The Great Christmas Knit Off (28 page)

‘Oh, good-o,’ Molly adds, helping herself to a chocolate hobnob and a baby wipe to clean her hands with afterwards. Hettie, quite rightly, has given everyone instructions to make sure the jumpers are perfectly pristine – ‘no sticky fingerprints on the wool please’ is what she said at eight this morning when the knit off commenced.
Or ferrets on leads,
is what I had thought, which thankfully isn’t the case today – the ferret is safely tucked up in its cage at home.

*

Forty minutes later, and Cher and I are travelling very slowly on account of all the snow piled up on either side of the Old Market Briar road when the sat nav lady tells us to take the next left turn. I’ve managed to get quite a bit more knitting done and we’ve had a good gossip and catch up.

Cher manages to steer the car down a long, winding country lane, with even bigger banks of snow piled up high on either side, and up to the door of an enormous timber-clad barn. But there are no lights and a big ‘closed’ sign is in the window. My heart sinks as we get out of the car.

‘Oh no,’ I say, my breath making misty clouds puff into the freezing air.

‘Come on, let’s try there,’ Cher points, trudging through the snow to a detached house nearby with a big bushy Christmas tree twinkling merrily in the bay window. She rings the bell, but nothing happens, and we’re just about to leave, when an ancient old man bent over a Zimmer frame, eventually pulls open the front door.

‘Yeeeessss?’ he rasps, lifting his watery eyes up to see us.

‘Oh hello, um, I’m really sorry to bother you, is Dolly at home, please?’ I ask, surreptitiously glancing over his bony shoulder to see down the hallway, the walls of which are adorned with a multitude of chintzy patterned china plates, hanging in little wire frames.

‘Who?’ he asks, pulling a hanky from his cardigan pocket to wipe the drip from the end of his nose.

‘Dolly.’ I grin.

‘Dolly? Who is Dolly?’ He looks to Cher, as if for an explanation.

‘Oh, um, she owns the business in the barn next door,’ I say, figuring this was a bad idea; he clearly has no idea who I’m talking about. ‘I’m so sorry, we must have the wrong house …’ And just as we turn to leave, Dolly appears on the path to the side of the house, wearing a black padded long coat and leather riding boots with an old wicker basket full of mud- and feather-daubed eggs looped over her left arm.

‘Sybil. What a wonderful surprise. I was just seeing to the chickens.’ She pats the basket and then turns to the old man. ‘Dad, what are you doing at the door? It’s freezing out here, come on, let’s get you back inside in the warm.’ Dolly shakes her head and goes to gently lead him by the arm. ‘Let’s have some tea,’ she calls over her shoulder to Cher and me.

Ten minutes later, and we’re ensconced in Dolly’s farmhouse kitchen, seated around a circular wooden table next to a buttercup-yellow Aga, and warming our hands on generous mugs of tea. The delicious cinnamony and orange aroma of festive baking permeates the air, and the old man is dozing in a patchwork armchair with a crocheted blanket tucked over his knees.

‘Sorry, dear, his memory isn’t what it used to be,’ Dolly mouths, after I’ve introduced her to Cher and they’ve exchanged pleasantries about the Duck & Puddle – Dolly’s first husband, Basil, used to take her there for a hotpot and a pint of cider when they were courting.

‘Ah, not to worry,’ I smile, eyeing up the plate of homemade mince pies in the centre of the table.

‘Go on, take one, or two if you like,’ Dolly chuckles, passing the plate to Cher and then to me. We both help ourselves and take big bites of the still warm, deliciously soft and crumbly sweet pies. ‘So, how is Hettie these days?’ Dolly asks, ladling three spoonfuls of sugar into her tea and giving it a good stir. I’ve already explained all about the Tindledale Tappers and the Japanese Christmas jumper commission and she’s more than happy to organise the delivery, and there’s absolutely no problem in getting them to Tokyo by Christmas Eve, which is a massive relief. Hettie will be thrilled when I tell her.

‘Busy,’ I smile, figuring this to be the best answer; besides, it’s not my place to talk about bailiffs or that horrible nephew of hers with his heart set on tearing down her house and ripping the soul out of the village with his big housing estate plans.

