Divas Don't Knit Read online

  ‘Oh, yes, very generous, but you’ve got to watch her, you know, or she’ll be in and out all day wanting change for ten-pound notes, although why she can’t go to the bank like the rest of us is beyond me. And anyway, we haven’t got any vases so I don’t know where she thinks you’re going to put them.’

  ‘Yes, we have. There’s one in the window, isn’t there?’

  I open the door in the partition and reach through to pick up the glass vase with the faded plastic tulips.

  Elsie tuts.

  ‘I spent quite a long time arranging them, actually, but never mind. I’ll go and get the tea shall I? Only there aren’t any biscuits, I’m afraid. We used to have biscuits a while back, but your gran stopped buying them.’

  She’s looking seriously put out now. Bugger. I think this might be the perfect time for an olive branch.

  ‘I could get some, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t like bourbons.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Or ginger snaps – your gran’s very partial to those but they repeat on me. I quite like digestives, though. Or custard creams.’

  The way she says custard creams makes it fairly clear they’re the top choice.

  ‘Right, well I won’t be a minute.’

  Bloody hell. From television news producer to biscuit girl; I think I’d better get a few packets, because it looks like I may be needing them.

  Elsie’s got a mouth full of custard cream when our first customer of the morning, Mrs Stebbing, comes in. She buys three balls of lemon four-ply and a pattern for a matinée coat for her goddaughter’s new baby, who looks like a fairly chunky boy when she shows us the photographs, and not an obvious choice for a delicate lemon jacket with a lace design on the front. Then old Mrs Marwell comes in, or tries to, but she can’t get her wheelie trolley through the door. By the time we’ve got her in there’s a slightly awkward moment when she can’t remember what she wanted, but then it comes back to her, with a bit of prompting from Elsie. She’s knitting another jumper for the church, for the orphans in Africa, and she wants to look in the bargain basket, where we put any odd balls left over from different dye lots; usually the cheaper things with a high percentage of man-made fibre which wash well if you don’t mind a jumper that builds up static. Quite a few of our old ladies knit things for the church, and they’re quite happy using up odd balls of wool, so the jumpers often have one yellow sleeve, and one red, with a bright blue middle, like weird versions of Mondrian paintings, only warmer. I think this might be a good time to launch another one of my Top New Ideas, now I’ve got the custard creams as back-up.

  ‘Mrs Marwell, do you think it would be useful if I started a charity basket? I was thinking we could ask people to bring in any leftover wool from home, and we’d put in our spare stock, like we do now, and it would all be free, for people to use for charity things like blankets or jumpers?’

  ‘Oh I think that would be wonderful, dear, really wonderful, because it does add up, you know, and my pension doesn’t go as far as it used to.’

  ‘Right, well let’s start now then, so that’ll be no charge, since it’s for charity, so put your purse away, and if you’ve got any spare wool left bring it in next time, and put it in the basket. Someone’s bound to be able to use it for something.’

  She’s thrilled, and goes off promising to tell all the ladies at the church about my marvellous new idea.

  Elsie’s looking thin-lipped again. Oh dear.

  ‘I meant to talk to you about that first, Elsie, but it doesn’t seem right charging them, does it, not when it’s for charity? And we’ve got so much stuff just sitting upstairs.’

  ‘Well that’s as may be, but I hope you know what you’re doing, because they’ll all be bringing in all sorts now, stuff they’ve had in their cupboards for years.’

  ‘We can always throw it out if it’s too manky.’

  She sniffs; I think she’s trying to decide if manky is a rude word.

  ‘Have you got any more ideas, any more things you want to change? Only I’d quite like to know beforehand, and that way I can help you avoid making too many mistakes. Because it’s not as simple as it seems sometimes, you know. When you’ve been doing it for as long as I have.’

  ‘Nothing major, moving things around a little bit, and putting the newer stock in the front, and new window dispalys. I’d like to start a group, invite people in for a glass of wine – people are starting them all over the place, and they’re really popular. Not just in wool shops, people meet in pubs and cafés, too. They call them Stitch and Bitch groups.’

