Knit One Pearl One Read online

  Jack beats Archie to the gates, but only by centimeters, so they’re both calling for a steward’s inquiry as we cross the road, holding the handles of the buggy and walking properly, despite protestations.

  “Horrible big liar. Tell him, Mum, lying is terrible, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is, Archie, and so is shoving your brother, and Jack, stop it now. It doesn’t matter who won.”

  They both look at me like they’ve had yet another glimpse of Planet Mother and found it totally nonsensical.

  “Of course it does, Mum. He’s always saying he’s faster than me, and he’s not.”

  Pearl is shouting now too, random shouting, just so she doesn’t feel left out. If I’m not careful we’re all going to arrive at school mid-bicker.

  “What do you want for tea tonight, Archie?”

  “Not sausages.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d love sausages, Mum, they’re my favorite.”

  Time for a little bit of brother bonding I think.

  “Okay, well, since you two can’t agree, I’ll choose. I know, macaroni cheese.”

  They both start to make being sick noises, which Pearl thinks is marvelous.

  “Well choose something, together. Or it’s macaroni.”

  They walk slightly ahead, whispering, all disputes temporarily put to one side while they rack their brains to try to come up with a mutually acceptable supper which will also annoy me.

  “Can we have roast chicken with crispy potatoes and gravy?”

  “Not on a school night, no.”

  They both tut, and Pearl relaunches Battle Balaclava.

  Excellent.

  Connie’s already in the playground, and Jack and Archie run off for a last two minutes’ playtime before the bell goes. She’s looking tired, and I don’t think being four months pregnant is helping; she says this is my fault, because seeing me with Pearl made her go all broody. Although unlike her and Mark, I appear to be missing the husband and father of course. Which was pretty tricky when the news first got round that I was pregnant; half the town seemed to think Martin was the dad, even though we weren’t actually together then. At one point I thought I’d have to put a notice up in the bloody shop window: Martin Is Not the Father, something like that. And Elsie was driving me mad in the shop; not only has she worked with Gran for years before I took over but she’s also Martin’s mum, so it all got pretty fraught. But once I fed the gossip grapevine with a few snippets about an old friend who wasn’t going to be part of our lives, things calmed down, thank God. Not that Daniel is an old friend, but I could hardly say it was a one-off magic moment in Venice with a handsome stranger. People round here don’t really go in for that kind of thing. Especially not if they’re recently widowed. Actually neither do I, widowed or not; it was my first experience of being the kind of woman who has affairs in foreign cities with glamorous photographers. It’s just typical of my luck I ended up pregnant. Although of course now Pearl is here, I realize just how lucky it was. I wouldn’t have missed being her mum for all the world. Even if she won’t wear hats.

  “Porca miseria.”

  “Good morning to you too, Constanza.”

  “Sorry, no, it is Annabel Morgan, she is giving us the evil eyes, again.”

  “What have we done now?”

  “Just being here is enough, I think. Nelly, come, your coat is not done again.”

  Nelly races past, ignoring her mother.

  “Antonella.”

  Connie’s right, Annabel Morgan is definitely giving us one of her Looks. As president of the PTA and all-round snooter, she’s an enemy you don’t want to make, but that ship sailed quite a while ago for Connie and me. She’s standing with her son, Horrible Harry, who is poking his tongue out at passing children whenever her back is turned. How charming.

  I’m still not entirely clear why she dislikes me so intensely but I don’t think my appearing with the occasional VIP has endeared her to my cause. Being Britain’s Favorite Broadcaster does mean people tend to recognize Ellen when she turns up to meet her godsons from school, and my knowing our local film star Diva Grace Harrison is even more annoying, even if I am only her official knitting coach. It’s all put me firmly on Annabel’s do not resuscitate list. And Connie is far too Italian to put up with any nonsense, so she’s definitely on the list too.

