Divas Don't Knit Read online

  ‘I hope you won’t mind my mentioning this in public, so to speak, but there was something else I wanted to discuss. Your son Archie is in my son Harry’s class, I think.’

  Oh. Bugger.

  ‘Yes, I think he is.’

  ‘There was an unpleasant incident yesterday, not the sort of thing we want to encourage at all. But I don’t suppose he mentioned it, did he?’

  ‘Oh, yes, we were just talking about it actually, and I’m sure it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Well, I was rather hoping he might apologise, perhaps after school, with both of us present? Harry said he didn’t do it properly yesterday, and I do think it’s important for our children to realise that we will not tolerate violence, don’t you?’

  She’s speaking quite slowly, and very loudly, as if she’s dealing with people who aren’t as clever as she is. Christ, they’re always terrible bullies, the Very Important Types.

  ‘I think it was just a little bit of pushing, wasn’t it? And Mrs Berry seems to have dealt with it.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Berry, who we all adore, of course, but she is sometimes, well, she doesn’t always focus on things quite like she might, and Harry was terribly upset last night.’

  Connie makes a fuffing noise.

  ‘So was Antonella.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘My daughter, Antonella, she was very upset also, and if Archie is saying sorry, then Harry will say sorry to Nelly, yes?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you. You’re from Italy, aren’t you? We love Italy. We were in Florence for Easter last year – so civilised.’

  So not only is she the leading light of the PTA but she’s also a cosmopolitan jet setter too. At least I think that’s the impression we’re meant to be getting.

  Connie glares at her.

  ‘Archie was only, how do you say, sticking out for Nelly.’

  Connie’s looking quite angry now, so I think I’d better step in and try to sort this out or there might be a bit more pushing in the playground.

  ‘Apparently Harry’s been teasing Nelly, for a few days, calling her silly names, which is very upsetting when you’re only little – quite upsetting when you’re big, too.’

  I try a small smile, but she’s having none of it, and some of the other parents are definitely listening. How perfect; at this rate we’ll be banned from joining the PTA before we’ve even joined.

  ‘I’ve talked to Archie, as I said, and he does know that pushing people is wrong, and I’m sure Harry knows he mustn’t tease people. And Mrs Berry will keep an eye on things. But if you think it would help, why don’t I have them all round to tea? They can all make biscuits, they always love that, or if you’d rather ask them to apologise again, then I imagine you meant Harry would apologise to Nelly, too, didn’t you? Otherwise we’d be sending out a very mixed message, wouldn’t we?’

  She gives me a terrifying look, like she’d set the hounds on me if only she had some handy. Actually I can just see her sitting on a horse like a total snooter, blowing a bugle.

  ‘Yes, well, I’m so glad we had this little chat. It’s so important to be vigilant of course, but perhaps if we keep an eye on things for now … I must just pop into the office – official business you know, it never stops, there’s always so much to do. So sweet of you to ask Harry round to tea, but he does have a very full schedule after school. I’ll look at the diary and get back to you shall I? Super.’

  She nods at the other parents as she storms across the playground.

  Bloody hell.

  Connie mutters in Italian, including something which sounds like porking Madonnas.

  ‘You must teach me a few phrases. They’ll be so handy for Venice with my mum.’

  She laughs. ‘In Venice they have different ones.’

  ‘Yes, but she won’t know that.’

  ‘Are you really having Harry to make biscuits?’

  ‘I bloody hope not, but it was the only way I could think of to shut her up.’

  We seem to be getting lots of extra smiles and nods as we walk to the gates, so I get the feeling our president isn’t quite as popular as she likes to think she is; but I’d also be willing to bet a fair bit of money that our chances of winning anything in a PTA raffle in the next year or two are now extremely slim. Not even the ubiquitous third-prize box of squashed chocolates from the local shop. And guess who’ll be holding the sick bucket on any coach trips if she’s got anything to do with it? Double bugger.

