by T. S. Easton
‘Can I help you?’
I turned to see Miss Swallow, looking absolutely ravishing. Her top button was undone and her hair was tied back in a ponytail.
‘I … um … I,’ I said suavely.
‘Hello, Ben,’ she said, in a friendly way. ‘You’re not in this class, are you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Aren’t you doing knitting?’
How did she know? How?
I nodded.
‘That’s down the hall. 3G,’ she said, cheerily, smiling her mega-smile.
‘OK,’ I said, deciding I needed to seize the moment. ‘But before I go, do you think I could have some clay?’
‘Oh … sure,’ she said, surprised by the request. She took hold of a thin wire with handles on either ends and expertly cut a chunk of clay off the big block. Her elbow brushed against me as she did this and I caught a whiff of her perfume. It took everything I had to keep myself from closing my eyes and breathing in deeply.
‘What’s it for?’ she asked.
‘I need it for a school project.’ Having only had a few seconds to come up with a plausible reason why I wanted a lump of clay, I was pleased with my explanation.
‘I see,’ she said, wrapping my clay in a thin plastic sheet. ‘What’s the project?’
I cast my eyes around the room madly, trying to find inspiration in everyday objects. My gaze went full circle before coming back to the lump of clay, which was sitting on top of a box, which was itself on a table top.
‘A ziggurat,’ I said blindly. ‘I have to build a Mayan ziggurat with people and priests and sacrificial victims and everything.’
‘Wow,’ Miss Swallow said. ‘That sounds amazing. I’d better cut you some more.’
‘No, no. This will do for now,’ I said. ‘I can always come back.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, flashing me another heart-breaking smile. ‘You can always come back. I want to see that ziggurat when it’s finished, OK?’
‘Righto, Miss Swallow,’ I said.
‘You can call me Jessica when we’re not in school, Ben,’ she said.
‘OK, Jessica,’ I replied, grinning, then I ran for it.
Of course, it’s a completely insane suggestion that Miss Swallow could have been flirting with me. Things like that don’t happen in real life. Even Joz would have thought twice about using such a situation as a scene in Fifty Shades of Graham.
Mrs Hooper was in 3G when I arrived at Knitting. I stashed the clay in my bag and if she noticed she didn’t say anything. I was the first one there again and Miss Hooper asked me to distribute everyone’s work. I couldn’t help but notice how much longer and neater my piece was than everyone else’s.
‘I’m glad to see you’ve come back,’ she said, smiling warmly at me.
‘Why wouldn’t I come back?’ I asked. And then it struck me that the idea of pulling out simply hadn’t occurred to me. I could have switched to pottery. I could have phoned up Ms Gunter in tears and demanded to know what classes were available on a Tuesday.
‘Oh,’ she said, shrugging. ‘The men we’ve had on this course before have never lasted long.’
‘No stamina,’ I replied. I was pleased she’d bracketed me as a man, rather than a boy. That’s what sixth-form college does for you.
People started arriving then, and I said hello to everyone as they came in, including Natasha and Amelia, the fuller-figured girls.
‘Hey, Bob. Would you like to sit with us?’ Natasha asked.
‘It’s Ben,’ I said, blushing. ‘But OK.’ I don’t really fancy either of them, though they both have quite pretty faces, especially Natasha. But Natasha is a bit of a close talker and Amelia is a mouth-breather. I discovered that apart from knitting they both love cats and vampire novels.
Once the class got under way, Mrs Hooper showed us how to knit in a complete circle, to do necks, and sleeves and things. Knitting in the round, it’s called, where you join up the two sides to make a cylindrical object. I was starting to realise that knitting is basically just maths. Geometry. Once you’d worked out the mechanics of using the needles, then it was just about keeping the geometry of the piece in your head while you carried out the repetitions necessary.
The time flew and before I knew it we were packing up. Natasha told me about an illuminating knitting podcast, so I gave her my email address so she could send me some links.
