.

  There’s a great deal of looking over your shoulder when they’re talking to you, in case someone more important might be on the horizon, but being pregnant certainly helps, especially with the men, who seem relieved they no longer have to be Sympathetic about Nick. And the women aren’t much better; there’s a lot of effusive kissing, and one or two of them think running a wool shop is an excellent joke, until they realise I’m serious, but then we run out of things to say and I’m obviously being boring; but whereas in the past this used to make me feel like a failure, with faulty networking skills, now I really don’t care.

  Once we’ve waved Ellen and Harry off in their helicopter, bound for seven-star luxury in Morocco via Heathrow, and I’ve thankfully managed to divert Archie from his secret plan to sneak on board the helicopter, we go back into the hotel and I’m ready for an early night. Vin and Lulu want to stay in the bar and enjoy observing the Glaswegian relatives making fun of the media lot, but I think I’ll pass. If Nick was here I’d be feeling lumpen and second-rate; he’d want to spend all night reminiscing about breaking stories and emergency dashes across foreign capitals in between rocket attacks, and I’d want to get the boys into bed. But now I can suit myself, and it’s all rather relaxing.

  It’s weird, but two weddings seem to have made me realise just how happy I am not being married any more, thank you very much. And whilst it’s true that some people do seem to think that everyone has to go around in pairs like we’re all about to board Noah’s bloody Ark, I’m just relieved I can sort the boys out without worrying what He will want to do.

  Seeing Ellen so happy has been lovely, but it hasn’t made me feel nostalgic or lonely or any of the things I thought I might feel. Which is a surprise, but I’m actually far less lonely than I used to be when we lived in London. Because there’s nothing quite like the nerve-wracking, ego-deflating, gibbering-wreck type of loneliness that you feel when you’re married to someone who doesn’t really want to be married to you any more. And you’re pretty sure it’s all your own fault, for being so boring. Blimey. And on top of all that I’ve got a fabulous violet outfit I can wear, if I ever go anywhere smart again. So it’s been a good day all round.

  Vin’s in a conga line as I take the boys up to bed, and Lulu’s dancing with Harry’s Uncle Alan, who’s very energetic for an eighty-two-year-old.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Yes, Jack?’

  ‘Can we have cartoons, when we’re in bed?’

  ‘No, it’s very late. Press the lift button, love.’

  ‘But as a treat, for being so good, with our flowers?’

  ‘Maybe for five minutes, quietly.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, Archie.’

  ‘When I get married I’m not having boys in skirts.’

  ‘Okay. Press the button again, Jack.’

  ‘And I’m not having stupid flowers either.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But you can be my bridesmaid.’

  ‘Thanks, Archie.’

  Excellent. Another wedding to look forward to.

  ‘And, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, Archie.’

  ‘When I get married I’m not sharing my cake. Everyone can just have sandwiches. The cake will be only for us.’

  More cake on the horizon, albeit a rather distant one.

  This just gets better and better.

  Chapter Five

  July

  White Elephants and Pink Flamingos

  It’s nearly the last week of the summer term and we’ve got the Summer Fayre on Saturday so I’m in the shop knitting white elephants, using up oddments of wool from the charity basket, and praying for rain. It’s been getting hotter for the past few weeks, and standing behind a stall in the baking sunshine is going to be a nightmare. Connie and I have finally decided on our outfits; after rejecting scullery maids, which we think Annabel is secretly hoping for. Connie’s come up with Victorian milkmaids, like the ones she’s been watching in the film Oliver, which she and Nelly love, only without the pails of milk slung across our shoulders. We’re thinking Annabel will approve of something with peasant origins, and our cheesecloth blouses with long cotton skirts will be cool – even if mine does involve rather more cleavage than I’m accustomed to, thanks to my newly acquired pregnancy bosom, which I haven’t really got the hang of yet. I look like I’m channelling Jordan.

  Connie and I went shopping in Canterbury last week to get the skirts, and I found a couple of pairs of giant wide-leg linen trousers with drawstring waists, so at least I won’t have to spend every day in my floral-tent dresses. And we bought some pretty cotton kaftan tops in the market too, and Connie got some new T-shirts for Mark.

  ‘I’m putting the kettle on. Do you want one of your teas?’

  ‘Please, Elsie.’

