by T. S. Easton
Someone slapped me on the shoulder at that point. I looked for Jeanette, but didn’t see her.
‘Now, we don’t have much time,’ Julie said. ‘So I’ll crack on. The name of the third-placed contestant is … ’
She held it for a few seconds and everyone went quiet, except for Gex, who was talking on his phone and ignoring everyone shushing him.
‘Marian Joyce!’ called Julie. There were cheers and a red-faced Marian was ushered up to the front to receive her prize.
‘Marian wins a £50 voucher from Royal Yarns, Kaffe Fassett’s new book Knit to Win and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne.’
I felt a little bit of disappointment. I hadn’t really expected I might win, but I thought third might be an outside possibility. There was no way I could have beaten Jeanette, and in Kirsty whatsit there was at least one other contestant I was sure had out-knitted me.
‘And now, the name of the contestant in second place,’ Julie went on, when Marian had disappeared back into the crowd. ‘Is … ’ Again there was a long pause. Surely it couldn’t be …
‘Ben Fletcher!’
I was properly amazed. I thought there must have been a mistake. I was swamped by my friends and family. They were all slapping me on the back. Natasha picked me up in a great bear hug and swung me around. I saw Megan eyeing her coolly.
‘Brilliant, Ben!’ I heard Dad cry from somewhere.
‘Nice one!’ Gex yelled, breaking off his phone call for a second.
‘Though Ben’s tea cosy was only ranked fourteenth out of twenty-two,’ Julie called over the din, ‘his extraordinary achievement in finishing an entire hooded top during the second session without dropping one stitch ensured he finished a strong second.’
Someone pushed me up to the front, where I was handed a bag of goodies.
‘Ben wins a £100 voucher from Royal Yarns, a signed copy of Kaffe Fassett’s book, a bottle of champagne and a meal for two at any Yolo Japanese restaurant.’
There was another round of applause as I came back with my winnings. Mrs Frensham ruffled my hair and Megan practically shoved Natasha over so she could kiss me on the cheek.
‘Finally, the name you’re all waiting for,’ Julie said. ‘The winner of the All-UK Knitting Championship Junior Category is … ’
‘Jeanette Fairbanks,’ I mouthed as the seconds ticked off.
‘Jeanette Fairbanks!’ Julie yelled.
‘Boo,’ Megan murmured.
‘Yes!’ Jeanette screamed. She rushed up to the front and turned to look at me with a look of such smugness I wanted to murder her. I had intended to congratulate her on her win. It had been fair and square after all, unlike the regional heats. But after that, I decided not to bother.
‘Congratulations, Jeanette,’ Julie said. ‘Your tea cosy was almost perfect, and your cushion cover both neat and attractive. The judges admired your classic technique and your refusal to allow distractions to get in your way.’
She then handed Jeanette a trophy. ‘This will have your name inscribed on it. You also win a £250 voucher from Royal Yarns, a signed copy of Kaffe Fassett’s book, a bottle of champagne, and perhaps best of all, two all-inclusive tickets to the New York Knit Fair, including air fares, hotel accommodation and spending money.’
Not bad, I thought. Maybe next year that could be me.
And then something odd happened. Julie’s wide-eyed assistant came running up and tugged on her trousers. Julie bent down so Bush Baby could whisper in her ear.
‘You were fantastic, son,’ Dad said, elbowing his way through the crowd to chuck me on the shoulder.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I replied. ‘Sorry you had to miss your game.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘They were probably going to lose anyway.’
‘It’s nice to see you,’ I said. I could see Mum waiting behind him, still wearing her top hat.
‘Yeah, well, sorry about running off like that,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t have done it … ’
But our reunion was cut short at that point.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Julie shouted out. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please.’ Some people had started to leave, but stopped to listen.
She went on. ‘I’m afraid to say there’s an irregularity in the results. It turns out that our winner, Jeanette Fairbanks, actually registered twice for the regional heats. Once for Hampshire, and then again for Surrey.’
I subtly scanned the crowd, looking for my adversary, but she was nowhere to be seen. Had she run off already, clutching her trophy?
‘Though I’m sure this was just an oversight on Ms Fairbanks’ part,’ Julie went on, ‘rules are rules, and this does, unfortunately mean she has been disqualified. Therefore, the winner of the All-UK Knitting Championship Junior Category … is Ben Fletcher.’
There was a stunned silence for half a second, then the place just went mental. Whether it was because my posse was so big, or because of the dramatic circumstances, or maybe because the entire crowd had taken a dislike to Jeanette, I don’t know, but it seemed the whole world was there screaming and cheering. Gex and Freddie lifted me up onto their shoulders, Mrs Frensham was waving her giant knitting needle around dangerously, Dad hugged Mum, Mum kissed Dad. Joz kissed Amelia, Natasha kissed Freddie. Gex ended his phone conversation. The lady from the Home Office grinned in delight while the cameraman filmed everything. I saw neat Mr Hollis hugging Mrs Tyler at the back. Megan leaped up and down, grinning ear to ear and clapping her hands together.
Even Julie looked pleased, though Bush Baby had disappeared again, perhaps terrified by the noise.
Someone must have wrestled the trophy back off Jeanette, because it was thrust into my hands. I lifted it high, glinting in the overhead lights.