  ‘I’m not sure that sounds very nice; I don’t think our ladies would like anything like that. Couldn’t you call it something nicer?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s the whole point, Elsie. We need to attract new ladies – I mean women – into the shop.’

  ‘I know, what about Knit and Natter? That’s much nicer.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound so much fun, though, does it?’

  ‘Would you want me to work on any of these evenings, because I do have to get Jeffrey’s supper, and what with my Martin being home too, and in at all hours with his work, I sometimes end up cooking twice of an evening. And he can be quite a fussy eater, you know. It’s all salads and sandwiches, and he won’t touch fish fingers any more, and he used to love them when he was little.’

  I think maybe Martin’s been Making A Stand after all, which is rather impressive of him.

  ‘No, I’ll do them. Gran says she’ll have the boys and it’ll only be one night a week, but we need to try new things, we really do, otherwise the shop will never make any money and we’ll have to close, like so many of the other small shops have. Anyway, I think it’ll be fun. Now then, shall we have another cup of tea and get started on the stock check? Only Gran will be back with the boys soon and I still need to look through these orders.’

  ‘I’ll go up and make a fresh pot. Would you like another biscuit?’

  ‘Please.’

  Christ, I’ll end up completely spherical if she carries on at this rate.

  I know Elsie’s nervous of change, and I’m feeling pretty nervous about it myself, but the shop only made two thousand pounds profit last year, which according to the books I got from the business section in the library is the retail equivalent of being in the kind of coma where they either start playing your favourite music and sticking pins in your legs, or else turn the machines off. And the books say the vital thing you need in a shop is a detailed profile of your core customers, like the supermarkets do when they send you money-off vouchers for couscous with your clubcard statement, even though you only bought it once, by mistake, and your children refused to eat it because they said it looked like sick. At the moment my core customer is called Doris, and she’s a hundred and eight, and she may not be able to remember where she’s put her front-door key, but she knows the price of four-ply down to the last penny within a hundred-mile radius. What I really need is a few more in their mid-thirties, called Tara, or something ending in ee, who like beautiful glossy pattern books, and won’t faint if you ask them to pay eight pounds fifty for them. If they’re buying pastels for a baby they want raspberry or nougat, or duck-egg blue, never peach. Nectarine possibly, and sage greens and caramels and creams, in pure wool or cotton mixes. Or silks and mohair. Tara wouldn’t know how to knit a matinée coat if her life depended on it, but she’ll have a go at a poncho, and I know she’s out there somewhere, because all the reps are saying wool sales have gone through the roof recently, especially for the more expensive ranges. So I just have to find out where she lives round here, and keep Doris and her friends happy at the same time. Bloody hell. Still, it could be worse; I could be wearing a multicoloured zigzag cardigan made entirely of man-made fibre, and getting small jolts of static electricity every time I touch anything vaguely metallic. Although I’ve got a horrible feeling it may be only a matter of time.

  Chapter Three

  Sand and Water

  It’s Friday mornin
g and I’m wedged in the shop window trying to be Artistic with cramp in my arm. I finished knitting the fish last night, with Gran’s help, and now they’re all bobbing around on lengths of nylon thread looking very nautical, especially the stripy ones, which look rather like angel fish, only woollier. I’m stapling some dark-blue net to the pegboard partition on top of the silver net I put up earlier; I’m aiming for an impressionistic wave-like shimmer, but so far it’s all going a bit Blue Peter. People keep stopping to wave at me through the glass, which is embarrassing, and I’ve got sand up both my sleeves.

  ‘I don’t know how on earth we’re going to get all that sand out you know. It’ll be a devil to clean up.’

  I think we can safely say that Elsie’s still Not Keen.

  ‘We can use the Hoover.’

  ‘You’ll have a job. That old thing can barely suck up a bit of fluff, let alone a a load of dirty old sand. What are these things meant to be then?’

  She hands me one of the papier-mâché starfish I made with the boys at the weekend, which probably wasn’t one of my best ideas, especially since there are now bits of newspaper glued to the kitchen floor, the side of the fridge, and the soles of my flipflops. I must try to remember that Art With Small Boys is best left to professionals, or people with ready access to tranquillisers.

  ‘They’re starfish.’

