The Great Christmas Knit Off (11 page)

A
fter glancing up at the tired, paint-peeling signage above the non-existent window display, I go to push open the door to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery and one of those old-fashioned bells makes a gloriously halcyon jingly-jangly sound. I’m hesitating, wondering what to do with Basil, when a man, head bowed, hands shoved into his overcoat pockets, comes barging out of the shop, almost flattening me into the snow as he literally bumps into my right shoulder, making me stumble backwards. I reach a hand down to the pavement to steady myself and he stomps off down the lane to a shiny black Range Rover parked beside an old wooden bus shelter.

‘Well, excuse me,’ I harumph after him, but he doesn’t turn back. Instead, he jumps into his car and wheel-spins away, making the snow spray up into a giant, furious flurry.

‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’ A small old lady wearing two handknitted cardies over a navy serge dress with thick tan tights, fur-lined felt booties, and long silvery-white hair pinned up into a big Aunt Bessie bun comes padding towards me. ‘My nephew forgets his manners sometimes. Are you alright?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you,’ I say, brushing the snow from the sleeve of my parka.

‘Bring the dog in with you. He’ll catch his death of cold left outside in the snow,’ she admonishes, frowning and shaking her head, then quickly adds, ‘I take it he is housetrained?’ before holding the door open wide.

‘Oh, yes! He knows how to behave,’ I say, inwardly praying that Basil doesn’t let me down and lift his leg on her gnarly, age-dappled wood floor. Or worse still, on the swirly patterned rug in the centre of the shop that has admittedly seen better days – it’s frayed at the corners and is almost threadbare in the middle, but it could be an heirloom antique Axminster for all we know.

‘Good. Then hurry on in dear, we’re letting all the heat out.’

Inside the double-fronted shop with mullioned windows it’s like stepping into a time warp, an old-fashioned emporium of haberdashery delight. Low-beamed ceilings and a higgledy-piggledy collection of wooden tables are scattered around with open-topped storage jars crammed full of all sorts of knitting and needlecraft paraphernalia – a veritable rainbow of felt balls, plastic buttons, wooden buttons, silks, needles, threads, pins, bobbins, tape measures concertinaed up and held together in rubber bands besides bundles of dressmaker’s chalk. Then there are lots of vintage green glass dishes containing remnants of lace, circles of cardboard with lengths of ribbon wound round, waxed cotton, crochet hooks, a china jug crammed full of wooden knitting needles in a whole selection of sizes. It’s all here – there’s even a rotating wire display rack bulging with Simplicity patterns that must date back to the Twenties; one of them even has a picture of a lady’s flapper dress on the front, complete with beaded headband.

I gingerly walk Basil around the rug, making a beeline for the yarn section – there must be at least a trillion balls crammed into the rickety old wooden display unit, but on closer inspection the labels look as though they’re from the Fifties through to the Seventies and in mainly dated colours, drab pastels with a few lurid greens and garish oranges thrown in. My heart sinks; this isn’t what I had in mind at all. I can’t even see any nice vibrant reds with which to knit a Christmas jumper, hat or bobble scarf for Ruby’s window display.

‘The dog can wait in the kitchen by the fire while you browse. Follow me,’ the old lady commands.

‘Oh, sure. Thank you,’ I quickly place a sun-faded lavender lace weight back on the shelf and give Basil’s lead a gentle tug as if to say ‘follow me and be on your very best behaviour or else!’

The lady (easily an octogenarian), who I assume must be Hettie, leads us through to the back of the shop and behind a heavy brocade curtain that smells of mothballs mixed with coal dust and into a little kitchen-cum-sitting-room with one of those old square sinks in the corner and the orange-hued charcoal embers of a real open fire glowing in the hearth. Picking up a poker, Hettie gives the fire a good stoke before throwing on the last two lumps of coal. Her hands are clad in black fingerless gloves (handknitted, naturally), which she wipes on a raggedy old tea towel before hanging it neatly over the side of the sink. On the draining board is a tray, which, by the looks of it, holds the remnants of her lunch: a teapot with a knitted canary-yellow chicken tea cosy, a plate with crumbs on and some bread crusts wrapped up in clingfilm – for the birds, perhaps.

‘Oh I’m so sorry, did I interrupt your lunch?’ I say, instantly feeling bad.

