The Woolly Hat Knitting Club

by Poppy Dolan

  ‘You could always ask—’

  ‘Julian! Julian!’ A voice squawks from the back door.

  ‘Auntie Mags. Just what the doctor ordered!’ I laugh with full-on relief and rush out to meet my godmother.

  * * *

  ‘Auntie’ Mags has been in our lives since Mum cracked in a supermarket one day: me (three years old then) and JP (just one) had pushed her to her limit, sleep deprived and exhausted and not really enjoying being cried at and puked on and poked round the clock. When she came back to the trolley with her arms full of nappies to find me cramming raspberries up JP’s nose and laughing maniacally, she just lost it. She sat down on a pallet of granulated sugar and sobbed. Auntie Mags was inspecting the dried apricots nearby but swiftly marched over.

  ‘This won’t do!’

  Mum had assumed she’d be getting another ‘well-meaning’ lecture on how they used to beat children in the good old days, but instead Mags whipped out a tissue, cleaned us both up, took Mum by the hand and led us all to the Sainsbury’s cafe. She bought us tea cakes and told my mum to ‘get it all out, love. I don’t mind tears – I’m a fan of Dynasty.’ And so Mum did. And Aunt Mags has been Mum’s agony aunt ever since.

  She’s actually only 10 years older than Mum, and still a sprightly 60-something now, but she always had that air of being ready for old age. Maybe it’s because she’s always been the carer for her mum, and didn’t have kids of her own. But the one thing I do know is that she is the lighthouse in any storm – whether it was being dumped or being spotty or being bullied, she was always there to talk to as we grew up. ‘Julian!’ Mags’s eyes start to fill with tears as she takes in the clumsy casts. ‘Darling boy!’ She covers him in lipstick kisses, blocking any chance he has of actually explaining this predicament.

  ‘He fell off a ladder but he’s fine now,’ I chime in, over her shoulder. ‘But I think we really need your help.’

  With Maggie on her second cup of tea and fully filled in on the what’s and how’s and what’s again, we have a battle plan. She can’t stay with JP full time as she needs to be home to care for her mum between nurse shifts (we used to call her Extra Granny when we were little, though now Doris’s Alzheimer’s is so bad she doesn’t remember us at all, the poor love), but she can do some time in the shop and pack up Internet orders here and there, and I can come and stay to be around at night and first thing in the morning. I’ll just have to commute into work. It’s not ideal with the hours I work and the infrequency of the Fenwild trains, but when Mags pointed out that JP won’t be able to easily dress himself or butter a piece of toast, I realized it was the only thing to do. JP said something about an occupational therapist visiting him but he couldn’t remember what he’d done with the appointment letter, seeing as he’d been so addled by mega painkillers. Finding that was my first task.

  It gave me a slight headache to recognize I couldn’t just nip back to work and dive right into the emails pinging in at a rate of knots. But my brother is my brother, and I can kick ass at work at any other time. Besides, Clive can combat any business headache: he is a super-organized pocket rocket and he’ll sift out anything urgent. We’ve worked so closely together for the last 18 months or so that he totally gets the way I work and think. I email him with my computer password and instructions to text me with anything that will explode without my attention. And, in caps, DO NOT LET BEN GET WIND OF THIS. I can smooth things over with Devon for missing a day or two of work, but if Ben got the chance to stir things up while I was away… I’d just rather he didn’t spot anything was amiss in the first place. If I’m really honest, I’d rather he spontaneously combusts at work tomorrow morning, just a pool of soya latte and breakfast bap left on his ergonomic chair, but we can’t have everything we want.

  I’m fishing around in the cupboard under the sink as JP rests up on the sofa, next to Mags.

  ‘What are you after?’ he yells.

  ‘Bags. I’m going to pick up some overnight bits from Mum and Dad’s, then do your shopping. And I’m going to call them while I’m out, let them know what’s going on and try to keep a lid on the hysteria from Mum.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I can handle Mum, it’s not a biggie.’ I lean on the kitchen door frame.

  ‘No,’ his eyes wrinkle, ‘sorry for making such a dog’s dinner for you to sort out. Yet again. I will pay you back, one of these days.’

