Boys Don't Knit

by T. S. Easton

  ‘Anyway, think about it,’ Mrs Hooper said, with eyebrows slightly raised at the intense expression of concentration which I guess had come over my face.

  ‘I will,’ I said, a hand in my pocket squeezing clay between my fingers. ‘I will.’

  5th October

  School was good and bad today. Good because I had double Maths in the morning and I can’t get enough of quadratic equations. They’re very like knitting in a way. It’s about using a simple tool, a pencil in this case, to turn basic values into complete patterns. When I’m deep inside a calculation, my mind just shuts everything else out and all I can see is the equation itself. Nothing else can bother me. I’m totally engaged in a single-minded pursuit of just one thing.

  The bad bit happened when I went out for lunch. I was looking for Joz and as I walked down past the science block, I ran slap bang into Lloyd Manning. He gave me a shove.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, Bellend,’ he snarled.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, backing away. But of course one of his huge friends, Jermaine, had walked up behind me and I bumped into him instead. He shoved me from behind.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Jermaine said. ‘You a retard?’

  ‘Look, guys,’ I said, ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

  My heart was beating fast. Last term George Foxwell had made the mistake of mentioning Lloyd’s episode in the sponsored toilets and ended up with a broken nose and gravel rash from being dragged across the netball court.

  ‘Then stay out of my way, Retard,’ Manning growled.

  He shoved me against a wall. Though Lloyd and his mates are only fifth-formers, they are all much bigger, and fatter than me. I felt my cheeks redden with the humiliation.

  They didn’t take it any further though, and walked off after that, Jermaine pretending to slap me as he passed, causing me to flinch. They sniggered and disappeared round the corner. I brushed myself off and carried on, only to spot Megan across the court. She was looking my way, presumably having watched the whole thing. Great.

  I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to go and talk to Megan. I’ve sent her a friend request on Facebook but she hasn’t accepted yet. If she does, maybe we could DM and that might help get things moving. Today, after the incident with Manning and his gang, was not the time to make my move.

  7th October

  Dad has finally admitted he doesn’t know anything about pipes and has contacted a proper plumber about the water problem. It’s getting ridiculous. There’s no pressure, and the little water that does come out is all manky.

  Started designing my pattern today. I’ve come up with something I’m just calling Pattern Mk 1 at the moment. It’s a loose-fitting top, with a tight, complex weave. It has a wide neck but I’m not sure about that. It’s supposed to be unisex but I think it looks distinctly feminine. It would help if I could draw better, but the pictures in my head never look the same once I’ve drawn them. I wish I could ask Joz to help, he’s so good at drawing. Still, a work in progress and I’m feeling positive about it.

  8th October

  Despite lacking a bike, I took my helmet with me over to Mrs Frensham’s today and put it on as I approached, not wanting to take any chances. I’d been psyching myself up on the ride over and I knocked on the door a bit nervously, triggering the yapping dog again. I was worried about that dog. I heard Mrs Frensham come shuffling down the hall and then the door opened.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Fren—’ I managed before having to reel away from her walking stick, which she was waving at me aggressively. Simultaneously, the little dog shot out and sank its teeth into my ankle, making me scream with pain. Understandably, I kicked out.

  ‘Leave him alone, you bully,’ Mrs Frensham shouted at me, unfairly. She came at me with the stick again.

  ‘Mrs Frensham, it’s me, Ben Fletcher,’ I called, hands held up in surrender. ‘I’m here to Give Something Back.’

  ‘I’ll give you something back,’ she cried, lifting up the cane to finish me off. What would Katniss do? I thought as I closed my eyes and waited for the blow.

  But the blow never came.

  ‘Fletcher, you say?’ Mrs Frensham stood over me, the warrior-queen, weapon held high.

  ‘The one they phoned about?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, nodding furiously. ‘The probation service.’ The dog was emitting little growls, still chewing agonisingly on my ankle.

