by Debbie Young
A slightly bigger boy answered before Joshua could reply.
“Of course not, silly. It wasn’t there yesterday, was it? It would have taken a lot longer than one night to grow all that wool.”
“I wonder if my dad could take some of its seeds and plant them in our garden,” said the little girl. “I’d like a tree like that next to my swing.”
Joshua chuckled and patted her head.
The slamming of a car door behind us heralded the arrival of Clive Wren, the press photographer. Used to working against the clock, he strode briskly over to Mrs Fortescue, who was making final adjustments to the tree, tugging at any crooked scarf edges to neaten them. I was proud of how straight mine had turned out. No-one need know how often I’d had to unravel a wonky bit, not even Hector.
“Mrs Fortescue, good morning.” Clive Wren knew her well, having snapped her on countless previous occasions. “This is a cheery sight on a chilly morning. Is this all your doing?”
The knitters watched Mrs Fortescue carefully to make sure she gave credit where it was due.
“A community effort, Mr Wren. So many kind people in the village gave their time and skill to craft these beautiful works of textile art.”
And there was me thinking all I’d done was knit a scarf.
“There are far too many names to fit in your picture caption,” she continued, as Clive Wren pulled a shorthand pad and pencil out of his jacket pocket. “But I’m sure you know how to spell Fortescue by now.”
After scribbling a quick note, Clive Wren returned the pad to his pocket and surveyed the crowd.
“OK, let’s have all the knitters assembled round the tree. Around it, but not in front of it, please. I don’t want to obscure that lovely colourful trunk. Let’s be having you. I’ve to be in Slate Green by ten for a store opening.”
After feigning modesty for about a nanosecond, the Knit and Natter crowd swarmed forward like bees homing in on a newly blossoming flower. Clive Wren darted among us, positioning Mrs Fortescue and Carol either side of the tree trunk, and for the rest of us, putting the shorter in front, taller (including me) behind. I’d have needed a Hector’s House promotional hat to get any product placement into this shot, but I was glad Clive Wren gave Carol a prominent position, considering she’d played such an important part in enlisting volunteers and distributing materials.
“Carol Barker, isn’t it?” he asked.
Carol glowed at his acknowledgement. As a canny shopkeeper, she was probably hoping her picture in the paper would increase visitors to her shop, and not only to buy the paper.
“Any kids involved?”
Carol had once told me she always sells more copies of the paper when it includes photos of local children.
“Does Tommy count?” I called out. “He helped dress the tree.”
His mum, on the other side of the tree from me, looked surprised. I hoped I hadn’t got him into trouble.
Tommy emerged from behind the tree, where he’d been skulking out of sight. He loped along to the far end of the row of knitters, before Clive repositioned him beside Mrs Fortescue and thrust a consent form at his mum.
“OMG,” muttered Tommy. “I’ll never hear the end of this at school if my mates see me in the paper. This is social death.”
Then he brightened.
“Would you like me to climb up the tree for you? That would make a good picture.”
“Thanks, but no time for that, son.” Clive Wren glanced at his watch. “OK, ladies – and gentleman.”
Tommy smirked.
“All hold still, please, no talking.”
It took a few moments for that instruction to percolate through the excited throng.
“Now, everyone say ‘knitting’!”
As we obeyed, it was as if we’d uttered a magic word – or a demonic curse. For at that same instant came a loud, crackling bang, and we were veiled in a thick grey cloud of pungent smoke, draining all colour from our world.
10 Slip Next Stitch
AS THE SMOKE BEGAN to clear, the same shot-like sound as I’d heard the night before rang out from one of the cottages beside the green.
Tommy, choking as much as the rest of us, shouted through the fog to Mrs Fortescue. “You told me there wasn’t going to be no bomb, Mrs Forty-two! You might have let me in on it after all I did for you.”
Mrs Fortescue waved her hands in front of her face, attempting to dispel the dark grey tendrils of smoke.
“Thomas, how dare you?”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Then who was it?”
Nobody took any notice of their quarrel; we were too transfixed by the vision emerging from the fog. For there, wreathed in misty coils, stood Ariel, naked as a newborn lamb, holding a large wooden placard that covered her front from chin to knee. Though her modesty was concealed from the front by the placard, we knitters were left in no doubt that she was as unclothed as the tree in its natural state.
Surely Ariel couldn’t have been the bomber?
Clive kept on snapping.
Tommy was beaming from ear to ear. This would boost his credibility amongst his mates at school.
I broke ranks and ran towards Ariel, pulling off my coat and flinging it around her shoulders to cover up her bare back.
“Ariel, what on earth are you doing? Let me take the placard while you button yourself up.”
The shock of the explosion suddenly caught up with her.
“I thought I was going to die,” she breathed, before sliding to the ground in a faint.
11 Not a Stitch On
HECTOR CAME TO ARIEL’S rescue, scooping her up in his arms. He never does that to me, was my unworthy thought as I finished buttoning my coat around her. From the ease with which he’d lifted her, she must have weighed as little as a child. I’d known she was slender, but I hadn’t realised till then just how emaciated she was. Whenever I’d seen her, she’d been wearing baggy clothing.