  Maggie chips in, slapping JP briskly on the thigh. ‘Silly sausage! She’s your sister, and she loves you. Besides, our Dee can do anything. Everything, in fact!’

  Chapter 3

  Doing everything includes steering a shopping trolley with my elbows, it seems. And I’m actually doing a pretty good job: pushing the trolley with my forearms, dashing out emails with my thumbs, every now and then throwing in a fajita kit or tin of beans. Easy.

  My email to Guy at TechBank is not grovelling, not squirming, but clear and calm about why I had to leave the meeting – a family emergency that’s now tied up. From 8.00 tomorrow morning, I’ll be back on the ball or on the money or on point or just on top of anything they like. Within reason. And Devon will have no call to roll his eyes at me. I’ve got this. He knows no one works like I do.

  I’m making a grab for a tin of chickpeas – JP makes a mean hummus; well, he can dictate instruction for me to make it – when I hear a familiar, smokey voice. ‘Delilah Blackthorn. Is it really you?’

  I spin around and there is Becky Bairns, one of my best mates from secondary school. I haven’t seen her since… A flush of shame creeps up my neck. I haven’t seen her since our A level leavers’ party. I’ve always meant to keep in touch but the mad pace at uni and now at work means the only socializing I seem to do is with the guy who brings me a tuna mayo baguette at my desk. (He’s called Neal and likes Motocross.) She looks older and thinner. But actually not in a good way.

  ‘Becky! Oh my God, how are you? This is so weird, I don’t live round here anymore, just had to come back because JP’s not well. How are you? Sorry, I said that.’

  She looks down into her basket. There are digestive biscuits, wet wipes and a pack of size one nappies knocking about in there. She takes a big gulp and I realize her eyes are ringed with a red raw line and she’s madly blinking back tears, despite her lopsided smile. ‘Oh, I’ve been better.’

  * * *

  It’s like time has looped back on itself and Mum and Mags are meeting by the spilt sugar all over again, except there are no toddlers to wrangle at our feet. I pay for my shopping and get us into the local Costa within three minutes. Becky keeps looking at the door and won’t take off her coat. ‘I can’t stay, I’ve got to get back—’

  ‘You’ve got at least five minutes spare to get whatever it is off your chest and bolt this hot chocolate. You look like you could do with the sugar.’ I push the cream-topped mug in her direction with my best headmistress look.

  She takes a sip and closes her eyes. ‘I’ve had a baby, Dee. A boy. Chester.’

  I can’t help but clap my hands, like a happy seal. ‘Congrats! You clever thing. Wow, you look good on it. So, is he at home with his dad? Is this your time off?! If so, that bloke of yours has got to get you a spa membership because the supermarket is hardly “me time”.’

  Becky shakes her head, wincing as she does so, like there are loose items in there bashing about. ‘He’s in the hospital. He came too early. Much too early. So he’s in the special prem baby unit and I… I… I haven’t even held him properly.’ Tears slip down her face, leaving irregular splashes on her blue T-shirt. ‘Two weeks old and I haven’t held my baby. They tell you about how important skin-to-skin contact is, when you’re pregnant. But he just has plastic gloves and plastic boxes and wires, you know? How’s he supposed to know we’re here if he can’t feel us?’

  Her eyes search mine. I really wish I did know. I really wish I knew what to say.

  Becky suddenly sits up straight, as if waking from a daydream. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pour that out o
n you. It might all be fine, we don’t know. We’re waiting. That’s what gets you, you see, the waiting. The not knowing. They’re doing tests to see what effect being born so early might have, what could…’ Her voice cracks and she busies herself with her whipped cream while she takes a breath. ‘Steve told me to take an hour’s break from the hospital, go out and see if I could find something I fancied eating. Thought I’d get some nappies, too. That’s the kind of thing a mum does. And I need to look online for some smaller clothes. Everything we had ready for him is just miles too big. He needs to be warm in there.’

  ‘Of course.’ I squeeze her hand. ‘That sounds like a good plan. You’re doing a great job.’