As we headed down the hall I snuck away from the others so I could pull out my lump of clay and work it through my fingers. I even smeared a little on my cheek for extra authenticity before heading down to the workshop to find Dad.
I’m kind of getting the hang of the subterfuge now.
5th August
I once made the mistake of telling Joz how much I fancied Miss Swallow.
‘We all fancy her,’ he’d said, hunched over his PS2 control.
‘Yeah, but it’s different with me,’ I said. I was feeling wistful, dangerous. ‘I think I might actually be in love with her.’
‘You should tell her,’ Joz said, blowing the head off a zombie.
‘Yeah, good plan.’
‘No, seriously,’ he said, pausing the game to look at me. ‘Look, you know how old men fancy young girls, right?’
‘Uh … yes.’
‘Well, it works the same with old women and young boys.’
‘Miss Swallow’s not an old woman.’
‘She’s got wrinkles,’ he pointed out. It was true; when she smiled she had little crow’s feet which made my stomach flip. ‘Have you heard of cougars?’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of cougars,’ I said, thinking of my dad’s DVD collection.
‘Joshua Wilkinson told me the Swallower was at Wicked nightclub a couple of weeks ago, sexy-dancing with Gareth Symons and Frankie Bell and they only finished school last year.’
‘But she has a boyfriend,’ I said, shocked.
‘And how old is this boyfriend?’ Joz asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘I don’t know, thirty-four?’
‘Well, maybe she’s looking to trade him in for a younger model,’ he said, giving me a see-there-you-go look. Then he turned back to the game.
Could it be true? Could Miss Swallow be a cougar?
7th August
I’ve been looking up knitting online. It’s actually quite interesting. There are tons of groups and all sorts of people involved. There’s the Stitch and Bitch group who have regular meet-ups in coffee shops and knit and bitch at the same time. There’s the Purl and Hurl group who have regular meetings in pubs to knit and drink and there’s one predominantly for male knitters too called Knit Club. Presumably they have regular meet-ups in a warehouse to knit and fight. There’s this on their website:
The First Rule of Knit Club is
Nobody Talks About Knit Club
The Second Rule of Knit Club is
No Fair Isle Sweaters
There are some podcasts too, and I downloaded the one that Natasha recommended, called Knitwits!, which is recorded by two knitting obsessives from the US. I listened to a bit, and it did sound just like one of those spoof comedies on Channel 4, except these two are deadly serious. It’s not a joke. Knitting is not a joke.
I’d become engrossed in a fascinating article on cast-ons, bound-offs and selvages (the sides of your knitted piece) when the door opened and someone came in. I slammed the laptop shut and looked up guiltily.
It was Mum, looking embarrassed.
‘OK. I know what that looked like … ’ I began. ‘But it’s completely not what you think … ’
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I read an article about this in Modern Mother.’
‘Since when do you read Modern Mother?’ I asked, intrigued, despite the situation.
‘They ran an interview piece with me and sent a free copy,’ she explained. ‘Anyway, it’s perfectly natural to be curious about ladies, or boys … or in fact, lady boys.’
‘Oh God, please stop,’ I groaned.
‘Just don
’t let it get out of hand,’ she said, smiling.
‘That had better not be a double entendre, Mum,’ I said, eyeing her suspiciously.
‘I’m just saying that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, exploring yourself and your … interests.’
‘It was a knitting website, Mum,’ I said. ‘I was looking at a knitting website, see?’
I opened the laptop and turned it around so she could see. She flinched briefly, but then looked.
‘Oh,’ she said, sounding almost disappointed. ‘Right. Good … So, you’re serious about this knitting thing?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I laughed, with forced jollity. ‘But if you’re going to do something … y’know. And it’s actually quite interesting. Might as well do it to the best of your ability … right?’
She looked at me for a while thoughtfully, then nodded. ‘I understand, Ben. I used to knit, too.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. Wasn’t much good at it, but I gave it a go when I was pregnant with you. Knitted a few booties, and a little hat, which was far too small. At the time I was blissfully unaware of just how massive that head of yours was going to be.’ A faint look of remembered pain floated across her face. She took off her glasses and began to clean them.
