The Great Christmas Knit Off (21 page)

‘If that’s OK?’ I say, not daring to disagree with her, even though my legs will freeze when I go out in the snow to take the jumper up to Ruby’s shop.

‘Of course it is, dear,’ Hettie says in a very pleasant voice now, and it throws me, the complete contrast in her manner from just a few seconds ago, and as if reading my mind, she adds, ‘And you can keep your jeans and plimsolls on. Just put the dress on over the top.’ She points to my fetid Converses. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold otherwise.’

So that told me!

‘Um. Great,’ I mutter. ‘And thank you.’

‘And you can take the suitcase up to Ruby too. See if she’ll buy the contents for her shop,’ Hettie says with a determined look on her face now.

‘Are you sure? Hettie, you don’t need to do that,’ I say softly. ‘You’ll have online orders in no time. Honestly, there really is no need. Your mother’s bone knitting needles have already exceeded the reserve on eBay.’

‘I’ve made up my mind. Take the case.’

‘OK. If you’re absolutely sure.’ She nods, but I notice her handwringing starts up again.

‘I am. Now will you please put that pullover in the window! I’m off next door to hunt for the box of Christmas decorations in my back bedroom. I’m sure that’s where they’re stored.’ And she pads off to go in search.

Marigold comes over to me.

‘You OK?’ she asks, kindly. ‘She doesn’t mean to be …’

‘Oh, I know,’ I shrug, ‘but I’m worried about her.’

‘We all are.’ Marigold shakes her head in concern. ‘There’s some gaffer tape in the glove box,’ she adds, dangling the key for the Land Rover in front of me. ‘For the suitcase.’

‘Ahh, yes, it is a bit battered, I’ll bind it up,’ I say, taking the key. ‘Thank you.’

*

I’ve just found the gaffer tape and closed the car door behind me, when a white van swerves up at the kerb on the other side of the lane and two men in black bomber jackets and Doc Marten boots jump out and stride towards the shop.

‘Oh, hello. Can I help you?’ I ask, quickly stuffing the gaffer tape into my jeans’ pocket. I can’t imagine they’re here for some yarn and a nice pattern or two. They look very menacing. ‘Who are you?’ I add, more forcefully.

‘We’re here to see the owner of this establishment,’ one of them growls as they march past me.

‘Um,’ I open my mouth, but they keep on going. Pushing my elbows out, I immediately charge after them, catching up just as the meanest-looking one of the pair pushes a hand out to open the door to Hettie’s shop. ‘Can I help you?’ I blurt again, swiftly pinning my body between them and the door.

‘Not unless you are,’ the one with a clipboard snarls, before pausing to scan his list, ‘Henrietta Honey!’ he announces.

‘Gentlemen!’ Marigold suddenly appears at the door behind me. I swivel my head and see that she has an extremely gracious smile on her flushed face. ‘How may I help you?’ she says with impeccable diction, shooting me a look and offering a regal hand to one of the men who, after staring at his mate, shakes her hand so gingerly, anyone would think it was coated in arsenic.

‘Are you Henrietta Honey?’

‘Would you mind if we discuss this matter away from the shop? Bad for business, you see. And with all these customers? Oh now, that would never do.’ Marigold shakes her head and gestures to the window where Louise, Taylor, Edie and the rest of the gang are busy knitting and nattering away, totally oblivious to whatever it is that’s going on out here. She steers the two men towards the bus shelter just along the lane and I go with her, wondering if they’re something to do with Hettie’s horrible nephew – could they have come to turf her off to an old people’s home or something? Surely not – wouldn’t they send nurses? Or at least kindly men in white uniforms with soft voices and a blanket or a wheelchair, perhaps, not that Hettie needs one, far from it, but these two look like total thugs. The one with the clipboard has H-A-T-E stamped across his knuckles. ‘That’s better,’ Marigold says, sounding like a mother placating a pair of whiny toddlers. The two men stare at her, both breathing heavily through their slack-jawed open mouths. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’ Marigold tilts her head to one side and I stare at the ground, thinking she’s good, very convincing. Lawrence needs to sign her up to the Tindledale Players right away, as she’s an exceptionally talented actress. These two thugs are totally buying it that she’s Henrietta Honey.