‘Will you give her my regards, dear, and please explain that I’m not really one for knitting, otherwise I’d gladly help out with that too.’ She smiles apologetically. ‘Plus I’ve got my hands full with the business, and looking after Dad, now that he’s living with us. I just couldn’t leave him in that awful home up in London. Shocking, it was, and I have no idea what possessed him to move up there in the first place, all those years ago.’ She shakes her head. ‘I took one look at him last Thursday and was horrified – I’d been up to visit him when I met you on the train’ (ah, so that’s what she was doing in London and I wonder if I should inform Hettie and Marigold) ‘– and then I got home, and my husband, Colin, was horrified too, so we drove up yesterday and fetched him back, and here he is, being properly looked after and where I can keep an eye on him.’ She smiles fondly in his direction. ‘And Marigold? Is she still going strong, we were at school together, and I haven’t seen her in years?’

‘They certainly are. And Marigold has been a big help with the shop.’ I pause, and then quickly add, ‘and the knitting too,’ just in case she queries why Hettie might need help.

‘Oh, God help you, she was never one for knitting.’ Dolly laughs, shaking her head, and the old man stirs.

‘Is there one of those pies for me?’ he says jovially, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Dolly puts one on a plate and takes it to him with a paper napkin.

‘You remember Hettie, don’t you, Dad?’ Dolly says, lifting her voice so he can hear.

‘Who?’

‘Hettie. You know, with the haberdashery shop in Tindledale,’ she prompts.

‘Ah. Tindledale, yes, such a beautiful place – I was the postman there,’ he says to Cher and me.

‘That’s right, Dad,’ Dolly nods, then explains to us, ‘Bill isn’t my father; he’s the father of my late husband, Basil.’

‘Basil? Who’s Basil?’ Bill says, and Dolly stares at her tea momentarily, before giving us a sad smile.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says softly and I smile sympathetically at her, unsure really of what to say, but knowing that it must be so heartbreaking for her, with her father-in-law having no memory of his deceased son, which in turn means no fond reminiscing together over her first husband.

‘Bill, tell us about Tindledale.’ It’s Cher, who salvages the moment. She moves her chair so it’s up close to Bill’s and gives him a big smile of encouragement.

‘It’s such a lovely village. I was the postman there, you know,’ Bill says proudly, and Cher nods.

‘How did you get around to deliver the letters, Bill? Did you have a van?’ she adds patiently, and I’m surprised, I’ve never seen Cher like this before.

‘Oh no, I had a bicycle. Glorious it was in the summer, cycling down the lanes with the wind in my hair and the sun on my back.’ He smiles and a light comes into his eyes. ‘Not so in the winter,’ he laughs, shaking his head and pulling a face now. ‘Perishing, it was. I remember one winter, 1959, at the beginning of December, when it was so cold the letterbox on the Honey family’s oast had frozen tight shut!’

‘Blimey, what did you do, Bill?’ Cher asks, her face full of fascination and intrigue.

‘I pushed open the front door, of course. Good job too, or heaven knows what would have happened to the lady.’ He pauses to take a bite of his mince pie. After dabbing his mouth with the napkin, he continues. ‘Lying crumpled at the bottom of the stairs she was, out like a light.’ Bill shakes his head, his face creasing with concern.

‘Gosh, that must have been a shock for you Bill,’ Cher continues. ‘So what happened next?’

‘I ran to the phone box down the lane and called Dr Donnelly up in the village, he came right away, but the ambulance took ages to arrive as it had to come all the way from Market Briar.’ And I spot a slight tremble in his hands; he’s clearly still shaken by the event, even after all these years.

‘Oh dear. And was she alright?’ Cher places a gentle hand on his forearm.

‘Who?’

‘The lady,’ Cher prompts, softly.

‘Oh, you mean Hettie?’ Bill pauses, and then nods solemnly. ‘Yes, they patched her up good enough. But the baby not so; crushed underneath her body, you see!’ And I let out an involuntary gasp as I bring a hand up to my mouth. Oh my God, poor, poor Hettie.