‘I’ll look in the loft, see if I can find my old needles,’ she said. ‘Still have some good yarn too, I think. Does yarn go off?’
I smiled at her. She was daft sometimes.
‘That’d be great,’ I said. ‘But Mum, would you mind … ’
‘What?’
‘Would you mind if we kept this our little secret, for now?’
‘OK, sure,’ she said.
‘It’s just that if my friends found out, they wouldn’t understand … ’ We both knew it wasn’t just my friends I was talking about.
She nodded, she understood.
She grinned at me, and I grinned back. A shared moment.
‘Mum,’ I said, eventually.
‘Yes?’
‘Why did you come in here?’
‘Hmm?’ she said. ‘Oh yes. It’s to tell you my manager has managed to extend the tour, so I’ll be off for another two weeks.’
‘From when?’
‘Tomorrow,’ she said, grimacing sympathetically.
‘Oh, OK,’ I said, trying not to let my disappointment show. I’m happy for Mum, that her career is finally getting somewhere, but I miss her when she’s not around. I don’t like it when we’re not all together.
I’m losing it. Bellend Ben, missing his mummy, hiding knitting needles under his bed.
9th August
Dear Mr Fletcher
Another Waypoint on your Probation Journey is participation in the ‘Giving Something Back’ victim support programme. One hundred hours of your time over the next twelve months must be spent providing support or assistance to those affected by crime. We have contacted the victim of your crime, Mrs Gloria Frensham, and she has confirmed she would like you to Give Something Back by performing basic maintenance and cleaning work at her residence, 47 Park View, Hampton.
You are required to attend Mrs Frensham’s residence weekly, for a two-hour period on Monday evenings from 4.30pm to 6.30pm. You are not considered to be a danger to the public so these visits will be unsupervised. Please note though that we will contact Mrs Frensham to assess your behaviour, punctuality and attitude. Any failure to be punctual, polite and helpful will be a breach of the terms of your probation.
Yours
Claudia Gunter
West Meon Probation Service
Sigh. I don’t mind Giving Something Back, but do I have to Give it Back to Mrs Frensham? She’s mental, and hated me even before I smashed a bottle of Martini Rosso over her head. Something that everyone seems to have forgotten about in the fuss is that she nearly took my head off with a giant lollipop. Why can’t I Give Something Back to another old lady – one who’ll make me cakes and press pound coins into my hand and tell me I remind her of her youthful husband? Why can’t someone else help Mrs Frensham?
Someone like the waffle-cone killer.
11th August
Knitting was tricky tonight. We learned how to change to a different colour wool halfway through. I got it, after a few false starts and felt quite pleased with myself. Shame I can’t tell anyone.
15th August
The upstairs toilet’s blocked again. Dad blames me for using too much bog roll, but the problem is clearly the noticeable kink in the soil pipe. The soil pipe that HE installed, I might add.
‘Dad, you really need to get a proper plumber in to sort out that bathroom,’ I said.
‘I am a proper plumber,’ he replied.
‘No, you’re a mechanic,’ I told him. ‘That’s different.’
‘Ever heard of hydraulics?’ he snapped. ‘It’s plumbing for cars. It’s just fluid going through pipes. Same for cars as it is for bathrooms.’
‘Well, then maybe I should take my dumps in the Citroen until the upstairs toilet’s fixed,’ I said. ‘Let the hydraulics flush it away.’
‘Don’t be a smart-arse,’ he said, and that was the end of that conversation.
God, I’m bored. I’m working on increasing and decreasing, which is gradually either adding or subtracting stitches from rows to make the piece thinner or thicker. You’d do that with a sleeve, for example, that you wanted to be thinner at the bottom than the top.
The funny thing is, when I start knitting I just get into it so quickly and next thing I know an hour’s gone by. It’s relaxing too. It helps me take my mind off my worries.
I think I might be starting to turn into a knitting bore.