I’d won.
25th February
I’m at Mrs Frensham’s. It’s raining again and she’s gone to make a fresh pot of tea.
Must finish writing the account of the final. I suppose there’s not that much more to tell. We all decided to get back to Hampton and have a late pizza together. Most of us managed to squeeze onto the mini bus, though not Mum and Dad, who came back in Mum’s car. It turned out Dad hadn’t been able to find anywhere to park the camper van so had just left it out the front of the venue. It got clamped. Poor old Dad, he didn’t have the most comfortable of journeys home apparently, squashed between the swords and the cage with the surviving dove, which kept pecking him. Mrs Hooper drove her own car back with Mrs Tyler and Mr Hollis.
Joz was still in pain, but Amelia sat with him and plied him with some strong painkillers she happened to have. He began to feel better once we were on the A3 and they snogged the rest of the way back.
As the bus pulled out of the car park on to the main road, I saw, through the window, Jeanette Fairbanks standing by a bus stop, looking absolutely furious. I’m not proud of myself for this, but I couldn’t resist sticking my head out of the window.
‘I’M KATNISSSSSS!’ I screamed at her as we shot by. She looked up in confusion, then flipped me the bird when she realised who it was.
I sat back down next to Megan, grinning and felt my phone buzz. A text from Mum.
Just heard on the radio that Chelsea won a nail-biter. Lampard scored the winner. Your dad’s being philosophical about it.
Good old Lampard. The one time I didn’t want him to score.
‘How did you do it?’ Megan asked. ‘You managed your distractions. It was chaos in there.’
‘Sometimes chaos is OK,’ I replied. ‘Sometimes, to make something beautiful you need a little disorder. You can’t always control everything, sometimes you need to let things flap free.’
‘It’s not just knitting you’re talking about, is it?’ Megan said.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘You were right in there. I can’t hold everything in my head all at the same time. Sometimes I just need to concentrate on one thing at a time. Mum said the same thing.’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘T
his is how normal people think.’
‘It’s like a patchwork quilt,’ I said. ‘You don’t do it all at once. You can only work on one square at a time. At the end you sew them all together to finish the piece.’
‘I’m not sure why everything has to have a knitting analogy,’ she said. ‘But yes, you’re right.’
I sighed and looked out of the window at Londoners going about their chaotic business. A whole world was out there which I couldn’t control. And that was OK, as long as my little bit of it was fine. And it was, just for the moment.
‘So what now?’ Megan asked.
‘Pizza,’ I said after a pause. ‘Let’s just have pizza for now. We’ll take care of everything else tomorrow.’
1st March
Just putting the finishing touches to Megan’s birthday present. She’s invited me around to her house for dinner. Her parents are going out and she’s cooking for me.
I would have liked to have bought her something, but I’m a bit strapped at the moment. I’ve had a pile of orders for the Hoopie via Etsy, thanks to Miss Swallow modelling it for me and managing to look sweet and sexy at the same time. My site got hundreds of hits after I put that up. I have a sneaking suspicion a fair number of them might have been boys at my school but clearly not all since I got so many orders. I bought loads of wool using the voucher, just enough, I think. I calculate I stand to make nearly a thousand pounds though if I manage to fulfil all the orders, so it’s just a temporary cash-flow problem.
So in the meantime, Megan had to put up with a sweater, using the wool she’d bought me for Christmas and inspired by the Ocean Spray, in scarlet. I was going to make her a Hoopie, but I thought it might seem weird if she had the same top as Miss Swallow.
Oh, nearly forgot. Neat Mr Hollis, the man from Virilia, sent me an email today.
Dear Ben,
Congratulations on your triumph at the AUKKC – JC! It was a remarkable day and the goat bite is healing nicely. I just wanted to give you advance ‘warning’ that you’ve been shortlisted for the Virilia Young Entrepreneur of the Year Award. Congratulations on that too. I’ll be in contact soon with details of the awards ceremony but just wanted to check in now and make sure you are willing to accept the nomination, so could you please confirm by return?
Finally, regardless of that, we’d be interested in meeting with you here at Virilia Head Office to discuss your business going forward. I meant what I said when I told you Virilia invests in people and in you we can see some exciting opportunities.
Best wishes
Mark Hollis
Head of Investment
Oh, crapping hell. I’m supposed to be taking AS levels this year. And I have six Hoopies to knit, not to mention five outstanding tank-top orders. Then there’s keeping Gex, Joz and Freddie out of trouble, and football to watch with Dad. And the last fifteen pages of Fifty Shades of Graham to edit.
Bright side. I don’t need to finish that bloody ziggurat. And I’ve got Megan. Most importantly, I’ve got Megan.
I’ll tackle the rest later.
One stitch at a time.
T.S. Easton
T. S. Easton is an experienced author of fiction for all ages and has had more than a dozen books published. He has written under a number of different pseudonyms in a variety of genres. Subjects include vampires, pirates, pandemics and teenage agony aunts (not all in the same book). He lives in Surrey with his wife and three children and in his spare time works as a Production Manager for Hachette Children’s Books.
Follow T.S. Easton on Twitter:
@TomEaston
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hot Key Books
Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT
Copyright © T.S. Easton 2014
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-4714-0148-0
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