‘The arrears on your secured loan – we have a warrant to seize goods to the value of …’ the clipboard one says, sounding like a recording, having clearly practised the words beforehand. He checks his list and my heart sinks. I clasp my hands up under my chin. Poor Hettie. ‘Four thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two pounds and sixteen pence.’

‘Whaaaat?’
I gasp.

‘It’s OK, I’ll take care of this,’ Marigold breathes, not missing a beat and placing a steadying hand on my arm. ‘There’s obviously some kind of mix-up.’ One of the guys clears his throat before doing a phlegmy spit on the pavement. Jesus Christ. I turn away, trying not to heave.

‘Nope. No mix-up. If you can escort us in so we can get it over with you’ll be given a full inventory of the seized goods.’ And the two men go to walk off.

‘Hold on!’ I whisper-yell so as not to alert Hettie or the others, my hackles well and truly raised, making my voice sound shrill. ‘You can’t do that.’ But the two men just keep on walking towards Hettie’s lovely House of Haberdashery.

‘You heard the lady.’ Marigold marches forward and stands firmly in front of them with her hands on her hips, blocking their path. One of the men goes to barge past her but she grabs the sleeve of his jacket.

‘I wouldn’t advise that, madam.’ The guy lifts her hand away with an extra-menacing look on his greasy, blackhead-covered face.

‘Then what would you advise, young man, because I am telling you that there isn’t anything worth that kind of money inside the shop?’ Marigold folds her arms underneath her ample bosoms, sounding even more ‘Lady of the Manor’ now. I glance away, knowing that what she’s saying isn’t strictly true. I reckon Hettie’s mother’s old Singer machine is probably worth quite a bit – it’s in exceptional condition – but I just know that it would break Hettie’s heart if these two were to cart it away like a piece of old junk. We can’t let that happen.

‘The loan is secured on the house and the warrant covers all the contents, so we’ll clear the lot – TVs, washing machine, jewellery – if that’s what it takes to recover the arrears.’ A stunned silence follows while the two men try to stare us out.

‘So, let me get this clear: if the arrears are cleared then this all goes away?’ I ask, sweeping a hand through the air and shaking my head as if to gain some clarity on the situation.

‘Nice try, sweetheart, but nah! It don’t work like that. The arrears need to be cleared and then the rest of the payments have to be made on time, every month, or we come back and take the lot – TVs, washing mach—’

‘Yep, I get it – TVs, washing machine, jewellery, etc. You said that already.’ The guy doing the talking gives me a sarcastic smile, which I promptly replicate.

‘And the house and the shop if necessary,’ the phlegmy man grunts.

‘You will certainly do no such thing. This is outrageous,’ Marigold hisses. There’s a short silence. I rack my brains desperately searching for a solution, anything to stop them from going inside and upsetting Hettie. She’ll be absolutely devastated, mortified with embarrassment too, especially if they do this in front of the others. And what will the rest of the villagers think? They’ll all be upset for her, I reckon, and it’ll take about two seconds for word to get round, not in a gossipy way, as they don’t strike me as the type of people to be like that, the ones I’ve met anyway – apart from Adam, of course, and that bossy witch, Mrs Pocket.

A plan starts to hatch. I step forward until I’m standing adjacent to Marigold, and square on to the thugs hired by the bank or the dodgy finance company or whatever Hettie’s nephew has roped in to scare old ladies living in rural little villages. Well, they don’t scare me! I see their type every day, hanging out on the corner of my street thinking they’re the bollocks with their status dogs in stupid, oversized studded collars,
cos that makes them look hard-as
, not.

‘How much?’ I keep my voice steady and strong. I can see Marigold in my peripheral vision. The men stare at me.

‘Yes, how much?’ Marigold joins in. ‘How much for this horrible misunderstanding to go away?’

‘Oh, it ain’t going away, lady,’ the clipboard guy says, with added snark.

‘We get that, but I’ve seen the programmes on TV and bailiffs doing deals. Surely you can take a part payment?’ I say, unflinching and looking them right in the eyes. I’ve had just about enough of men thinking they can mess women around. Luke did that, but I survived; I didn’t shrivel up and die, so no! This worm has turned. ‘Come on. I’m waiting for an answer.’ I’m on a roll now. ‘Ten percent should do it and the rest in—’

‘Five hundred might buy you some time,’ Clipboard says begrudgingly in Marigold’s direction. ‘I’ll call the guvnor.’ And he pulls out a mobile. I surreptitiously cross my fingers and do a silent prayer – let’s hope he gets a signal.

