The Great Christmas Knit Off (33 page)

‘But that’s just it. The past is gone dear, and you know that as well as I do.’ A brief silence follows while we both ponder on our respective histories. ‘I nursed a broken heart for so many years and this picture was a constant reminder of something that couldn’t ever be fixed – or so I had thought.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I say gently, tucking the picture frame into my pocket and looping my arm through hers. Her tiny frame is shivering. ‘Come on; let’s make ourselves a bit warmer so we can have a natter. It’s probably a bit too cold for us to knit as well,’ I say, just to lighten things a bit. I know this can’t be easy for her – and it seems to work because Hettie is smiling as I steer her behind Cher’s stall so we can toast ourselves next to the roasted chestnuts grill. And it’s quiet over here now; everybody else is gathered by the pond listening to a sterling rendition of ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’ – even Cher and Clive have disappeared along with Cooper and the tourists. ‘Would you like a hot drink?’ I ask, but before Hettie can answer, I ladle a generous serving of mulled wine into a mug and hand it to her, figuring she might appreciate a measure of fortitude. I know she’s not very comfortable talking about herself. She takes a tentative sip.

‘Mmm, I’m not really one for alcohol,’ she states almost as if to allay any suspicions I could possibly have of her being otherwise – it makes me smile, ‘but this is rather nice,’ she chuckles.

I pull two camping chairs across from Cooper’s stall, I’m sure he won’t mind us borrowing them for a bit, and as we sit down, Basil places a paw on Hettie’s knee before tilting his head to one side and looking up at her as if he senses she may be in need of some comfort. She pats his head and he takes it as his cue to jump on to her lap. He snuggles into her coat to keep her warm and she strokes his little velvety ear.

I place the picture frame on the trestle table in front of us.

‘Hettie, it’s very generous of you, but I really can’t take the picture.’

‘But I don’t need it any more. Not now Gerry is back,’ she says.

‘Your son?’ I ask, tentatively.

‘Yes, named after his father, Gerald Henry Mackintosh.’ Hettie takes another sip of her drink.

‘Did you meet him in America?’ I say carefully, in case I’m crossing the line, remembering the conversation with Ruby about the mysterious man with the initial G.

‘Yes, that’s right. In Hollywood. We courted for two years before he proposed.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I smile.

‘That’s why I came home, back to Tindledale. To make the arrangements for the wedding, you see …’ Her voice goes quiet. ‘He had promised to follow me, but he never did …’ Hettie turns away and my heart aches for her. Poor Hettie. She may not have got to the actual altar, but still …

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

‘And I never thought I’d see the day.’ She shakes her head solemnly. ‘This was all I had left of little Gerry.’ Hettie reaches a hand out to tap the picture and I crease my forehead. Basil hops off her lap and curls up next to her legs instead, resting his wiry chin on her booties.

‘A photo of you? I don’t understand,’ I say, feeling confused.

‘Ah, yes, that’s what they all thought. But behind the picture of me, was this. I kept it there, safe, but out of sight, and always close by.’ And she clips open her bag and fumbles around inside before pulling out a black-and-white image of two tiny babies lying on a blanket. ‘Gerry and his sister, Jean. Poor little mite, she died before she had a chance to take her first breath. Too tiny, you see, and they didn’t have all the equipment that they do these days. I remember holding her – my hand was almost as big as her whole body – but there was nothing I could do apart from stroke her tiny face and tell her that I loved her,’ Hettie says numbly and quietly, and a long silence follows. I swallow hard, willing myself not to cry. ‘She’s buried in the churchyard over there.’ And Hettie points towards the silvery glow of the cross high in the dark starry night above St Mary’s church on the other side of the High Street. More silence follows until I can bear it no longer.

‘Oh Hettie,’ I gasp, touching the tip of my finger to the corner of the photo; no wonder she always retreated to the kitchen-cum-sitting-room to be alone with her thoughts and memories. ‘I’m so sorry. Bill said …’ I let my voice fade away in case I’m intruding, but then, as if sensing my apprehension, Hettie pops the picture back safely inside her handbag, and tells me what happened.