‘Lunch?’ Hettie says, looking momentarily confused, but then quickly adds, ‘No dear, that’s from yesterd—’ She stops talking, tugs her cardies in tighter around her slight frame, and glances at the floor. The atmosphere is awkward all of a sudden. Oh no, I’ve embarrassed her, but why? There’s a short silence while I slip Basil’s red coat off and admire the traditional wooden Singer sewing machine in the corner, complete with marble workbench and brass foot pedal underneath. And then it dawns on me – she’s either ashamed at not having cleaned her tray away or, oh God, please tell me that isn’t all she has eaten since yesterday? It’s highly possible given the miniscule size of her and I can’t help thinking that a sudden gust of wind could have serious consequences for her – quite possibly snap her clean in two, she’s that brittle and fragile-looking. I reckon my hands could span her waist, no wonder she’s wearing so many layers; there’s not an ounce of fat on her tiny frame to actually keep her vital organs warm. And for some reason I have an overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around her and give her a big hug. She seems so vulnerable … But there’s something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on; a sadness, sorrow, or loneliness perhaps. I inhale sharply before exhaling hard, quickly covering it with a big smile so as not to embarrass her further; I don’t want her seeing my concern and thinking that I’m pitying her, but if it is the case and she’s scrimping on food, then it’s heartbreaking, and I’ll speak to Lawrence to see about getting her meals on wheels or something substantial organised, because he’d be right – she’s not eating enough. Old people like her shouldn’t have to go hungry. Remembering the sandwiches, I quickly pull the package from my bag.

‘Lawrence asked me to give you thi—’

‘What is it?’ she interrupts.

‘Sandwiches.’ I smile, going to hand them to her.

‘Oh, you can keep them. I have plenty of food in,’ she adds sharply, before turning her back. She heads away to the shop floor and beckons for me to follow behind, which I do, after leaving the silver foil package on the side by the sink. She stops near the counter that houses an antiquated old wooden till and turns to look me in the eye.

‘Are you the girl down from London that turned up in the middle of the night?’

‘Um, er, yes, I suppose I am,’ I say, withering slightly under her scrutiny while thinking that news sure does travel fast around here, ‘but how do you know?’

‘Peter told me. He called in earlier with a fresh pail of milk, still warm from the herd. Such a thoughtful lad, just like his father, and his father before him, dairy farmers all of them. Would you like a glass?’ she offers kindly.

‘That’s nice. But, no, thank you anyway,’ I shake my head and smile politely, wondering if I could actually stomach warm, unpasteurised milk; I can’t say that it’s ever really appealed to me.

‘Are you sure? It’s so good for the skin, dear, and if you don’t mind me saying so, your face is looking a little grey around the gills, as it were. That’ll be all the pollution up there in London. Blocks the pores! Fine country air and Mother Nature’s recipes are what you need, then you’ll be dewy skinned and bright-eyed in no time.’

‘Oh, er … right. Um, thank you for the tip,’ I mutter.
She’s very outspoken
.

‘So what is it I can help you with, dear?’ she says eagerly, swiftly changing topic and fixing her Wedgewood-blue bright eyes on me.

‘Um, well I was hoping to buy some yarn to knit a Christmas jumper and possibly a matching hat. Mittens too, if I have time for them, and perhaps a selection of nice materials to make a quilt. But that’s not so urgent as I’m not in such a rush to make that,’ I say, eyeing up some rolls of fabric stacked up on a table in the corner. I move closer to inspect the roll on top – a pretty black-and-cream birdcage print, but it’s all yellowing and stained at one end. Oh no, it’s such a shame. And then I look around the shop again and see that everything is faded, and I feel mean thinking this, but the whole place is a mess. There’s stuff piled everywhere – old magazines, blankets, sewing books, there’s even a decrepit old Silver Cross pram in one corner that’s crammed full of material remnants. I take a step closer, wondering if the jumbled assortment will do for a quilt as I can hardly walk out of here without buying anything at all. I don’t have the heart to do that, not when Hettie looks so expectant and well, if I’m honest … very much in need.

‘Do you need a pattern for the pullover?’ she asks, going to bend down towards a box on the floor.

‘Oh, please let me help you with that, it looks heavy,’ I say quickly, as she tries to grasp the sides to lift the box.