  ‘Get off him, Jasper,’ she said, aiming her own kick at the dog. Jasper leapt back, looking disappointed.

  Mrs Frensham finally lowered her cudgel and nodded at me. ‘Better come in then.’

  I kept my helmet on and followed her into the house. It smelled like lavender and pot-pourri and some kind of boiled meat. Human flesh, possibly.

  We walked right through to the back and Mrs Frensham took me outside into the garden. She walked towards the shed. I limped after her, my ankle aching and a little damp, though whether that was with Jasper’s saliva or my blood I wasn’t sure I had the courage to check. Why were we going to the shed? I suddenly thought. What was in there? Body parts?

  Mrs Frensham opened the door and we peered inside. It wasn’t body parts, it was junk. Old junk, mostly piles of paper. It all looked like it had been there a long time.

  ‘My late husband was a bit of a hoarder,’ Mrs Frensham explained. ‘This was his shed. Been like this since he died.’

  ‘You want me to clear it out?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘Never been able to bring myself to do it,’ she said. ‘But it’s silly, keeping it all there.’

  ‘And what should I do with it all?’ I asked. ‘Do you want it all thrown away?’

  ‘If you find any photos or letters,’ she said, ‘keep those. Everything else can go, unless it looks important.’

  ‘Important?’ I asked

  ‘Use your common sense,’ she snapped. ‘Or maybe you don’t have any common sense.’

  ‘I have plenty of common sense,’ I replied, stung.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said and handed me a roll of bin liners before stalking off back into the house. Jasper gave me a look of contempt and waddled off after her.

  I looked back at the shed, groaning with dusty piles of old newspapers, pieces of broken furniture, old bike parts, mouldy cardboard boxes and thousands and thousands of mouse droppings.

  And then it started to rain.

  I sighed and began work, first trying to clear enough space in the shed to stand out of the rain. Once I’d started though I went solidly at it for two hours, until Mrs Frensham came out to check on me. It all took a long time as the piles of papers which were nearest the door weren’t just newspapers, but had other documents in there too. Old accounts, files of business correspondence, magazine clippings. I had to go through everything to make sure it wasn’t important. The stuff I wasn’t sure about I put into a separate box, out of the rain.

  I’d filled maybe a dozen bags with rubbish when Mrs Frensham darkened the doorway behind me like the Reaper come to take my soul. She nodded briskly at the work I’d done, even though I felt I’d hardly made a dent in the junk pile. She had a quick look at the documents I’d thought might be worth keeping and then added the box to the rubbish pile.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You can go.’

  And that was that. My back killed from all the leaning over when I got home. My fingers were covered in paper cuts, my face was covered in filthy from the dust, and I didn’t smell nice. But it didn’t matter, because I was Giving Something Back.

  9th October

  On the way home from school today I ran into Megan. That’s one advantage of not having my bike. I saw she was a hundred yards behind me so I stopped to tie my laces for about an hour before she caught up, then I stood and looked all surprised to see her.

  ‘Oh, hiya, Megan,’ I said.

  ‘Were you waiting for me?’ she asked.

  ‘Er, yes. I suppose I was.’

  ‘Pretending to tie your shoelace?’

  ‘
Kind of.’

  ‘For ages.’

  ‘Yes. Well, you walk very slowly.’

  ‘I slowed down when I saw you because I was a bit freaked out about what you were doing.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I was pretending to tie my shoelace so that you’d catch me up.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Shall we walk together?’ I suggested.

  ‘OK,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for ages,’ I said.

  ‘I saw you this morning in History,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but not to talk to.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Not to talk to.’

  ‘Not since Waitrose.’

  ‘Ha!’ she said. Then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, grinning. ‘You can laugh at me.’

  ‘I missed you at Seneira’s party,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, it would have been good.’

  ‘It was wild,’ she said, in a tone that made me wonder who she’d been wild with. But I didn’t ask.

