The Great Christmas Knit Off (13 page)

‘Dear, can I tell you a secret?’ she asks, keeping her eyes on the floor.

‘What’s that, then?’ I prompt, making sure my smile stays in place. I’m so pleased that she’s up for having a sort out but there’s clearly something serious bothering her, so whatever it is, I hope I can make it better for her.

‘I don’t really have many customers these days, apart from the odd rambler who bumbles in by chance, and to be honest with you, if things don’t pick up soon then I’m afraid I may have to close the shop and move away. There’s such a lot to keep up with, what with the house and the payments for the …’ Her voice fades. She’s wringing her hands and looking really distressed now, almost as if she’s shared something she shouldn’t have. I stop moving for a moment.

‘And don’t you want to do that?’ I ask. ‘To close the shop, and move away?’ I clarify, feeling so sad for her.

‘No, I don’t. I want to die here at home,’ she says adamantly. ‘But not for a while yet, I hope,’ she adds, ‘and when the time comes I don’t want it to be in a strange place where my last moment of pleasure is sipping stewed tea from a child’s beaker.’ She shakes her head stoically, but I spot the flash of fear in her eyes and I’m horrified that this is what she has to worry about. Oh God.

‘Well, in that case we had better try to change all that,’ I nod firmly, figuring it best to keep up a jovial, positive attitude to spur us both on. Hettie does a half-smile and sags just a little in relief.

‘I’m so pleased you popped in,’ she says softly.

After gently waking Basil, much to his disgust, I drag the faded old armchair from the kitchen-cum-sitting-room and out onto the shop floor. A few minutes and a bit of shifting around later, and I’ve got the chair in a perfect cosy-looking angle by the window. Hettie folds a pile of old blankets on the floor as a makeshift bed for Basil, who after licking her hand by way of thanks, hops on and is snoring again within seconds. I shake my head; he really is the laziest dog in the whole of the canine kingdom.

‘Here, we can use this chair too.’ Hettie, getting into the swing of things, lifts an enormous pile of old satin-quilted eiderdowns up to reveal an Art Deco design armchair in a beautiful buttery brown leather. ‘You’d better sit in it because if I do I’ll never get up again. No, it’s far too low for me,’ she laughs, her eyes dancing like a child’s and for a second I get another glorious glimpse of the girl she once was, young and pretty and carefree – and quite possibly a little bit mischievous as she gives me a cheeky wink then sweeps a pile of old bobbins from a low table and into a bin before rubbing her hands together very vigorously. ‘I’ve been meaning to do that for such a long time. And will you look at the state of them? Most of these don’t even have any thread left at all. Why on earth are they still here?’ she says, tutting and pulling a face as she retrieves a bobbin, inspects it and then tosses it back into the bin. ‘Now, would you be a love and move this table into the gap between those two chairs for me? We’ll be needing somewhere to put all our gubbins – tea, glasses for me, and I always like to have a hanky to hand and a packet of strong mints – they help me knit faster.’ She does a big belly laugh and it really touches my heart to see her looking so happy, and in such contrast to the bleakness emanating from her just a little while ago when I first stepped inside her lovely House of Haberdashery.

‘I’d be delighted to. This is going to be amazing,’ I say, dashing towards the small table.

‘But before you do, I’m going to ask you a question now,’ Hettie states, ominously and very directly.

‘Um, sure …’ I stop moving.

‘Why are you so unhappy on the inside when you look so glamorous on the outside? Apart from the grey skin of course, but we can fix that!’ She shrugs and tilts her head to one side. Silence follows while I reel again from her directness. I open my mouth to answer, and then close it again, realising that I actually have no idea where to begin to explain it all to her, and to be honest, I’m not sure I even want to, because by doing so, it will be as if all the heartache over Luke and my very own twin sister hurting me, and then my feelings of inadequacy and letting everyone down on my wedding day added to messing up at work will just get in the way and tarnish the new life I have here, even if it is only for a weekend.