‘Soon after I arrived back in Tindledale, happy and keen to show off my new wonderful husband-to-be, I realised that I was in the family way.’ Hettie hesitates, lowering her voice, and I notice that her hands are trembling slightly. ‘But then, when Gerald didn’t arrive, well, I was on my own. My parents let me stay, of course, and my darling baby Gerry was just a few months old when I fell down the stairs with him in my arms – I was exhausted from sitting up all night, and I hadn’t been coping too well, what with the whispers in the village and all.’ She lets her gaze drop down to her hands. ‘So it was thought prudent that he be adopted for his own safety. “Best all round”, is what my parents had said.’

Oh God, poor Hettie. And my heart feels as if it’s cracking in two – I can’t imagine how painful that must have been for her.

‘Times were different then, dear,’ Hettie offers by way of an explanation, and I’m sure a segment of my heart actually crumbles away. ‘I wanted him to have a perfect life, to have everything I couldn’t give him and be free from the whispers, the stigma of having an unmarried mother – sometimes love just isn’t enough,’ she finishes softly.

Taking my scarf, I quickly brush it against my face, not wanting her to see the tears that are now pooling in the corners of my eyes. I swallow hard and will myself to be strong, but it’s hard, seeing her pain laid bare like this. All I want to do is wrap her in my arms and comfort her, but I’m not sure how Hettie would feel about that. I pat her arm instead.

‘So everyone just assumed the baby had died,’ she continues, ‘which, in a way, is exactly how it felt for me. Grief comes in many forms.’ Another silence follows. And then Hettie’s voice lifts a little. ‘But I was always able to visit Jean, which was a comfort.’ Hettie pats her handbag and I feel utterly in awe of her strength and stoicism. Abandoned by her fiancé, losing her little baby Jean and then having to give up her son, how on earth does anyone deal with so much pain? But she did it. Against all the odds. Somehow, she survived. ‘You know, I named my baby Jean after Gene Kelly himself – he was such a lovely fella, so polite and such a tremendously talented dancer. He gave me some coaching and it took my tap dancing to a whole new level!’ Hettie goes quiet again. ‘I take the bus up to the village once a week to tend to Jean’s flowers.’
Poor, poor Hettie. No wonder she didn’t want to go into a home. No wonder she didn’t want to leave Tindledale and her lovely House of Haberdashery with all its memories. She needs to be here, to be close to Jean.
‘And now her brother, Gerry, has come back to us too,’ Hettie adds.

‘How does that make you feel?’ I ask.

‘I was apprehensive at first. Ashamed, even. You see, I knew he was coming, but didn’t realise it would be so soon – he found me via Mrs Pocket, you know. There’s an ancestry place in the internet,’ she explains with just a hint of marvel in her voice at this further phenomenon of modern technology. ‘And then when he turned up out of the blue, having stumbled upon the shop’s new website, instead of writing to me first as she had suggested, Mrs Pocket panicked and followed him straight down to the shop. That’s when she hoiked me out from the party and we found him embroiled in the showdown with my nephew and you and Marigold in the bus shelter.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, trying not to snivel. ‘And I know Marigold is too.’

‘I know, dear, you thought he was another,’ she pauses, ‘bailiff,’ and lowers her voice again before casting a look over towards the pond. But there’s nobody here, just the two of us, and to be honest, I’m not sure the rest of the villagers are judgemental in that way, certainly not the ones I’ve met. Everyone here seems so nice, warm, down-to-earth and kind. Just concerned and ready to help if they can, but Hettie comes from another era, a time when integrity and honour were all you really had. A time when you put on a brave face – didn’t complain or tell everyone your business, and just got on with it in private.

‘We really thought he was your nephew until he actually turned up.’

‘Hmm, I don’t think he’ll be rushing back in a hurry, not after that kick you gave him. Good for you.’ Hettie’s face sets into a frown, but then softens again. ‘Gerry told me he was excited and just wanted to meet me right away.’ Her voice soars now. ‘He’s so sorry for turning up unannounced like that.’