As Hector laid her down on the park bench, Carol and a doctor who lives in the village dashed over to help. As a distraction, Mrs Fortescue clapped her hands for attention, thanked everyone for coming and tried to send them on their way.
I leaned the placard against the bench, in case Ariel wanted to take it home with her. This was the first time I’d been able to read what it said:
Say No to Knitting!
Let Sheep Safely Graze.
Hardly the slogan of a terrorist.
As soon as the photographer had gone, I returned to Ariel’s side. She was conscious now, and her eyes were open, but her skin was paler than ever. The doctor had put his own coat over her prostrate body for extra warmth before taking her pulse.
Ariel turned to look at me, a pleading, mournful expression in her eyes.
“You know it wasn’t me, Sophie, don’t you? Not the bomb. I wouldn’t do anyone any harm.”
Ahimsa. I remembered now what it meant.
“Of course not. Do no harm. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
The doctor frowned at me.
“Are you referring to the Hippocratic oath? It’s a myth, you know, that ‘first, do no harm’ business. We don’t take any such oath in this country.”
“Actually, no. I’m talking about Jainism. Do no harm is their guiding principle – not only to others, but ultimately to themselves. That’s where the notion of fruitarianism comes from. Not only do you not harm the source of your food, but you protect yourself too. You do no harm so that you better preserve your own life.”
I’d read online about the practice of extremely selective eating as part of the rejection of anything else remotely harmful in life. It all stacked up now, alongside Ariel’s attitude to wool. She wasn’t just vegan. She was eating this way in hope of avoiding the premature death that had claimed her parents. She had yet to come to terms with losing them.
I took her hands in mine.
“Oh, Ariel, you poor thing. You’ve been trying so hard since your mum died, haven’t you? But you’
ve gone too far.”
Her moist eyes, too big for her emaciated face, gazed up at me like a frightened puppy’s.
I kept my voice gentle and low. “This won’t bring them back, you know. Nor is it keeping you from harm.”
Ariel slid her hands free of mine to cover her face and began to weep silently. When instinctively I put my arms round her, she leaned into me, accepting what comfort I could offer.
When finally she’d stopped crying, I encouraged her to stand up, and with Carol and me either side of her, we walked across the green to her cottage. The doctor followed and did a few final checks, before declaring she was fine, but could do with a rest and a more nourishing diet – a balanced vegan menu at the very least.
Carol had other ideas. She dashed back to the shop, reappearing a few minutes later bearing a basket filled with bread, bacon, eggs, butter, mushrooms and tomatoes.
Ariel eyed Carol’s basket with obvious longing.
“I’m so hungry!” she wailed. “That’s just the sort of breakfast my mum used to make me.”
Then she fell upon the contents, laying them out on the kitchen table and rummaging in the dresser for a plate and cutlery.
“You go and get dressed now,” said Carol, heading for the cooker. “And by the time you come down, I’ll have made you a lovely hearty breakfast.”
“I bloody hate fruit,” said Ariel over her shoulder as she headed for the stairs.
BY THE TIME ARIEL CAME downstairs, dressed as sensibly as Ariel was ever likely to dress given her current wardrobe, Carol was serving up a generous full English breakfast. Now that Ariel had finished with my coat, I slipped it on and reluctantly prepared to take my leave, feeling peckish myself.
“I’d better get to work now, if you don’t mind, Ariel,” I said. “Is it OK if I call in on my way home this afternoon to see how you are? Perhaps have a cup of tea and a chat? Or, if you’d rather, come up and find me at Hector’s House and join me in the tearoom whenever you like.”
Ariel nodded. “I’d like that very much, Sophie, thank you. It would be good to talk, and I know you’d understand. You see, I haven’t really talked about my mum to anyone since she died. My best friends had all gone to India when she passed. I think I’ve been bottling it all up.”
No wonder she’d erupted like a firework. Which reminded me – I still didn’t know who had planted that smoke bomb, and why.
12 The Final Row
AS I LEFT ARIEL’S HOUSE, admiring the colourful knitting display thankfully undamaged by the bomb, my attention was caught by the shutters still closed on one of the cottages on the green. Who was so lazy – or such a sound sleeper – as to still be in bed at nearly ten o’clock on a weekday? How could they have slept through the earlier kerfuffle around the tree?
I couldn’t remember who lived there, but I had the vague recollection of seeing an elderly man tending its front garden, possibly one of Billy’s darts cronies. Perhaps he was unwell. I glanced at my watch. I was already an hour late for work. Another few minutes wouldn’t make much difference. Hector would understand.
I knocked at the door. No answer, so I knocked again, then stepped back to look for signs of life at the front windows. Nothing.
The third time I knocked, harder than before, the door moved slightly under my clenched fist. A lot of people in Wendlebury Barrow never lock their doors while they are at home, even at night. I turned the knob and gently pushed the door open.
“Hello?” I called softly. Then, louder, “Are you OK? Do you need any help?”
A groan came from the far end of the hall, which led into a small kitchen. Fearing the occupant had fallen and broken a limb or had a stroke, I ran to his aid. To my surprise, there at the table sat Billy’s friend George in tartan flannelette pyjamas and a paisley-patterned polyester dressing gown. At my approach, he shrank back like a dog that expected to be thrashed.