  ‘You know Freya Porter is having a party soon?’ she went on.

  ‘Yeah, I heard that. Are you going?’ I asked as casually as I could manage.

  ‘Yeah, I think so, are you?’ she asked, looking straight ahead.

  ‘I will if … yeah, I’ll go.’

  Ask her if we can go together, ask her if we can go together.

  ‘So this is me,’ she said.

  We’d arrived at her house. A neat, tidy semi-detached place with a perfect garden and a classy absence of cars on bricks at the front.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘See you tomorrow, I guess.’

  ‘Yep,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Apart from asking her if we could go to the party together, which I think might have sounded a bit needy anyway, I can’t think what I could have done better during that exchange. And yet I don’t really think I made any progress at all. I know, I should have asked for her number, that’s it.

  Still, things are OK. We’re going to be at the same party at the same time. And she did say she’d missed me at Seneira’s party.

  She missed me.

  10th October

  Just eaten a bad satsuma. The one just before it was amazing and sweet and juicy. How does that work? Seems these days that it’s 50–50 with satsumas, just like people I suppose. Not much else happened today. Mum’s back tomorrow. Thank the Lord. Dad and I are seriously running out of conversation, as well as satsumas.

  Doing Miss Swallow’s tank top, making it really tight, trying to see if I can get it smooth, like it’s been done by a machine. If I can get these right I can sell them on the Etsy site.

  11th October

  Incredible. Mum’s been back less than twenty-four hours and she and Dad have started with the bloody double entendres again. If they keep this up I’m calling ChildLine.

  Mum: I don’t think you boys have been eating properly while I’ve been away. I’m going to make you a hearty meal tonight. What do you fancy?

  Me: What about pie and mash? That’s hearty.

  Dad: Yes please. I do like a bit of your mum’s pie.

  Me: *Suspicious pause*

  Mum: What would you like in it?

  Dad: I know what I’d like to put in your pie, Sarah.

  Me: Gross. Stop it.

  Dad/Mum: Stop what?

  Molly: Yes, stop what?

  Me: The pie talk. Stop the pie talk.

  Mum: You don’t want my pie?

  Dad: I want your pie.

  Me: I’m going to my room.

  I did actually want Mum’s pie, having said all that. Her pies are pretty good, though I found it hard to look Dad in the eye while we were eating.

  ‘How about dessert?’ Mum offered, when I’d finished.

  ‘Yeah. Your mum’s getting her muffins out tonight,’ said Dad, with his mouth still full.

  I rose from the table in protest, a look of disgust on my face.

  ‘Shut up, Dave. Ben, sit down,’ Mum ordered. ‘Can’t we just sit together for two minutes at a meal for once?’

  Giving Dad a warning glare, I sat back down stiffly.

  ‘How’s the pottery going, Ben?’ Dad asked, on his best behaviour now. Mum glanced up at me quickly.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to be the next … ’ I stopped.

  ‘I can’t think of any famous potters,’ I said.

  ‘Harry?’ Molly suggested.

  ‘Beatrix?’ Mum said.

  ‘I mean, potmaker, or … um, ceramicist? Or whatever they’re called. I don’t think I’m going to be the world’s first famous potwrangler, is what I’m trying to say,’ I carried on. ‘But I’m not doing too badly.’

  ‘So when are we going to see some of the fruits of your labour?’ Dad asked, before cramming a huge forkful of mashed potato into his mouth.

  Mum raised an eyebrow at me.

  ‘Next week,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Not tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘No, nothing ready yet,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring something back next week.’

  ‘Great!’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ I answered confidently.

  Surprise is an understatement. What the hell am I going to show him?

  And I’ve got to make the ziggurat, too. Why am I doing this to myself?