But it’s a whole weekend to be anonymous with nobody nudging their mate and saying, ‘Ooh, yes, didn’t you know? She’s the one whose boyfriend dumped her
at the altar
,’ in a hushed voice, like they do at work. Yes, I’ve overheard them, but then I’ve never really fitted in there, never been a part of the clique. I’ve always felt as though I’m swimming upstream and that’s probably because it isn’t what I really want to be doing with my life. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand and try not to wobble into another embarrassing meltdown as I did over breakfast this morning. I really thought I was making some progress, being here in Tindledale and the whole change of scenery, especially after the pampering session with Lawrence earlier on, but maybe I got it wrong … It’s Hettie who moves the moment on.

‘Why don’t I make us a nice fresh pot of tea, dear, and then you can tell me all about it – we can cast on and have a good old knit and natter?’ She smiles kindly, momentarily resting her hand gently on my forearm, almost as a gesture of solidarity, and I can’t stave them off any longer … tears well in the corners of my eyes. I instantly blink them away. Then, much to my surprise, I realise that I don’t actually feel sad, not at all, not in the way I used to. Instead I feel calm and relaxed, free almost. I look into her eyes and smile.

‘I’d love that so much.’

‘Me too, dear. Me too,’ Hettie says.

L
ater, and after many cups of tea and Lawrence’s truly scrumptious roast beef, rocket, mustard and tomato sandwiches (I had to say that I was hungry and could really do with one, in order for Hettie to even entertain the idea and accept a round of sandwiches for her lunch) and having totally lost track of time, Hettie and I have made exceedingly good progress on the Christmas pudding jumper. We’ve each finished our sleeves, had a good natter while we knitted, and yes, I caved in and ended up telling her all about Luke and Sasha and what happened on that horrible day in the church. I tried asking her about herself and her own past, but she was very reluctant to talk, preferring to listen to me.

‘So, Sybil’ (Hettie told me that she can’t call me Sybs because it’s not ‘proper’) ‘you must soldier on. No point in dwelling on the past. Believe me, it gets you nowhere,’ she says wistfully, carefully folding her sleeve and placing it neatly in her lap.

‘But what about your time in America, Hettie? Surely that was exciting? And what took you there? Was it love?’ I venture, finishing my tea and wondering if perhaps she’ll open up a bit this time. Despite my own disastrous love life, I’m a sucker for a good romantic story. Plus, I’m keen to know if she has any family, someone to look after her when she can’t look after herself any longer.

‘I suppose you could say that …’ A short silence follows and I will her to share the story. I’m fascinated, especially after spotting a black-and-white photo on the mantelpiece above the fire in the kitchen-cum-sitting-room out the back. It shows a beautiful, svelte woman wearing a jewelled turban and a leotard with black tights and high-heeled dancing shoes. She’s sitting on a chair, leaning forward, with her legs crossed and her elbows resting on her knees, hands cupping her chin in a proper professionally staged pose. It’s very glamorous. And it’s signed too.

‘Sounds intriguing,’ I prompt.

‘Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking. Not a man! Although that did follow for a while.’ Hettie places her cup back on the table and looks me straight in the eye. ‘In addition to the knitting of course, my true love was dancing. Still is. It’s what I went to America for … to Hollywood.’

‘Really?’ I say, incredulously. ‘But that’s amazing. I saw the picture on the—’ I gesture to behind the brocade curtain.

‘Yes, that was taken in 1953, I had just turned twenty-two,’ she muses.

‘It’s you?’ I make big eyes.

‘Yes, believe it or not,’ Hettie nods, smiling wryly. ‘I wasn’t always this old.’ She glances down at herself with a look on her face as if she’s seeing the wrinkled, bony body of an old lady for the very first time. ‘But that was before—’ She stops abruptly and her face crumples slightly. I manage to resist the urge to leap from my armchair and scoop her up into an enormous cuddle.

‘And the signature? Is that yours?’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. She’s clearly distressed again about something as she’s now clasping and unclasping her hands and staring at the knitted sleeve in her lap.

‘Oh no, Gene did that,’ she mutters, not looking up.

‘Gene?’

