by T. S. Easton
Anyway, I’ve got it at the moment. It takes me quite a long time to get anywhere doing this but I’m sure all the hopping must be good for my glutes and core stability, if not mental stability.
11th February
‘They’ve organised a bloody minibus … ’ I stopped talking when half a Hobnob bounced off my head.
‘What was that for?’ I asked.
‘Language,’ Mrs Frensham snapped.
‘Sorry. They’ve organised a minibus to take family and supporters up to London for the final. Mrs Tyler said they have twelve tickets to give away to people who want to come up.’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said. ‘You must be excited.’
‘Over the moon,’ I said, monotone. I was excited when I thought I was going up with the girl I fancy and no one else. I’m not so enthusiastic now the whole school’s coming and the girl I fancy is getting off with Sean.
Mrs F looked sagely into my eyes.
‘It’ll be fine, lad,’ she said. ‘It’ll work itself out in the end.’
‘You mean like a knotty ball of silk chenille?’ I asked, nodding glumly.
‘Er, yes. I suppose,’ she replied.
I’ve painted the inside of Mrs Frensham’s shed now but then it had started to rain and I couldn’t do the outside. Mrs F had brought out her knitting and we were going to get cracking once we’d finished the tea and biscuits. I’d calmed down a bit since the Day from Hell. I don’t know what I’d do without my weekly visits to Mrs Frensham. I still enjoyed the Thursday night knitting classes, but even those had their stresses now, what with the awkwardness with Natasha, the pressure over Patt.r.n and trying to avoid Miss Swallow. I don’t want to talk to her after she shopped me, also she’ll only ask me about the ziggurat, which is in a bad way after Molly went all Conquistador on it last week and knocked it off my desk.
12th February
So today Psycho Manning finally caught up with me. I’d been quite careful to avoid him these last few days and had actually found Joz was right for the first time in his life in that the knitting twat comments had started to dry up. People had mostly even stopped pointing at me or smirking as I passed them in the corridors. I think this might have had something to do with the fact that Otto Wilson was caught with Holly Osman in the sponsored toilet block receiving the thing which Freddie had told me cost £15.
But just as I was starting to think I might have got off easy, Manning and his gang found me at the back of the library.
‘Knitting tosser,’ Manning snarled, knocking my books off the desk. ‘Where are your mates?’
‘They’ve abandoned him,’ Jermaine said. ‘Couldn’t stand to be hanging out with a knitting pansy.’
That was enough, I thought. I stood up and turned to Jermaine.
‘What did you say?’ I asked.
‘I said, you’re a knitting pansy.’
‘Gaylord,’ Manning added, in case there should be any doubt.
So I kicked him in the balls.
Jermaine leaped on me and wrestled me to the ground, as Manning rolled around on the floor moaning in agony. The other one, I still don’t know his name, held me down as Jermaine began pummelling me in the face. Then someone pulled him off and Carter the librarian was there and we all got sent to the Head’s office.
I was mortified by what I’d done, but at the same time I felt quite pleased with myself. Not bad for someone suffering from a zinc overdose. Maybe I’m not quite the girly man some had me down as. Dad might even be impressed.
Mrs Tyler saw us all separately. When I went in she asked me what had happened and I told her the whole story. She shook her head sadly.
‘I believe you, Ben. I don’t think you were responsible for what happened. But I will need to write an incident report, and I’m afraid this needs to be submitted to your probation officer.’
I nodded, defeated. I’d expected this.
‘But I will explain you were severely provoked and that your behaviour has been otherwise excellent. That’s as much as I can do for you.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘And Ben,’ she said, as I stood. ‘Have you thought any more about the Studentrepreneur Award?’
I stopped and stared at her, my mouth open.
At least she had the decency to look guilty. ‘Please?’ she said.
I never thought Mrs Tyler would resort to blackmail. But she had me over a barrel, I knew. And anyway, now the secret was out a little more publicity wouldn’t make any difference, and who knew, maybe I might make some money out of it. Then I could run off to Bermuda and change my name to Pedro.
‘I’d be honoured to represent the school,’ I sighed. ‘Please submit my name.’
‘Thank you, Ben,’ she said clearly relieved. ‘I’ll contact Mr Hollis straight away.’
As I left her office, I walked past Lloyd Manning.
‘Watch your step,’ he hissed as I walked past. ‘This isn’t over.’
You can say that again.
14th February
Got three Valentine’s cards today. Three! One was from Mum. But who are the others from? Not Megan. Natasha? But I’ve hardly said a word to her since she kissed me at the Regionals, as it were. I think she’s probably embarrassed about it too. Who are the other women in my life? Ms Gunter – unlikely. Miss Swallow? Not unless it was an act of pity. Some random girl from school? Unlikely, but possible.
Maybe all three are from Mum? Maybe she’s trying to cheer me up?
It kind of has.
15th February
Dear Ben,
As we discussed recently we need to arrange a visit at your home or some other suitable location. This forms part of the official assessment of your probation. We have also been discussing the possibility of a civil servant from the Home Office visiting you, along with a photographer, to put together a favourable report on your success story.