27th August
So I went to see Mrs Frensham today. That went well. Not. She lives in a terraced house on Park View, which isn’t near the park and doesn’t have a view. Unless the park is Sainsbury’s car park and the view is Sainsbury’s car park. I told Dad where I was going and he seemed really proud, like I was off to receive a Duke of Edinburgh award as opposed to what I was actually doing, which was fulfilling the terms of my probation by providing home assistance to an old lady I’d nearly killed. I suppose it’s good to have his support, but if he’s proud of me over this it does tend to suggest he has quite low expectations. I clearly don’t need to do much to earn his respect. If I’m ever in the dock at Basingstoke Crown Court facing a thirty stretch for a triple murder, I can be sure Dad will be there in the gallery wiping away a tear, beside himself with pride at the fact that I managed to tie my own tie.
Anyway, as I approached the house I was bricking it, frankly. Claudia Gunter had sent Mrs Frensham a letter warning her I was coming, but that just gave her more time to plan her assault on me the minute I walked in the door. It wouldn’t just be a lollipop this time. What other pieces of giant confectionery might she have in there? An eight-foot Curly Wurly? A mammoth tube of Smarties?
I walked up the path and rapped on the door, setting off a fusillade of yapping from inside. Oh, Jesus, she’s got a bloody dog, I thought.
She took ages to come to the door. I could see her approaching; a large dark shape visible through the pane of frosted glass in the door. She called out.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Ben Fletch—’ I began, in a strangled voice, made high-pitched by nerves. I stopped.
‘What? Who? What?’ she called back. ‘I’m an atheist!’
‘Yap, yap, yap,’ went the dog.
I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘It’s Ben Fletcher,’ I said in an exaggeratedly deep and gravelly voice, which in hindsight might have seemed a little threatening.
‘Yap, yap, yap.’
‘Fletcher? Fletcher? Do I know you?’
‘Yes, from the … accident, with the Martini Rosso?’
She went quiet, though I thought I may have heard a sharp intake of breath. Even the dog went quiet. Then I saw the dark shape retreat down the corridor.
‘Hello?’ I called. I stood there for a moment, rolling my eyes. ‘Mrs Flet
cher?’
Here I was, ready to start tying raspberry canes, or whitewashing the windows or whatever, and the old bat had disappeared.
A window opened on the first floor and I looked up just as a heavy object hit me on the forehead and I fell over in pain and surprise. It turned out to be an alarm clock. An old, heavy alarm clock. I looked up at her, gobsmacked, just as another object whizzed past my head and smashed on the crazy paving, something made of porcelain.
She had something else in her hand too, a hairbrush, I think, and as she curled her arm, ready to hurl it at me I scrambled to my feet and backed down towards the gate, my heart thumping.
‘You mental old witch,’ I yelled. A couple of people passing by had stopped to watch. ‘I’m not considered a danger to the public!’
‘Come back to finish the job, have you?’ she screeched and let fly with the hairbrush which I was just about able to fend off. ‘Hoodie!’
I wasn’t even wearing my hoodie!
‘I’m supposed to be here,’ I shouted. ‘Claudia Gunter sent you a letter.’
‘I didn’t get any letter,’ Mrs Frensham shouted, then she ducked back inside, presumably looking for more things to throw.
‘Leave her alone,’ said a man carrying a Sainsbury’s bag.
‘I’m supposed to be here,’ I protested. ‘My probation officer sent me.’
‘You’re frightening her,’ a woman said.
‘I’m frightening her?’ I spluttered. ‘I’m not the one throwing bric-a-brac.’
‘You should be ashamed,’ the woman said.
This was pointless. I dusted myself off and left, as a bottle of hand cream bounced off my shoulder.
28th August
Dear Ms Gunter,
It seems there may have been something of an administrative error. I attended the first Assistance Session at Mrs Frensham’s house yesterday, fully ready to Give Something Back, only to face an assault in the form of household objects being hurled at me from an upstairs window. I felt like King Harold besieging a Norman castle. Especially after a long, thin tube of Superdrug haemorrhoid cream hit me in the eye.