  I’m getting heavily into peppermint now, which is weird since I hated it a few weeks ago.

  ‘You should be sitting down, you know – you’ll get terrible veins. Mine were dreadful with Martin.’

  It’s pretty vital I don’t encourage her into another one of her When I was Pregnant reminiscences, not least because they’re never very encouraging. But at least she’s stopped telling me gory stories about forceps after I threw a mini fit about it last week.

  ‘I’ll check the computer in a minute and see if we’ve got any more orders, and then I’m due round at Grace’s at eleven.’

  ‘I thought you were looking smart today. That colour suits you, and I think they’ll sell really well, you know, if I say so myself.’

  I’m wearing one of Elsie’s new cotton shawls, from a pattern she’s made up. In lilac, over a white shirt and my new black linen trousers; and I even managed to paint my toenails last night after a fair bit of puffing and stretching, so I’m feeling as ready as I’ll ever be for a session with the Diva. In fact I’m feeling pretty chirpy all round: Gran and Reg loved their honeymoon, as did Ellen and Harry, and the shop’s doing well too, with summer day trippers really starting to boost sales. And I got top marks on my latest trip to the clinic, both for my blood pressure and for the baby’s weight gain. So if it could just stop being so bloody hot, everything would be perfect.

  Elsie comes back down with the tea.

  ‘Martin says if you let him know when it’s convenient he’ll come in to do those photos.’

  ‘Tell him any time, Elsie. He’s putting your shawl on the website, so we’d better make up some more of the kits, Olivia sold two on Saturday, and look, she’s written them down in the book ever so neatly.’

  Elsie’s not happy about Olivia working in the shop as a Saturday girl; although Cath’s delighted. We were talking about it last week at our Stitch and Bitch group, and she says Olivia’s loving it, and even offered to help tidy up after supper when Cath told her I had a Saturday job for her.

  ‘The till was in ever such a state when I got in on Saturday afternoon. Five-pound notes in with the tens, and no pound coins at all.’

  ‘That’s probably my fault, I told her to leave the change to you, as the senior member of staff. I think you need to be in charge of all that, don’t you?’

  She hesitates.

  ‘I suppose that’s true enough, and I will say this for her, she worked ever so hard getting the new stock out – she’d nearly f
inished when I got in. I like to be fair.’

  Excellent; maybe we’ll have an uneasy truce on our hands.

  ‘She’s good with the computer too.’

  ‘Martin’s showing me how to use it, so she won’t need to be bothering about any of that. But she’ll be handy in the school holidays, I suppose. You’ll have to start to take it easy soon, you know. The last couple of months can be the trickiest. My ankles were so swollen I could only wear my slippers for my last six weeks.’

  ‘I’ve been fine so far, Elsie. Anyway, if you could tell Martin any time for the photos that would be great.’

  Martin’s finally got our website up and running, after a series of technical hitches, none of which I understand. We’ve had half a dozen orders so far, and an email from a nutter who can’t do buttonholes and wonders if we’ll do them for her, in amongst the usual deluge of offers for loans and a larger willy. But getting our first order was a real thrill, and Elsie’s appointed herself Orders Manager, so she can catch up on the gossip with Mrs Parish behind the counter in the post office when she takes the parcels in.

  ‘What colours do you want for the shawl kits?’

  ‘Black, definitely, and the new caramel colour, the pale one, and white. And maybe that new eau-de-nil; people will like that, I think. And the lilac too. And maybe the silvery grey?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘I’ve been looking at some of the new autumn colours, too. I thought we’d do some more of the mohair shawls. They sold so well last year, and there are some lovely new tweeds. Has that order come in for Mrs Forrest yet?’

  ‘No. I’ll give them a call, shall I?’

  ‘Please. And tell them we’ll cancel if they don’t hurry up. That usually does the trick.’

  ‘Right you are, dear.’

  It’s already uncomfortably hot when I arrive at Graceland, and my shirt’s gone all wrinkled. There seem to be a few more snappers than usual lurking as I drive in, but thankfully Tom and Jerry are otherwise engaged, so I get into the house without being covered in dog slaver. Maxine sends me straight up to Lily’s playroom, where Grace is surrounded by all the brightly coloured plastic toys that Lily loves, and all the expensive wooden ones, which she ignores.