It strikes me that we would be missing a golden opportunity for a great story if we didn’t combine the two and cover your participation in the All-UK Knitting Finals in London. I hope it’s OK with you, but I have purchased some tickets to the event and will be attending, along with Mrs Fowler – a junior under-secretary from the Home Office, as well as a staff photographer. We can have a brief meeting there to discuss your progress, which frankly is just a formality. Then the Home Office official will ask you a few easy questions which the camera operator will film. We will then film the results announcements in the hope that you win!
So we’ll be there next Sunday to cheer you on and hopefully get a great, feel-good story with accompanying pictures. This is precisely the sort of thing we need to get a sympathetic hearing from the minister. We need to make continuing funding of the probation service a real vote-winner. I hope you don’t feel this increases the pressure on you. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have complete confidence in you.
Could you please let me have your permission to proceed with this?
Thanks so much in advance.
Yours
Claudia Gunter
West Meon Probation Services
‘You say this now, Ms Gunter,’ I muttered to myself. ‘But will you be so enthusiastic when you find out I kicked Lloyd Manning in the balls? That’s not going to play well with the minister, is it?’ I can’t say no, though. I just have to hope Mrs Tyler takes her time submitting the incident report, or that Ms Gunter decides to bury it at the bottom of my file.
Fat chance.
16th February
I’m home alone this weekend. Molly’s been sent off to our cousins in Southampton. Mum just left for Edinburgh. Dad’s still in Cornwall. Our family couldn’t be more separated at the moment. I helped Mum pack the car. The dove cage is the hardest thing to fit in and I’m worried I might have squashed the top hat a bit.
‘Stop worrying,’ she said. ‘You’ll be brilliant.’
‘So will you,’ I said.
‘I’ll try and be there,’ she said. ‘But I won’t promise. I’m not happy wit
h your father. He should be here.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I let him down.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mum. ‘It’s a game of two halves, if you ask me.’
‘Too true.’ I give her a grateful smile. She was on my side, she just couldn’t bring herself to totally slag Dad off in front of me.
‘Oh, Ben,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it seems you think you need to carry the world on your shoulders.’
‘I have a lot of things to think about,’ I replied. ‘It’s not just Dad, it’s the final, it’s school, it’s … a lot of things.’
‘Everyone worries, Ben,’ she said, looking me in the eye. ‘It’s natural, but you try to worry about too many things at once. Just pick one thing to worry about and leave the rest for later.’
‘That’s not how my mind works, Mum,’ I said. ‘I take a holistic approach to worrying.’
‘Then learn that there’s another way,’ she said. ‘Concentrate on one thing at a time. Shut everything else out. That’s the only way you can do something properly. And once you’ve done it properly, then you can stop worrying about that, and move on to something else.’
She’s right. And this is what happens when I’m knitting. I stop worrying about everything else, only the next stitch matters. And yet, even then I need to have that complete pattern at the back of my mind. I need to know there is a pattern.
Sunday 17th February
8.27am
This is it. The big day. I feel sick to my stomach. Last night was horrible. The house felt so cold, and empty. I watched Masterchef for a bit, just to have some company, and Mum phoned to see how I was getting on, which was nice of her. But I’m not good on my own when I’m this anxious. I went to bed early, thinking about how important it was that I got a good night’s sleep, and the more I told myself that the further from sleep I found myself.
My mind was literally buzzing with all the things I’m stressing about. So I got up and wrote them all down, hoping it would help. This is the list, in no particular order:
Will Dad ever come home and if he doesn’t is it my fault for being effeminate?
Will Ms Gunter find out about the Incident Report and be cross with me?
Will the Home Office Lady find out about the Incident Report and throw me in jail?
Will Mr Hollis, the man from Virilia, be so disappointed with my lack of entrepreneurial skills that he’ll stop funding the school?
Will Miss Swallow find out I’ve been lying to her about the ziggurat?
Will my friends turn up as threatened and lay waste to the Knit Fair?
Will Lloyd Manning catch up with me and cut off my testicles?
Will I fail all my AS exams through lack of study?
Will I ever get a girlfriend?
Writing them down didn’t help at all, as it happens. The only thing that did help was knitting. I worked on a tank top. Something easy and repetitive. Eventually I grew tired and got to sleep around 3.30am. I dreamed that I was playing for Chelsea in a cup tie. I kept trying to explain that I wasn’t any good but people would just laugh like I was joking. And on the pitch I couldn’t move my legs. The ball came to me and I had a perfect opportunity to pass to Frank Lampard, who was in a great scoring position and begging for the ball.
My dad was in the crowd, screaming at me.
‘Pass it! Pass it to Frank.’
There was a defender coming my way to take the ball, and with horror I realised it was John Terry, who’d switched shirts and was playing for the opposition like the traitor he is, and I couldn’t move my feet at all.
‘I’ve got an open goal!’ Frank Lampard screamed.
‘Pass it to Frank!’ Dad bellowed.
But it was no good. John Terry shot past, taking the ball with him and sneering at me. ‘You were right, you really can’t play,’ he shouted.