‘Yes, dear, Gene Kelly!’ she says in a breezy voice before lifting herself from the armchair, placing the sleeve on the table and padding out to the back, leaving me to reunite my jaw with the rest of my face. I’m literally speechless. Wow! The actual
Gene Kelly
. But he’s a legend. I know he’s long gone, but honestly, he’s up there with the icons – Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra and the like, and everyone knows that these guys live on for all eternity. And it just goes to show; I would never have guessed that she was a dancer in Hollywood – the little old lady who lives in a tiny village in the English countryside. And didn’t Lawrence say that her ancestors, the Honey family, had been here for centuries? If that’s the case, then how did Hettie get to go to Hollywood and dance with Gene Kelly? But, more intriguingly –
why on earth did she come back?

I’m contemplating following Hettie out to the kitchen, wondering if she might want to be alone for a bit, when the bell jangles and the shop door opens, bringing in a fine flurry of snow and a blast of chilly air. Basil galvanises himself into action and does a lame bark before bouncing over to see who’s at the door. The figure stamps welly-clad feet on the mat before pushing the hood of its tattered old brown waxy Driza-Bone mac down, and ah, I recognise her: it’s the flashlight woman from last night.

Hettie reappears, darts a glance in my direction and I can instantly see that the moment has vanished; she has her stoic face in place and her guard well and truly back up.

‘Marigold,’ Hettie says warmly, stepping forward to clasp the woman’s hands in hers before dipping down into a little curtsey then standing tall again and giving her friend a hug. Marigold or should I say, Lady Fuller-Hamilton, squeezes Hettie’s thin frame affectionately, and I’m sure I spot a glimmer of shock on her face as she rubs her hand up and down in between Hettie’s shoulder blades but she keeps the smile firmly in place and, after letting Hettie go, she takes a step backwards.

‘Oh, Hettie, we’ll never tire of that old joke will we?’ Marigold laughs, shaking her head.

‘I don’t think so, but then it’s your own fault for marrying the earl’s younger son!’

‘Hmm, much to the old earl’s chagrin.’ Marigold frowns, shaking her head.

‘And to think, you could have had your pick of the village lads.’ The two women chuckle some more at the seemingly in-joke. ‘So, what brings you in here?’ Hettie says, the first to compose herself.

‘Well, I drove past earlier on my way up to the village and saw you both through the window, knitting and nattering away you were, and I thought I’d pop in on my way back, and be exceedingly nosey.’ She flings her head back and does her trademark roar of a laugh – I realise it as such now, remembering the laugh from last night – which now seems like an eternity ago. I can’t believe I’ve only been in Tindledale for less than a day – I feel as if I’ve been here for ever, but what’s that old adage?
Time flies when you’re having fun.
‘And hello again, dear,’ Marigold says, smiling in my direction. ‘Such a pity about Sonny and Cher’s unfortunate sleeping arrangements, but I trust you are comfortable at the B&B? Lawrence will look after you, that’s for sure. A true gentleman.’ And she does her roar again.

‘Oh yes, he’s the perfect host too,’ I reply politely, not even going there on the ‘how does she even know that I’m staying at the B&B?’ thing, because it’s a given, of course she knows; everyone knows about everyone here in Tindledale. Apart from me, and I want to know all about Hettie and her amazing life as a dancer with Gene Kelly in the golden age of Hollywood. I make a mental note to see if Lawrence knows, or Ruby perhaps. And then it strikes me. Oh my God. What if Hettie was in that film, the famous one, the one Mum loves and always sets up the Sky+ to record when it’s on over Christmas, to watch when she gets home after the cruise.
Singin’ in the Rain
, that’s the one. Oh, how exciting. I make another mental note to get on Google and type in Hettie Honey at the first opportunity. I wonder what Hettie is short for? Hmm, I’ll ask Google that too.

‘So come on then, what’s going on? You two looked as if you were having a whale of a time together. And you know me, Hettie, never one to miss out on the fun. Are you sure you won’t come along to my bridge club? We have such a marvellous time, I’m sure you’d enjoy it Hettie, and then there are the jollies; we’re all off on a day trip next week to a Christmas market in Germany – perfect place to pick up some nice stocking fillers,’ Marigold says, and in my periphery vision I can see Hettie clasping her hands and looking anxious again, so I jump in.