  12th October

  We tried something a little more complicated in Knitting last night, and I’m afraid to say I struggled with it. Mrs Hooper gave us patterns for a tea cosy, which seemed simple enough. The way I like to work though is to get the whole pattern in my head, rather than just work on it stitch by stitch. And I just couldn’t get my head around the tea cosy, for some reason. A hole for the spout, then a hole for the base, and a hole for the lid, and a hole for the handle, all different sizes. Add in some stranded colourwork, which I find difficult and … well, I just didn’t like it.

  ‘Just follow the pattern,’ Mrs Hooper said to me. ‘Don’t worry about the holes till you come to them.’

  Easy for her to say. As far as I’m concerned the best time to worry about something is well before you come to it. That way you’re prepared.

  15th October

  I’ve spent two useless hours trawling the charity shops around Hampton, looking for pottery pieces I can show my dad and pass off as my own work. It’s all a bunch of crap. Everything’s either chipped, old-fashioned, or stamped with MADE IN STOKE.

  I need something amateurish and recent. Mum suggested I go to the craft fair, but that’s not on until Sunday and I promised Dad I’d have something for him on Thursday after class.

  What a bloody stupid tangled web I’ve weaved.

  … or knitted.

  16th October

  On the Knitwits! podcast I was listening to today, they were talking about the Ocean Spray jumper that seems to be all the rage at the moment in US knitting circles. I checked it out online and it is really nice.

  I’ve downloaded the pattern from an illegal pattern-sharing site which I feel pretty bad about but to do it legally would have cost $19.99, which is about £12.50.

  How mad is that? You could buy a jumper for that at Mackays. Admittedly not as nice as the Ocean Spray, but still.

  Anyway, it looks pretty complicated, but I think I’ll give it a go.

  18th October

  I’m a genius, and sometimes it takes a genius to see the simple answer to a complex set of problems. Take these four statements:

  Dad thinks I’m taking pottery.

  I need some convincing evidence of my pottering, or pottaging activities.

  Miss Swallow is taking the pottery class.

  Miss Swallow wants a tank top for her boyfriend.

  Now pop these statements into the mind of a genius. Stir vigorously, simmer for an hour. Season to taste and serve with crusty bread.

  ‘I’ll do a deal with you,’ I said to Miss Swallow. I’d got there early again and had p
opped into the pottery class before anyone else arrived. She had her hair tied back and had a smudge of clay on her left temple. I had to keep my hands clenched to stop myself trying to wipe the smudge away.

  ‘Go on,’ she said as she carried on cutting lumps of the slick, brown clay and slapping them down onto individual desks.

  ‘I need a present for my mum’s birthday,’ I said. ‘I’d like to get her a nice set of coffee mugs. Handmade.’

  ‘Ah, I see where this is going,’ Miss Swallow said, stopping to grin at me. ‘You want to swap the tank top for some mugs?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But your tank tops are lovely,’ she said. They’re worth far more than a few misshapen mugs.’

  ‘I think your pott … ing is amazing,’ I said. ‘I saw your products on Etsy. They’re fantastic.’

  ‘Thanks, Ben, that’s sweet,’ she said. ‘Still, four coffee mugs don’t seem like much. Can I throw in a plant pot?

  ‘Go on then,’ I said. Deal done. I grabbed a little more clay ‘for the ziggurat’ and left, rubbing my hands evilly.

  And in Knitting tonight, I finally finished that stupid tea cosy. I didn’t enjoy it but I finished it. ’I’ll never do another one again. Say No to Cosies!

  19th October

  Result! Miss Swallow gave me the mugs and flower pot today at school. I’ve hidden the flower pot under some old tarp behind the shed. I can use that later. The mugs I’ll present to Dad after next week’s class.

  I’m a genius, I’m a genius.

  In other news, the plumber came today, finally, and apparently told Dad the pipes were all clogged up. Brilliant. I could have told him that. Turns out there’s something in the water! The council have been contacted. I knew it. This is why I’m so weedy and have no facial hair. I’m being slowly poisoned. Am going to start taking water bottles to school to fill up there. I’ll be burly and hirsute within a month.