  The nasty looks have definitely got worse since Pearl arrived; I think I’m meant to be embarrassed about appearing with what she’d definitely call an illegitimate child in my buggy. In fact, as far as she’s concerned all my children are annoying. Archie is in the same class as Horrible Harry, and since Archie’s not one to sidestep anything remotely resembling conflict, they clash pretty frequently, and Archie’s a lot less sophisticated than Harry, so he tends to shove people over rather than going in for a bit of sly nipping when nobody is watching. If Annabel could work out how to get away with it, we’d definitely be subject to a lifetime ban from the PTA.

  The kids are lining up now as Mrs. King rings the bell, with help from a rather enthusiastic small boy from the reception class who is trying to lift the bell above his head for maximum ringing. Jack runs over to grab his PE kit, while Pearl tries to undo the straps on her buggy and follow him into school.

  “I just hope she’s this keen when she’s actually old enough to go.”

  Connie smiles. “Nelly was the same, always trying to be with Marco.”

  “You look tired you know, Con. Are you sure you’re not doing too much?”

  I think running the pub, and trying to keep up with Nelly and Marco, combined with keeping the new café stocked, might count as too much in anybody’s book.

  “I am fine, little rests, all the time, it is driving me crazy. Everyone keeps saying, sit with the feet up, but how can I, if I don’t know everything is being done properly?”

  “I know, but—”

  “And Mark is telling me yesterday, when this baby comes we will have a little holiday. But he is mad; all I will want is to stay at home, not doing the holiday.”

  “Your mum will come over though, won’t she?”

  “Yes, but after the baby, and just her, not the whole family. I have told her, there are too many Italians in our house already.”

  “How’s it going, with Susanna and Cinzia?”

  “Cinzia, okay, she is a good girl; Susanna, not so much.”

  “We all love Cinzia, she’s a total treasure.”

  Connie’s mum and dad have decided that since they can’t persuade her to come home to Italy, they’ll send the younger members of the family over to her to lend a hand, and since none of them ever travel alone, they’re sending them in pairs. They’re meant to learn English, like a sort of family gap year, and now baby number three is on its way, Connie’s mother is even more delighted with her plan. Both Cinzia and Susanna have been instructed to keep a close eye on Connie and report back in to La Mamma. They’re both really sweet, although I think Connie does get a bit fed up with them following her around trying to Help. But it’s been particularly fabulous for me, since Cinzia has become our semi–au pair: she wanted to earn a bit of money, and Connie practically insisted I take her on. It’s been a total lifesaver; I get some cover for the days I’m in the shop, without having a homesick Italian in my house laughing at my attempts to make pasta, and Connie gets a break from Operation Mother. It’s brilliant.

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  Bugger. Annabel Morgan has executed a sneaky rearguard action and circled the playground so she can pounce on us. I thought we might be able to make a swift exit.

  “Morning, Annabel.”

  “Just to let you know, the committee meeting is next week, so if you do have any suggestions, feel free to jot down some notes. I know how busy you both are.”

  She trills out a little laugh.

  “What time is it?”

  Annabel gives Connie a very dismissive look. “Sorry?”

  “The meeting. When is it?”

  “Eigh
t o’clock, on Monday, but I really don’t—”

  “So, we will come, and we can tell everybody about the walking buses.”

  “There’s really no need to take time away from your restaurant, Mrs. Maxwell, I know you’re always so busy, no need at all; and our committee meetings are not really open to the public. But as your president, I shall be more than happy to represent your views.”

  Damn. I really wish we hadn’t started this now. I only mentioned to Jack’s teacher, Mrs. Chambers, that I’d read an article about a new scheme to get kids walking to school, and before I knew it, Connie and I had been persuaded to raise it at the annual PTA meeting, and now we’ve been Volunteered.

  “Thanks, Annabel, but Mr. O’Brien did ask us to make sure we went to the meeting. He seemed quite keen on the idea.”

  Let’s see if she tries to outrank the Head.

  She hesitates, and various parents who are lurking nearby lean forward slightly so they can hear her response. Oh dear.