It was bad enough not being able to pass to Lampard, horrible to let down my dad, but having John Terry look down his nose at me? That was the worst.
I’ll show him, I thought. I’ll show him.
9.31am
I’m on the bus. Which is almost completely full. I can’t believe it. I turned up first and introduced myself to the bus driver, Rob. He seems a nice bloke.
‘You’re the knitter then?’ he said, giving me the look everyone gives me when they find out I knit. I’m used to it.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m the knitter.’
‘Well, good luck today, mate,’ he said genuinely.
‘Thanks, Rob,’ I replied. ‘I appreciate it.’
After a bit Joz turned up, shuffling along with his trainers unlaced. I was really pleased to see him.
‘All right,’ he said.
‘Thanks for coming.’
He sniffed. ‘Ah, y’know. Nothing on TV.’
Next to arrive was Mrs Frensham. She glared at Joz, who hid behind me, then she winked at me and went to sit on the bus, where she got out her knitting and started clicking away without saying a word. Mrs Simpson and Mrs Grissome from the knitting class arrived after that, giddy with excitement, carrying huge bags of boiled sweets.
Then Natasha and Amelia arrived. Natasha gave me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Feel I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said. ‘Not properly.’
‘Yeah,’ I said awkwardly.
‘Who’s your friend?’ Amelia said. Joz looked alarmed.
‘This is Joz,’ I said. ‘He’s an author.’
We waited around after that, chatting about books, until it was nearly time to go. I was beginning to think this might be it, when who should turn up but Gex and Freddie. I was less pleased to see them than Joz but I thanked them for coming.
‘S’all right, the school gave away free tickets, we got the last three,’ Gex said, looking at the ground. ‘Sorry about making jokes.’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ Freddie said.
‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ Joz said from behind me. ‘I forgot.’
They’d obviously talked this through and decided they were going to make a group apology. I was moved.
‘Thanks,’ I said gruffly.
We all stood around for a while, inspecting each other’s shoes, not saying anything.
We got on the bus then and we were about to leave when two more people came running up. Rob opened the door and Miss Swallow got on, looking flushed but beautiful. She was wearing the Hoopie. Joe clambered on behind her, ducking his head. He caught my eye and grinned at me. Miss Swallow stopped at my seat and leaned down. I could see Joz looking down her top, wide-eyed.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘No, thank you,’ Joz replied.
‘You’re welcome, Miss Swallow,’ I said, elbowing Joz in the ribs. Joe slapped me on the shoulder as they walked past to grab two seats at the back.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
11.44am
In a café in Olympia. Writing stuff down before it all kicks off.
The journey took forever. Getting to London was quick but as soon as we got into the city everything slowed down to a crawl. Why is there so much traffic in London on a Sunday? Where is everyone going? I suppose some of them must be going to the Chelsea game. I wondered where Dad was. Was he even now trying to park the camper van somewhere on the King’s Road? Surely not.
I felt a bit of a pang about Dad.
I’ve been trying to work out who took all the tickets. There’s Joz, Gex and Freddie. Miss Swallow and Joe. Mrs Tyler is coming, along with Mr Hollis. Rob the bus driver has one, I have the ninth. The knit class crowd got their own tickets, I know. Gex said all twelve tickets that the school had were taken, so who else is there? This sort of detail worries me.
I’m also slightly concerned that Gex, Freddie and Joz immediately disappeared as soon as we arrived. I’ve got a feeling they’re up to no good. They must have had an ulterior motive for coming along today, but what it is I couldn’t say. Mrs Frensham had leaned over and tapped me on the shoulder while we were on the bus.
‘This lot,’ she’d said
, tilting her head towards Gex, Freddie and Joz, still sitting beside me. ‘Are they going to cause trouble?’
‘Probably,’ I said, earning myself a wounded look from Joz and a nod of confirmation from Gex.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, glaring at each of them in turn. ‘I’ll keep an eye on them.’
Even Gex looked a little scared.
Anyway, the big news is that the Knitwits! podcast girls are here! I’m star-struck. I saw them interviewing someone at a stand earlier. Must try and work up the courage to go and introduce myself. Maybe they’ll interview me!
12.16pm
Just seen Megan. I’m writing this in a restaurant on the mezzanine level. Mrs Hooper thought it would be nice to get out of the hurly burly for a bit and have a quiet lunch. Just me, Megan and her. I went to meet Mrs Hooper, who was going to introduce me to the event organisers and get my details registered or whatever. And Megan was just there, hanging about.
‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ I said.
‘Thought I’d come up and do a bit of shopping,’ she said coolly.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘I’ll be back later on to watch the final, though,’ she said. She was picking at a loose seam on the handle of her bag, not looking at me.
‘Only if you have time, don’t bust a gut,’ I said, which may have come over a touch sarcastic. Oh well.
Mrs Hooper called me over at that point and I saw that Mrs Tyler had turned up, along with neat Mr Hollis, who shook my hand and told me he would be cheering me on from the stands. Mrs Tyler looked nervous and pulled me aside as soon as she had a chance.
‘Ben,’ she began. ‘Um, how do you rate your chances here today?’