‘F
ifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine.’ And I lift the last, carefully folded, Ho Ho Ho jumper up high in the air, just like Rafiki held Simba up to the animals in
The Lion King
, and the whole shop bellows, ‘SIXTY!’ as I bring it back down, wrap it in red tissue paper and place it in the box with the special
Hettie Wishes You a Wonderful Tindledale Christmas
card.

‘Hurray!’ A spontaneous whoop ricochets, followed by a massive sigh and a ‘thank God for that,’ from Molly as she slumps back in her armchair, clearly exhausted as she stretches her arms high above her head and wriggles her fingers around. But we did it! We knitted seventy-five jumpers between us, in total, and in little over two weeks. Surely that must be some kind of Guinness World Record?

Leo leaps forward to sprinkle in the festive red and green Christmas tree-shaped confetti, while I peel off a length of the special
Priority
printed packing tape that Dolly gave us to bind up the boxes securely. On Dolly’s advice, we’ve put thirty jumpers in each box, just in case one goes astray, which she promised has never, ever happened before, so it’s not likely to now, but better be safe than sorry and thirty is better than none and all that, although it hasn’t stopped Hettie from worrying as always, even though Mr Tanaka has already transferred the final part of the payment and she’s cleared the arrears on the loan in full. Hettie is still concerned that her reputation could be on the line if the jumpers don’t arrive, and that nobody will want to shop in her online store if word gets out, even though there are already lots of delighted customers. Only this morning, the woman who won the bone knitting needles auction sent a thank you card, saying how delighted she was with them, commenting specifically on their prompt arrival and pretty packaging – Taylor had gift-wrapped them with a length of vintage William Morris wallpaper that we found behind one of the armchairs and a midnight-blue velvet ribbon tied up in a big bow. And the lemon lace weight shawls have all sold too, as I knew they would, so Hettie’s House of Haberdashery online shop has already got off to a very impressive start.

‘What if they don’t arrive and he wants the money back – I can’t give it to him,’ Hettie said last night when the others had gone home to get some much-needed sleep. I tried to reassure her that everything will be fine, that Dolly knows what she’s doing and that her company has an excellent reputation, with numerous glowing testimonials on the website extolling the super efficiency and promptness of service, but Hettie still doesn’t seem very convinced. Or perhaps it was my mention of Bill, the postman, which has unsettled her – she just stared right through me before dashing out to the kitchen-cum-sitting-room. And just like the time before with the hanky in the suitcase, I let her be, sensing her desire to be alone with her thoughts. And I’ve not asked about the baby, figuring that was far too delicate a subject to broach. And besides, it really is none of my business, unless Hettie wants it to be.

Dolly arrives right on time, and I’ve just finished helping her to load the boxes into the back of her car when another car pulls up and Ruby jumps out. I wave goodbye to Dolly and walk towards Ruby.

‘Hey, Sybs, do you have a minute?’ she says, greeting me with a kiss on either cheek before blowing on her hands and stamping her feet on the ground to keep them warm.

‘Sure, why don’t you come on inside? We’re about to have a party to celebrate the end of the great Christmas knit off; you’re welcome to join us for a mince pie and a mug of mulled wine, if you like – we filled up the tea urn,’ I laugh, remembering the look on the WI lady’s face when she realised that Leo had swapped the stewed tea inside for several litres of Cher’s deliciously festive concoction. And the urn is perfect for keeping the wine at an optimum temperature.

‘Ah, thanks honey, but this is a flying visit. I’m due on the Picture House stage in two hours and I must brush out my rollers and get my timeless glam on,’ she says, doing her throaty laugh and gesturing to her hair which is piled up underneath a gold-patterned Hermes silk headscarf. She snaps open the clasp of her black crocodile leather, Forties-style handbag. ‘I wanted to bring these back.’ She goes to hand me a bundle of letters tied up with a piece of pink satin ribbon.

‘Oh, thanks, but what are they?’ I ask, flicking through them – there must be at least twenty envelopes here, all in swirly black old-fashioned handwriting, written with a proper ink pen too, by the looks of it.

‘Well, here’s the thing …’ Ruby pauses, and glances at the shop behind me and then back to look me straight in the eye. ‘I found them at the bottom of Hettie’s old suitcase.’