  She laughs with one tired shrug of her shoulders. ‘I don’t know about that. God, listen to me,’ she drags her hands down over her face, ‘I haven’t asked anything about you. I bump into JP sometimes but, you know blokes, he never has any updates. He just says “she’s working”.’

  I pick up my green tea. ‘Well, he’s not wrong. I’m working a lot, doing well at the firm. It’s kind of round the clock, so… not much else to report!’

  She frowns. ‘No one you’re seeing then, in London?’

  ‘Nope. No.’

  ‘Oh.’ The frown lines drop from her forehead and she leans forward. ‘Do you want my brother’s number?’

  I can’t help but squeal with laughter. Talk about breaking the tension. ‘Don’t you dare! I can do without reliving that, thanks.’

  Becky clutches her hands in front of her chest and says in a moony, slurring voice, ‘Dave, you’re just so cool and I would be the best girlfriend ever and we could go travelling like in The Beach except I can’t actually swim but I have a sleeping bag and everything!’

  ‘Thunderbird has got a lot to answer for, OK? And you promised you’d take that to the grave! There were a lot of emotions swirling around that night, we’d just got our results and I was freaking out about leaving home. For a minute I thought hooking up with your brother was the answer. He did not agree, though, did he?’

  She slumps back into her chair and wipes her eyes. ‘Oh, wow, I needed that. The perfect distraction! And actually, he’s married now, so back off. Don’t go seducing him with your three-tog sleeping bag.’

  I clink my mug against hers. ‘Here’s to that. But we should meet up again. I’m going to be around for the next six weeks, here and there. I could meet you when you’re taking a break, if you fancy it. And if my drunken idiotic antics are helpful, don’t forget we have that whole school trip to Wales to relive, and the sixth form Halloween party.’

  ‘Where you were sick in Mrs Arnold’s witch’s cauldron! Ha, yes! Oh God, yes, I need this right now. Let me give you my number.’

  I open up the contacts on my phone and pass it over.

  She lets out a long breath. ‘Someone up there has been listening to me, because bumping into you was just what I needed. Now,’ she swallows heavily, ‘I’d better get back to the hospital and some premmie clothes shopping. Sadly, there’s no category on ASOS for it – it was the first place I checked.’ She’s working up a smile but her eyes are nowhere near as convincing.

  As I walk back to the car park with Becky, suddenly two broken wrists, some online orders and a backlog of emails doesn’t seem like much of a problem at all.

  * * *

  ‘Shit, no! I knew she was pregnant but I hadn’t heard… Shit, what can we do?’ JP is sucking up soup through a straw, between sentences. He’s getting major crow’s feet from the concern across his face, but if anything it makes him look younger to me – like that little brother who didn’t want to pay for his football stickers in the post office, because the woman behind the till had a bit of a scary moustache.

  ‘I’m not sure there is much. Becky hasn’t even held him yet. Maybe there’s a charity we could donate to? And she said she was having trouble finding small enough clothes, so we could look for some—’

  ‘Argh!’ JP barks.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Normally, I could knit a small baby hat in two hours or something. If I didn’t have these bloody things,’ he nodded at his casts, ‘he could have a whole ensemble by the end of the week. And a blanket.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll still be glad of something in six weeks.’

  But I know JP isn’t listening, his eyes have drifted off to the slightly cobwebby ceiling. Must find his Hoover soon.

  ‘Would you boot up my laptop, sis? You are going to have to be my typing bitch for a second.’

  I shoot him a warning look. ‘Typing helper, then. But quick, while it’s in my head. And then I need you to brush my hair for a quick vlog.’

  * * *

  Now, the power of the vlogger I know all about. We consulted with a beauty brand last year and after extensive insight work advised them that to launch a new lipstick with built-in nutricrystals, or whatever the science nonsense was, they didn’t need one mega celeb to wear it. They needed twenty passionate beauty vloggers to love it, genuinely. If you’re part of a community, you want to connect with people with those same interests. Logical. So I get why craft-loving types would take to YouTube too.