  “Yes, well, that would be super, of course, so important for everyone to play their part, if you’re sure you can spare the time. Now you must excuse me, but I do have to get on, so many things to do, sometimes I don’t know how I manage to keep up with all my PTA business, I really don’t. But we all have to do our bit, don’t we? Good morning.”

  She nods at us, like we’re dismissed, as she marches across the playground in her twinset and smart skirt, stamping her medium-heeled court shoes with annoyance. Crikey. She’s channeling a minor member of the Royal Family even more than usual; she’ll be knotting a silk head scarf under her chin next. Or arriving at school on a bloody horse. If she gets her hands on one of those polo sticks, we’ll all be in trouble.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Connie laughs. “I know.”

  “I don’t even want to do this stupid walking bus thing, and you’ll be too pregnant.”

  “To walk?”

  “Well no, but walking up and down the High Street collecting small people whilst wearing a fluorescent tabard isn’t my idea of the perfect way to spend my morning if I’m completely honest, Con.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a sort of vest. But longer, like an apron.”

  She mutters something in Italian.

  “Exactly.”

  “Mark says we are mad.”

  “Well he might have a point there, Con. Come on, let’s start walking to the shop or I’ll be in trouble with Elsie for being late.”

  “She works for you, yes, so you can arrive when you want.”

  “Technically yes, or I can be on time and have a peaceful morning.”

  “I am with the car. I have to take Susanna to her language classes; she is not going, and my aunt Silvia, she is furious.”

  “Oh, dear. What’s she been doing then, when she gets the bus into Canterbury?”

  “Flirting.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I know. But it is not teaching her the English vocabulary.”

  “Maybe not the kind of vocabulary your aunt had in her mind, but I bet it comes in a lot handier than ‘What time is the next train to Cardiff?’ ” I was helping Cinzia with her homework last week.

  Connie smiles and bends down to kiss Pearl as we reach the car. Poor Susanna is sitting in the passenger seat, looking pretty miserable.

  “See you later, bella. She’s turning the hat again.”

  “I know, leave her. It annoys her if I try to turn it back the right way, and she’ll be asleep in a minute.”

  Connie kisses her again and puts her hand on her tummy.

  “I hope this one, he is happy with hats. Or she. But Mark thinks it will be a boy.”

  “How does he work that one out then?”

  “He says already there are too many Italian women in our house.”

  “I don’t think you can ever have enough Italian women, Con, not if they’re all like you.”

  She blows me a kiss and gets into the car.

  I’m trying to work out how we can rope in enough parents to make the bloody bus thing work as I push the buggy down the High Street, with Pearl having a nap, her hat half covering her face. I got details from the local council, and you can start off with a Walking Wednesday, which I quite like the sound of, and see how it goes just one day a week before you launch a whole scheme and find yourself pretty much permanently in your tabard marshaling small people around at the crack of bloody dawn. You need a minimum of two adults for each journey: a driver and a conductor, one to lead the kids, and one at the end to make sure no stragglers get left behind. Dear God. You have to set up a route, so parents bring their kids along rather than having to stop at each house, which would take all day. But even so. Jane Johnson says she’ll help, and she works in the school office, so that will be an advantage when it comes to setting up rotas and getting notes out to all the parents. But Annabel is bound to meddle if we ever manage to get the idea approved. So that’ll be me stuck in a bright orange outfit on a ten-mile walk that finishes at the end of our rickety old pier if she has anything to do with it. Christ. Me and my big mouth. Next time I read something interesting, I’m going to write myself a note. And hide it.

  It’s still freezing cold, but at least the sun is shining. I love Broadgate on mornings like this, with the sea sparkling at the end of the High Street, even if it is a rather chilly kind of sparkle. Mr. Parsons is hanging up metal buckets on the hooks outside his ironmongers and arranging mops, and Mrs. Baintree in the bakery gives me a cheery wave, which is good because when we first opened the new café things got rather strained. I think she was worried we’d be taking all their customers, but since we don’t sell loaves of bread, or giant baps, or multicolored biscuits with smiley faces on them, cordial relations have been restored. She even came in for a coffee last week.