  I spend the rest of the morning in the shop, trying to recover from my moment with Mrs Morgan, thinking of brilliant things I should have said, and having rather gratifying mock conversations with myself, until I realise that Elsie’s giving me funny looks, so I move on to panicking about teatime with Horrible Harry, because last time we made biscuits Archie got icing all over the floor and I practically had to chisel it off: maybe flapjacks might be better, although how I’m going to persuade him to make flapjacks with his newly sworn enemy is anybody’s guess.

  I’m finishing sorting out the room upstairs ready for the Stitch and Bitch group tonight, with Elsie popping up to tut every now and again. She doesn’t like the floorboards and thinks we need a proper carpet, even though I’ve crawled around for hours washing and waxing them. But even she’s got to admit it’s a vast improvement on how it was. Vin and Lulu helped me clear the bulk of the junk before they left, and three trips to the tip and twenty quid to the bin-men later, I’ve finally got rid of the last of the rubbish. I’ve really missed them both since they left; Lulu keeps sending me funny text messages describing how ridiculous Vin’s being; he always gets terrible jet lag, and makes a huge fuss about it, and since they’re on a three-week squid-counting project somewhere off Australia they had a really long flight. But texts aren’t the same as having them here.

  All sorts of forgotten treasures have emerged from the piles of tat upstairs, including a lovely old wooden tailor’s dummy, which I’ve put downstairs in the shop wearing a pretty cardigan I knitted up in Scottish Tweed in Storm Grey, and draped with a mohair shawl in Marmalade: Gran and I have come up with a new simple shawl pattern, which knits up really easily and looks great, and I’ve written down the pattern and printed copies at home and we’ve already sold two, which is encouraging. And I’ve unearthed a collection of old vases and some lovely raffia baskets which I’ve filled with odd buttons and oddments of ribbon, and some cardboard showcards from the 1950s, advertising new brands of wool, which I’ve stuck up on the walls and on the staircase. But the top things by far are the red knitted Advent calendar, with a little pocket for each day, and the knitted nativity scene, which Gran and Elsie made years ago; Mary looks rather pissed off, and the baby Jesus is very pink, with bright yellow hair, and the camels have got massive humps and tiny legs, but it’s fabulous. The donkey looks just like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, and there are two very grumpy-looking sheep. Gran used to put them all in the window every year, but then she moved on to fairy lights and a tinsel tree and somehow it all got lost in a box, but I’ll definitely be using it again this year. Only I think I’ll knit some cloaks for all the figures, to tone them down a bit, and possibly a new baby Jesus which looks a bit more newborn and a bit less Miss Piggy.

  Elsie’s been in her element dusting things as they came out of the boxes, and Martin’s been in and shown me his drawings for the shelves, which looked very detailed, but I’m sure they’ll be great. He’s made a start on the back wall, and fixed the door to the kitchen so it closes properly, with Elsie following him around wittering on about how clever he is, which must be rather mortifying for him; but he handles her very well, mainly by ignoring her most of the time, and whistling. In fact, the boys have been so impressed with his whistling-when-your-mother’s-being-annoying technique that they’ve been trying to whistle ever since, so a great deal of puffing and blowing goes on every time I ask them to do anything they don’t fancy, which is rather annoying, especially when we’re walking to school.

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sp; Elsie’s still not happy with all the new space, though, because apart from the lack of carpet she wants to turn the room into a staffroom, particularly now it’s looking so cosy. I’ve put up some old chintz curtains from Gran, and Lulu helped me clean up the fireplace, which was hidden behind a pile of boxes. It’s got lovely old hearth tiles which I spent ages scrubbing and polishing, before I tracked down a chimney sweep who covered the whole thing with soot when he pressed the wrong button on his vacuum cleaner. But it’s looking very pretty now, and Mr Pallfrey’s given me a stack of logs from an old apple tree which fell down last winter, and they smell wonderful, and Gran’s given me her old coal scuttle, and when the fire’s going the whole shop seems warmer.

  I’m sitting by the fire in the armchair I’ve brought in from home, and trying to work out if I’ve got enough chairs round the table when Elsie comes up to make tea. She’s put the shop door on the latch again, even though I’ve asked her not to when both of us are in, but I think I’ll pretend I haven’t noticed.