‘Thank you, dear. I’m not as strong as I used to be. Lift it up onto the table there, will you please?’ And she hurriedly clears a space by tossing a stack of handknitted, lemon lace weight shawls with a beautiful beaded picot edging into an ancient old open suitcase. The box is seriously heavy and full to the brim with crumpled paper knitting patterns. ‘That’s a girl.’ She elbows in next to me eagerly, licks a couple of fingertips and starts rummaging through the pile. ‘Now, let me see. I have just the thing for you here.’ I smile politely, taking in the technicolour pictures on the patterns – ladies in old-fashioned twinsets and schoolboys in tank tops dating back to the Fifties. Oh well, never mind, I can always use Lawrence’s laptop to find a pattern online. ‘Ah-ha, here it is.’ And she pulls out an old Bestway pattern priced at 6
d
(blimey, it’s pre-decimal so it must have been in this box for decades) with a picture of a couple wearing his and her Christmas jumpers on: two skiers mid-slalom over a row of fern trees, with matching headgear, Fair Isle knitted ear muffs for him with a knitted link over the head to hold them in place, and a lacy knit hat for her complete with knitted little strap to go under the chin and button fasten up by the earlobe. Oh God, I know Ruby wants vintage but I’m sure she still envisages people wanting to actually buy the garments on display in her window and nobody is going to want to walk around looking like a prize plum. But then, who am I to talk? I glance down at my feet, cough, and quickly push the now snow-coated spurs under the table.

‘I was thinking something a little, um, er, simpler,’ I say delicately.

‘Well, what about this one?’ Ah, now this is more like it, a classic chunky-knit with a Christmas pudding on the front. ‘Too plain?’ she adds, going to put it back into the pile in the box.

‘Not at all, I’m tight for time on this project and the pattern looks pretty straightforward so I think it’ll be perfect,’ I grin, taking the paper pattern from her to get a proper look and hoping she has some suitably coloured yarn stashed away somewhere.

‘If you’re sure … How long do you have?’ She stops thumbing through the pile of patterns.

‘Three days – and that includes today. It’s for Ruby’s vintage shop window, up in the High Street.’

‘Hmm, well three days isn’t very long at all,’ she muses.

‘It sure isn’t, but Ruby has been very kind to me – and Lawrence.’ I grin.

‘Ah, yes, the B&B, that’s where you’re staying,’ Hettie states, matter-of-factly.

‘That’s right.’ I smile inwardly, guessing Pete must have told her this as well.

‘Ah, Lawrence is a lovely man. An American too; I like Americans. Have you ever been to America?’ she asks directly, her eyes lighting up.

‘Um, no, I haven’t, but I’d really love to,’ I say, remembering ages ago chatting to Luke about me going to Chicago for a big knitting convention – it never happened though as he had said it was a waste of money, what with the wedding to pay for – the bulk of which I had already stumped up for myself, because he needed his money to cover the cost of his football season ticket. Hmm. I really was a bit of a wimp back then. Maybe that’s why Sasha appeals to Luke: she’d never let a man tell her she can’t do something. Anyway, live and learn, and there’s knitting conventions every year; New York is next and there’s nothing to stop me from going now, I can spend my own money on whatever I like! The thought lingers, lifting my heart until I realise that I could very well be out of a job quite soon. I instantly push the thought away, but not before thinking that maybe knitting conventions in America will have to wait …

‘Oh yes. I lived in America for a while,’ Hettie says brightly, ‘many years ago and I had such a wonderful time.’ She pauses and a misty, faraway look comes into her eyes, followed by a soft smile as if she’s reminiscing about another, more golden, age. ‘So, about this pullover,’ she adds, her face clouding over and her voice changing suddenly, and the moment vanishes.

‘Yes, I’d really like to have it done before I leave on Sunday, to repay the favour if I can. Besides, I love knitting, and it feels a bit weird not having a project on the go.’ I had tried salvaging the lovely little Christmas pudding that I brought with me but even after soaking it in the bath in my en suite overnight, it’s still a ruined mess.

‘Well, this I can understand. Knitting is like oxygen, a necessity, isn’t it?’ Hettie’s smile is back in place and I nod fervently, not having ever really talked to anyone about the emotional complexities of knitting before. ‘And some people have a cup of tea when they need cheering up, but I find there’s nothing better than the comforting, repetitive click-clack of the needles and the feel of the wool looping over my index finger to make everything feel alright. It’s been a wonderful tonic for me over the years.’ And the faraway look returns in her eyes.

‘Ah, yes, me too,’ I say, wondering if I’ll be like Hettie when I’m in my eighties. I always had it in mind that I’d be surrounded by grandchildren. Luke and I would have a big rowdy family of our own; that was the plan, well, just my plan, as it now turns out. Not Luke’s plan at all – with Sasha maybe, but I can’t see it myself as she’s not the settling-down-with-babies type at all. I put a smile on my face. Monday! That’s what I promised myself; I have until then to ignore the reality of my life and enjoy being here in Tindledale, living in blissful ignorance. I must try harder to stop picking over the carcass that is my dismal, failed life. I take a deep breath as if to clear my head.