  It’s just the craft itself I don’t get, if I’m totally honest. It’s so… well, slow. If I do something, I want it done. I want an idea, an action, a result. And preferably all within twenty minutes. I see why knitting and stitching and crochet and all the rest is therapeutic and calming to JP. He needs those moments to pause, to quieten, to take a breath. But I’m the opposite. Like a shark, though a friendly one I should say, I have to move forwards or I just go kaput. When JP has tried to teach me a basic craft skill over long, cold holidays, I’ve always pretty quickly grasped what’s going on and given it a good effort, but when I look up and expect to see a finished throw with amazing patterns and textures, I see eight millimetres of holey knitting. And then I’m a bit done and fish out my Die Hard box set instead. And when John McClane is on his way home in a fully filthy vest, more than ready for a cup of tea and a sit-down, I can always dig out my work emails.

  It actually feels like a treat to be back in the office after an evening of tending to JP. We’re close but even close siblings don’t need to be that involved in each other’s toilet habits. Roll on six weeks’ time, when he is back to normal operation. Still, I’ve got my personal phone right by my keyboard, just in case.

  I’m scrutinizing a workflow sheet, looking for any oversights or loopholes when Devon’s perma-tanned face looms over my screen. He doesn’t say anything but the arch of his eyebrows might as well shout, What the hell is going on?

  ‘Hi, Devon, can I––?’

  ‘Our meeting was scheduled to start at 8.30. It’s now 8.45. I passed up my morning Spin class to be here. So where were you? Or is my time no longer valuable, Blackthorn?’

  I quickly click on my calendar tab but it’s empty until 9.15. I have not a clue about this meeting I’ve supposedly missed. But thinking on my feet is one of my best and most useful skills. ‘I’m sorry, that appears to have slipped out of my diary. Why don’t we catch up at lunch? I know there’s a Spin class in the corporate gym at one p.m.’

  The eyebrows slip down to a neutral level. ‘Fine. You’re on. Come ready with those takeaways and action points from the Dunreddy account.’

  I nod with confidence. I have no idea who Dunreddy are.

  As Devon strides away down the plush carpet, Clive pushes through the double doors and dumps his coat into his chair. ‘Morning, boss. Tea?’

  I’m already back on to the workflow and my mind is starting a new To Do list at the same time. ‘God, yes. You’re a star. And can you google the nearest sportswear shop, call them and reserve something suitable for Spin, a size ten – I’ll pick up at noon. Also pull the Dunreddy file quick as you can, ta.’

  Clive is muttering the list back to himself, so he doesn’t forget anything. Not that he ever does. ‘Okey-doke.’

  ‘And did anything come through from Clara yesterday, arranging a morning meetin
g with me on Devon’s behalf?’

  Clive blinks. ‘I heard her ask Ben last thing in the evening if you’d be back in by tomorrow morning. He said he was pinging you an email there and then about it. Did it not come through?’

  I close down my document with a heavier click than necessary. ‘No. No, it didn’t.’

  Thank God for my lunchtime Spin, because I suddenly have a lot of aggression to burn off.

  * * *

  ‘I want that drill down.’ Devon’s voice is almost too low and gravelly to be heard over the techno beat and the whizzing of twelve sets of bike wheels. ‘I’m talking low-hanging fruit. I’m talking meaningful growth. I’m talking the next Uber.’

  I can barely hear Devon, but can he even hear himself? I mean, I love the language of real business – negotiating, analysis, management all come with their own set of terms. It’s almost an academic study. But ‘business speak’ is something else. If I hear one more investor who’s put a million in a tech start-up that they don’t really understand use the description, ‘It’s the Uber of…’ I will book myself an Uber to the dark side of the moon and never come back. But seeing as Clive could only dig up the file by 11.50, misplaced by an intern apparently, I’ve barely got the lightest understanding of what Dunreddy do so I’m going to let Devon talk his spiel until hopefully 1.57. And with every push against a pedal, I can imagine Ben’s tie getting caught up in the spinning disc in front of me and very quickly – and agonizingly – squeezing his windpipe. Hah.

  ‘And your thoughts?’ Devon murmurs over the computerized music.

  ‘All about platform,’ I say with a wry smile. This is a pretty useful cover-all statement.

  ‘Of course.’ Devon shrugs and stands up on his pedals, ready for the next blast. My skin is safe for the next day, but I can’t say the same for Ben’s.