‘And that’s a wonderful thing. But you’ve nothing to be ashamed of,’ I say, feeling sad that Hettie has carried this burden alone for so long. Nobody knew about the babies, not even Marigold. She told me during the phone call to see if I’d look after the shop that she had no idea Hettie had a son. She remembers as a child that there were rumours running around the village that Hettie was an unmarried mother, but when she had asked her own mother about it, Marigold was told that the baby’s father was a soldier stationed far away in America who was then killed in an accident, which I suppose in a way had a grain of truth to it. And then over the years, the people died, or moved away like Bill did, and the ones that stayed – well, their memories faded.

‘My dear, you’re very kind, but you saw how bad things had got when you first arrived. I was heartbroken to think Gerry would turn up to see what a mess I had made of it all. I didn’t want to be a disappointment to him.’ She pauses to take another sip of her wine. ‘It’s all changed now though, thanks to you and your knitting and nattering, and wacky Christmas pullovers. I can stop worrying about the bills – and that dreadful nephew of mine,’ she adds, sounding lighter now as she finishes the last of her wine.

‘Well, it’s been my absolute pleasure to help you Hettie.’ I smile brightly before cranking up the dial on the grill.

‘Then please, Sybil, take the picture. Without you, I might very well have lost my home and my beloved House of Haberdashery, and that would never do. Not when my heart will always belong here with baby Jean, in Tindledale.’ She pats her handbag again. ‘The signature might be worth a few bob and you could sell it and pack in that job of yours that you hate. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could come and live here too?’ She lifts the frame from the table and hands it to me, her eyes all sparkly as they glance over towards the twinkling lanterns swaying around the pond. For a moment we sit together and just listen to the carollers singing,

Silent night, Holy night

All is calm, all is bright

‘Hettie, I couldn’t think of anything I’d love more. This place is special. Magical. And you know …’ I lean in close to her and whisper, ‘those wacky Christmas jumpers helped heal my broken heart too.’

C
hristmas Day, and everyone is here in the Duck & Puddle pub. Slade are belting out that old favourite, ‘Merry Xmas Everybody
’
; Molly and Cooper have popped in for a pint while their turkey cooks at home, and their boys are busy toasting marshmallows on skewers in the blazing flames of the open inglenook fire; Basil is in his usual place, on the blanket by the hearth, with one eye closed and one eye on the marshmallows, presumably hoping one just happens to fall into his mouth.

Marigold and Lucan are here too, and I’ve just refilled Lucan’s pewter tankard that he keeps behind the bar – I’m helping out seeing as it’s so busy in here. Hettie is with them, smiling and looking relaxed, but a little nervous too as Gerry is on his way to collect her – she’s having her Christmas dinner at his house and he only lives twenty miles away, with his wife, their four grown-up children and numerous grandsons and granddaughters – twelve in total, I think she said. Leo and Beth are at the far end of the bar with some of the other Tindledale Tappers – Louise, Edie, Sarah and Vi and they’re all enjoying a traditional Christmas drink with a goose-fat roasted potato or three, from one of the many brimming bowls dotted along the bar, courtesy of the landlady, Cher, and her other half, Clive, aka Sonny. And this still tickles me. Pete popped in earlier to pick up a barrel of beer on his tractor, they’re having a party at the farm, and he’d momentarily thrown me when he asked if Sonny was up for joining in the village football match tomorrow – it’s a traditional Boxing Day thing, apparently, when they all gather on the green and attempt to kick a football around in a desperate attempt to start working off their festive food indulgence.

Lawrence arrives, and after peeling off his coat, hat, scarf and gloves (handknitted of course, courtesy of me, as a little Christmas present) he goes to hang them on the peg by the cloakrooms, before climbing on to a stool at the bar.

‘Happy Christmas, Sybs.’ He leans across to give me a kiss on the cheek.

‘Happy Christmas to you too,’ I say, giving his arm a squeeze. ‘What happened to your Japanese guests?’ I glance over towards the door to see if they’re following in behind.