  ‘It’s looking good now, don’t you think?’

  ‘I still think we need a carpet.’

  ‘The table looks good, too, doesn’t it? And it gives us so much more room in the back of the shop.’

  ‘Yes but people liked it downstairs, you know, they need somewhere to look through the patterns.’

  ‘There are still chairs down there, Elsie, and it makes so much more sense having it up here, in the workroom, don’t you think?’

  I’ve decided to keep calling it the workroom to remind her that she can’t annex it as her personal domain.

  She purses her lips. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  The shop bell rings, and I go downstairs to find Lady Denby rattling the door. Elsie races past me and practically curtseys as she opens the door, and Lady Denby sweeps in, followed by two large black labradors.

  ‘Just wanted to say jolly well done. Excellent. I’ve just come from the meeting, Algie, sit. Clarkson, if you can’t behave yourself you’ll have to stay in the car. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the silver medal, Best Seaside thing, first time we’ve won in decades, marvellous. Your window was given a special mention by one of the judges, highly artistic, something along those lines, so jolly well done, and keep up the good work, because we want a gold next time.’

  ‘How wonderful.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? I see you’ve changed the shop name. McKnits, very clever. I like it. I don’t approve of changing the names of things as a rule, can’t see the point of it, but I must say I think this is an improvement. Makes you think of Scotland and all the glorious heather – used to do a lot of shooting up there when I was younger.’

  ‘I’m so glad you like it. Mr Taylor only finished the painting yesterday.’

  ‘Taylor? Do I know him?’

  ‘He does most of the shops here, I think. Gran’s known him for ages.’

  ‘Little man, unfortunate hair?’

  Elsie giggles, and is rewarded with a sharp look.

  ‘I’ve got him now. Good. I like to encourage people to use local tradesmen where possible. Used them myself when we moved. Cost the earth of course, and that stupid boy broke two vases, and chipped a rather important plate. But still, at least you know who you’re dealing with. Clarkson, what on earth are you doing?’

  He is licking Elsie’s shoe, much to her embarrassment.

  ‘Stop that right now. Always been a nightmare for shoes, this one. Eats them, given half a chance.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, Lady Denby, none at all.’

  Elsie’s stuck in a sort of a half-curtsey now; if a common or garden labrador came bounding into the shop and started licking her shoes she’d throw a complete fit, but she’s obviously prepared to make an exception for an aristocratic one.

  ‘Yes, well, keep up the good work. Excellent. And there’ll be a presentation, at some point I imagine, local press, that kind of thing.’

  Elsie makes a squeaking noise, and Lady Denby fixes her with another beady look, then turns to me.

  ‘I’ll ask someone to let you know, when the arrangements have been made. Used to knit myself, years ago you know, but my eyes aren’t up to it now. I used to do socks, nice thick ones, and they lasted a damn sight longer than the rubbish they sell now, I can tell you. Yes, well, I can’t stand here all day. Must get on. Good morning.’

  She sweeps out again, followed by Algie and Clarkson, who gives Elsie’s shoe a longing look as he’s yanked sideways through the doorway.

  Elsie’s thrilled.

  ‘Well I never! Imagine her coming in here. And our window being specially mentioned. Imagine.’

  I think she’s gone into some sort of trance.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please, dear.’

  I think we may need to be opening an emergency packet of custard creams.

  The boys are both uncharacteristically lively when I collect them from school, which makes a nice change from their usual monosyllabic routine of All right, Fine and What’s for tea? Archie’s been doing PE and he’s lost one of his socks, and has got his sweatshirt on back to front, and Jack’s been helping Mr O’Brien put pictures up in the hall.

  ‘And I got a Good Helping sticker, look, and I’m going on the Golden Board, Mum.’

  ‘That’s lovely. Well done, sweetheart.’

  ‘And in assembly I have to stand up and get a clap. If your name’s on the Golden Board you get a clap. From everybody.’ He looks at Archie, triumphant.

  ‘And I did jumping in PE, and Mrs Berry said I was very good. Look, I’ll show you.’