  Elsie’s behind the counter as I wheel Pearl through to the back of the shop.

  “Morning, Jo, is she asleep?”

  “Yes, but not for long. Unless you fancy a little walk?”

  She smiles. “You’re all right, dear. That girl will be along soon, won’t she?”

  “Yes, she’s due any minute.”

  Hurrah. The cavalry are coming.

  Elsie doesn’t entirely approve of Cinzia. There’s something too flamboyant about her for Elsie’s taste. But even she has to admit the children adore her.

  “It looks like you sold lots of that new cotton on Saturday.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Collins was in, she’s making another blanket. I asked her if she’d like to knit orders for us, and she was really pleased. She said she’d think about it and let us know.”

  “Well, she’s a lovely knitter, I’ll say that for her, and we can always do with more things to sell in the shop.”

  “Morning, Jo.” Laura walks through the new archway into the café, carrying a cup and saucer. “Thought you’d like a cup of tea, Jo.”

  “Bless your heart. That’s just what I need.”

  Elsie stiffens. She and Laura have a running battle over who is in overall charge. And the truth is, nobody is. Or I am. But definitely not Elsie. Laura worked for Connie at the pub as a waitress before we spotted her as perfect for the café. She’s studying textile design at college part-time and lives just off the High Street with her little girl, Rosie, and her mum lives a couple of streets away from Elsie. So she’s perfect for popping in when we’re particularly busy in the summer, and she sorts out all the orders with Connie, and arranges the rota for her college days. Her friend Tom does the days she can’t do, which is working really well, even if he does play in a band in the evenings so he sometimes looks slightly frayed around the edges in the mornings.

  Connie and Mark have been really clever about the menu too, keeping it simple so we don’t need too much equipment or people wearing special hairnets; we do juice and smoothies, teas and coffees, and a selection of Mark’s cakes and biscuits, and paninis. Nothing hot, so no grills or ovens, just simple, fresh food and great coffee, thanks to the huge machine
Connie’s uncle Luca brought over for us, which was half the price of anything we could find from the local suppliers. It was a bit terrifying at first, all that steam and wiping nozzles, but he was very patient, and now we all know how to use it, although Elsie isn’t convinced it’s not going to blow up and tends to steer clear of it.

  “Would you like a tea, Elsie?”

  “Well I don’t mind if you’re making one.”

  Laura winks at me as she goes back through into the café. I’m glad now we didn’t spend a fortune and turn it into one huge space. It works well having the two shops connected, and if things ever get really tough, I can always sell the café and go back to just having the wool shop. But the café is definitely attracting new customers; people don’t tend to go into wool shops unless they already know how to knit, but once they’re sitting in the café, they see the notices we’ve put up about our knitting groups, or the tea cozies, and the blankets and shawls for sale, and it encourages them. And Laura often sits knitting at the counter, working on the designs for her course, like the bag knitted on huge needles with lots of bobbles, or the cape with the lovely cable pattern.

  “Hello, poppet.”

  Pearl is waking up.

  “Shall I give her a biscuit?”

  “She’s just had breakfast, Elsie, thanks.”

  In other words No, please don’t be passing her chocolate digestives every time we’re in the shop, particularly when she’s wearing a balaclava, or I’ll have to wash it again.

  Laura brings Elsie her tea and shows us both a magazine she’s got from college, with pictures of a knitwear show in Milan full of extraordinary sweaters with extra sleeves, or huge cowl necks, and wonderful soft wraps draped over tiny vests.

  “Do you think that’s cashmere?”

  Elsie and I are both peering at the pictures.

  “It looks a bit thinner than that, doesn’t it? Maybe silk?”

  Laura nods. “That’s what I thought, but then I thought maybe four-ply?”