‘Yep.’ He’s through! Thank God. He must have that one bar that Dr Ben gets when leaning out of his skylight window. ‘Nah. Yep. Yep. Nah. Yep. OK, boss.’ And he ends the call. ‘Five hundred now and the balance in full within two weeks.’

But that’s right before Christmas! It could even
be
Christmas Eve! What happened to the season of goodwill? Hettie’s an old lady who’s been duped by her only living relative and it’s just so unfair. I’ve a good mind to hunt the nephew down and force him to stump up the money to pay off the loan that he tricked her into signing up for in the first place. I bet he knew this would happen and it’s all part of some hideous plan to get her out of the house and off the land so he can then buy it back at a rock bottom price when it goes to auction following repossession.

The bailiff unzips his jacket and stuffs the mobile away – and oh my God, he’s wearing a bulletproof vest. Sweet Jesus, what did he think was going to happen here today? That Hettie might attack him with a fistful of knitting needles?

‘Perfect!’ Marigold claps her hands together in glee and I glance at her sideways in horror, praying they don’t cotton on to her not being the real Henrietta Honey. ‘Oh, um, sorry, I’m just so relieved.’ She fiddles with her hair and smiles sheepishly before hugging her arms around her body, shivering in the sub zero wintery air. I hadn’t even noticed how cold it is out here; it’s weird how a rush of adrenalin does that to a person. And how the hell are we going to scrape together that amount of money at literally no notice? Perhaps the village store has a cash machine; I could probably do it, if the direct debit for this month’s rent hasn’t left my account yet. It’s Marigold who saves the day. ‘I’ll get my purse. Do you take Amex?’ she says, in a very breezy voice. The two men stare at her, goggle-eyed and speechless, both doing the gormless breathy thing again. Maybe they are genuinely stupid, because they haven’t even asked for Marigold, aka Henrietta Honey’s, ID or anything – but then if they get the money, even just some of it, then what do they care?

‘Sorry, what, um, er, Hettie really meant was, do you take cards or does it actually have to be hard cash?’ I squirm, but to my utter surprise he replies.

‘Debit cards only.’ And whips out a handheld card machine.

‘Hurrah! How very civilised!’ roars Marigold, making me want to shrivel up in the corner of the bus shelter and quietly evaporate.

‘H
ey, Sybs. Come on in honey.’ Ruby is at the back of the shop, a gorgeous little boutique crammed full of all kinds of goodies. Frank Sinatra is singing ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ from a red Dansette record player, creating a cosy, nostalgic feel. A rainbow of old-fashioned paper chains are looped from a chandelier in the centre of the ceiling, cascading out to each corner of the shop. Red crepe Santa lanterns are swinging in a row on one wall that’s papered in Elvis Presley print, the iconic black-and-white
Jailhouse Rock
image. It’s so kitsch and fascinating; like stepping back in time to another era. There’s even a shelf with a row of old-fashioned sweet jars with cola cubes and pear drops. Blimey, there’s even one stuffed full of Parma Violets. I haven’t had those in years.

I weave my way through, in between the racks and racks of vintage clothes. The suitcase is in my arms as the handle is broken and no amount of gaffer tape was going to keep it all together. A festive red poinsettia plant is perched on top – I bought it from the florist three doors along – and Ruby’s jeans and blouse, together with the Christmas pudding jumper, matching mittens and a long, crimson-coloured scarf are nestling inside a paper Hettie’s House of Haberdashery carrier bag looped over my left wrist. I’d found a stack of bags languishing under the counter. So with my handbag swinging precariously from my shoulder and Basil bouncing beside me on his lead looped over my right wrist, I have to be extra careful not to bump into the mannequins. Each one is dressed in a pretty dress: short and fitted, classic designer, long and floaty, and all with coordinating accessories like big hats, beady necklaces. One even has a swingy black bob and aviator shades on and is definitely a favourite; it’s wearing a glorious fuchsia pink patterned Pucci maxi dress with a matching resin wrist cuff.