  He leaps along the pavement in a series of very energetic jumps. ‘And we played Narnia at playtime, and we let Harry play. That was good, too, wasn’t it, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, Archie, that was very good.’

  And let’s hope he tells his bloody mother.

  ‘And he was Asian, and he had to chase us, but he got fed up because he couldn’t catch us, so he didn’t want to play any more, but then Max was Asian, and he was great.’

  ‘Did Nelly play?’

  ‘Yes, she was the Witch, she’s always the Witch, she likes it best. And I caught two wolves in my Wardrobe. Like this.’

  He grabs Jack round the shoulders.

  ‘Get him off me, Mum!’

  Archie lets go.

  ‘I was only showing her, stupid. But they were only in Reception, the ones I caught, so I let them go because they’re only babies. Not like me, because I’m in the big boys’ class now. That was kind of me, wasn’t it? I expect I’ll be on the Golden Board next, for being kind, if I tell Mrs Berry.’

  Jack rolls his eyes. ‘What’s for tea, Mum? Not shepherd’s pie. I hate shepherd’s pie.’

  ‘I love shepherd’s pie, it’s my favourite.’

  Archie grins at me.

  I’ve got half a pound of mince in the fridge, and was rather counting on shepherd’s pie. Bugger.

  ‘Spaghetti?’

  ‘With cheese on top?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They both do their celebratory dance routine, which involves a great deal of bottom wiggling. Spaghetti Bolognese it is then.

  Gran arrives just after six, while I’m still clearing up. Archie loves bolognese, but he does like to give his pasta a thorough twirl before he eats it, so Jack and I have to sit at the other side of the table if we don’t want to be wearing sauce for the rest of the day.

  ‘Shall I put the kettle on, Gran?’

  ‘I’ll do it, dear.’

  ‘I’ll finish the washing up then.’

  ‘Did you have pasta tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. I’ll put his shirt in to soak, shall I?’

  ‘Please.’

  Gran loves battling with stains. She boils all her flannels, and bleaches her dishcloths every week. It’s a whole different world.

  ‘Will you be wanting me to have them next Friday by any chance?’

  ‘No, why?’

  She goes rather pink.
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br />   ‘Nothing, really, it’s just a friend of mine, Reg Coles, from the Bowls Club, he’s asked me round for a bit of supper. He keeps asking me, and I usually put him off, but this time he says he won’t take no for an answer, and he’s such a nice man, a real gentleman, always has a clean shirt on, not like some of them, with stains all down their jumpers. His wife died a few years back but he keeps everything spotless. Only I’m not sure.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want people talking.’

  ‘People are always talking, Gran, I wouldn’t worry about that. What does Betty say?’

  ‘Oh, she thinks I should go, but then she would, wouldn’t she? Just look at the pickle she got herself into with that insurance man.’

  Betty had a whirlwind romance a few years ago, after her husband died, with the man from the Pru. They had a weekend in Brighton before he confessed that his wife wasn’t actually terminally ill in hospital, but was visiting her mother in Leeds, and due back home any day.

  ‘Did she ever see him again, after that weekend?’

  ‘No, but she says she’s got no regrets. She’s terrible, you know, she said it made a nice change.’

  We both smile.

  ‘Well I think you should go, Gran.’

  ‘There’s no harm in a bit of supper, I suppose. And he’s very kind, he says he’ll come to collect me later, to save Connie driving me home. I was telling him that she always drops me off every week and he says it would be no bother. So I said half past nine? Is that all right, dear?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  She smiles.

  Crikey, first it’s supper and now he’s driving her home. She’s never been that keen on what she calls gentlemen friends, because she thinks it’s Common. Stan from the greengrocer’s seemed quite fond of her a few years ago, and I remember him bringing round brown paper bags full of fruit, but she never showed the slightest bit of interest, so I think he gave up after a while. God, I hope Reg doesn’t turn out to be some kind of OAP Romeo, with ‘friends’ all over the south coast, or I’ll have to go round there and sort him out. Although Betty would probably beat me to it.