“George, whatever’s the matter? Can I help?”
He let out another strangled moan.
“Never mind me, what about that poor girl? I never meant to hurt her. I never meant anyone no harm.”
That made two of them.
I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down, so that I’d be on his level.
“You mean Ariel? Don’t worry, she’s fine. I’ve just left her with Carol. The doctor said she’s OK, just undernourished and anxious, but that’s not your doing. Carol’s feeding her bacon and eggs.”
He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, praise be for that! When I planted it there, I didn’t think anyone would stand on just that spot. I thought it would be clear for the photo Mrs Fortescue was on about last night. How was I to know some daft girl would go streaking across just as I set it off?”
“Planted what? The tree? No, of course not, that was your great grandfather’s doing.”
Suddenly it all fell into place.
“Oh, I see! You were making a protest too! Not against knitting, surely?”
He moaned again.
“No, sorry, of course not. You were protesting at the desecration of your great grandfather’s memorial tree.”
He began to rally. “Of course I was. That Fortescue woman had no right! And as to that tom-fool boy clambering all over it last night! I just hopes those weren’t copper nails he was hammering in or the whole tree will be done for. It’s a miracle it’s still in one piece.”
I’d heard copper nails could kill a tree and was anxious to reason with him.
“I think they were just steel tacks. They were definitely silver in colour. I remember seeing them in his mouth and hoping he wouldn’t swallow them. I don’t think they’ll do it any damage. But speaking of damage, what on earth was it you planted in front of the tree – a smoke bomb?”
George lowered his hands and nodded.
“It weren’t anything nasty, just one of those little devices I uses to fumigate my henhouse. I added a timed fuse to make it go off at the vital moment. I didn’t mean no harm. I just wanted to teach people not to mess about with my tree.”
I bit my lip.
“What we were doing wasn’t meant to be disrespectful. I’m sorry if it seemed that way. It was quite the opposite, actually. It was helping raise the profile of the hostel for the homeless in Slate Green.”
George picked up a discarded envelope from the table and started folding and unfolding it over and over.
“Well, it didn’t seem exactly respectful. It was like dancing on somebody’s grave. It’s not as if anyone asked my permission. If they’d asked my permission and explained, that would have been a different matter. But they just took over. First I knew of it was when I looked out my bedroom window last night. It was like none of them knew what my tree stood for – for my great grandfather, my grandfather, my dad and me.”
I was glad he hadn’t recognised me in the dark.
So that was the cause of the gunshot sound the previous night – George, beside himself with indignation, had slammed his bedroom shutters. Then he’d done it again this morning, this time horrified by the unintended consequences of his smoke-bomb protest. He thought he’d killed Ariel. No wonder he was so upset.
I reached my hand across the table towards him, not quite touching his, but close.
“You do know what you did was wrong, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Of course I do. What do you take me for? I’ve been to Sunday School. But that Fortescue woman wouldn’t take no notice of an old man like me.”
I could understand his reservations.
“But look at it this way. Your special tree is playing a really important part in what Mrs Fortescue has organised to help the homeless. Everyone who sees it will always remember it now. It’ll be famous for miles around once it’s been in the paper. Don’t you think that would make your great grandfather proud?”
“Yes, but only for her reasons, not for mine. I don’t want to seem unsympathetic to the homeless, but –”
I had a sudden brainwave.
“I k
now, why don’t I phone the local paper and ask Clive Wren to add to the picture caption a note that the tree is a memorial to your great grandfather?”
George looked me in the eye for the first time, clearly heartened by my suggestion.
“Would you, Sophie? That would be wonderful.”
“And we can see about getting a little plaque made with his name and dates on, and put it at the base of the tree. Then everyone will know.”
He cast his eyes down. “Everyone did know when it was first planted, and for a long time after that. But older folks died, and new people moved into the village who never even knew my dad, let alone his father, and his father before him.”
“No worries, George. Now, let me make you a nice cup of tea, then I must get back to work.”
I got up and filled his kettle at the sink.
“You won’t tell anyone what I did, will you? I feels ashamed now. I just acted in the heat of the moment. I didn’t mean to upset that little girl. I had no idea the blast would be strong enough to blow her clothes right off her.”
I suppressed a laugh as I fetched a cup and saucer from the dresser.
“I don’t think anyone would blame you for that, George. But we’d better put some explanation out, otherwise everyone will end up blaming Tommy, and that wouldn’t be fair.”
“Yes, I’d have blamed him meself if I didn’t know it was me. It’s a wonder no-one took him to task over it on the spot.”
I thought back to the scene.
“Actually, I think we have Ariel to thank for that. Her sudden appearance was quite a distraction. And speaking of Ariel, would you mind if I brought her round to see you? I’m sure you’d be able to help each other a lot. She’s recently lost both her parents, you see, so she’ll understand how you feel. She really needs someone to talk to who empathises with how hard it is to lose someone you love. And if you and she are clearly on good terms before we tell everyone else who planted the smoke bomb, I’m sure they’ll let you off.”
“You think so?”