  She sniffs. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a purple starfish, but never mind. I’ll make a start on tidying up in the back, shall I? Those pattern books are in a terrible muddle again.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Christ. Beam me up, somebody; she’s driving me mad this morning, and if she carries on like this I may have to staple her to something to keep her out of my way. I wonder what she’d look like covered in dark-blue net?

  Apart from Elsie and her comments, and being stuck in this bloody window, everything else has been going rather well; we’ve been in the new house for nearly a fortnight, and we’ve got a fully functioning telly now, thanks to Billie turning up in her Sky van, with a special belt for holding all her tools and a relaxed attitude to being trailed round the house by boys watching her every move. Although I think she’d underestimated just how much they’d been missing Sponge Bob Square Pants, because she went very red when they both kissed her goodbye.

  The really good news is that Vin’s arrived, with his new girlfriend, Lulu, who’s been a huge success, not least because the boys think her name is completely hilarious. And instead of spending all day lounging about and looking glamorous, like her predecessor did, sipping water and refusing to eat anything with more than three calories in it, she helped me paint the big wall in the hall yesterday, which was good of her, particularly since she got the dodgy roller with the wobbly handle.

  The boys are in seventh heaven in the new house, and if they’re not out in the garden making camps with the clothes horse and most of my sheets they’re on the beach, or campaigning to go fishing in the harbour, where they like to spend hours trying to catch teeny crabs while I lose the will to live. And there’s definitely less bickering since they’ve gone all Famous Five; I think all the fresh air is knackering them; and if they do start niggling Vin holds them upside down by their feet until they stop, which isn’t a technique I’ve seen in any of the books, but works pretty well, and I’d give it a go if I didn’t think I’d drop them on their heads.

  I’m trying to drape a piece of orange nylon fishing net over some driftwood when there’s a loud banging on the window which nearly gives me a heart attack. I’ve been having visions of crashing through the glass and ending up in a heap on the pavement for most of the morning, and it looks like this might be my moment. But it’s the boys, with Gran, and she’s very impressed with the window.

  ‘It looks so pretty. You’re very artistic, you know. I’d never have thought of anything like this. What are those purple things?’

  ‘They’re the starfish the boys made.’

  ‘Well aren’t you clever boys?’

  They nod.

  ‘Morning, Elsie. Doesn’t it all look lovely?’

  Elsie sniffs again. ‘I liked it the way it was, but this is nice, too, I suppose.’

  Gran turns to me. ‘I better be off, then, love. The match is due to start soon.’

  She’s wearing her special blazer and her white pleated skirt; they like to look smart at the Bowls Club, especially when they’ve got a match on, and if you turn up in a velour tracksuit like Mrs Chambers from the baker’s did they make you go straight home again and get changed.

  ‘Thanks, Gran, and I hope you win.’

  ‘We left Vinnie in bed, bless him, but we took them in a cup of tea, before we left.’

  We wave her off down the road.

  Archie starts giggling. ‘When we took Uncle Vin his tea, guess what, Mum? They were doing kissing, him and Aunty Lulu, they were.’

  He makes a series of very realistic retching noises.

  Jack puts his hand up, like they do at school.

  ‘Yes, and Uncle Vin said a swear word. And it was a really bad one. Shall I tell you?’

  ‘No, thank you, darling.’

  ‘It was the F word.’

  I’m pretty sure I can hear Elsie smirking.

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t, Jack, and anyway, grown-ups are allowed to do different things to children, I’ve told you before. They can make their own minds up.’

  ‘Yes, and it’s not fair. I want to make my own mind up. I might want to do swearing.’

  He’s giving me his most determined look.

  ‘When you’re a big boy you can decide.’

  ‘Yes, but when will I be a big boy? How long?’

  ‘When you’re as old as Uncle Vin.’

  He gives me a stricken look. ‘I can’t wait that long. I can’t. It’s just ridiculous.’

  It’s just ridiculous is one of his new catchphrases.

  ‘Give me a few more minutes to finish the window and we can go to the beach, how about that? You could both go and stand outside and tell me where things need to go, if you like. That would be really helpful.’

  They have a lovely time standing outside gesticulating increasingly frantically while I tip shells into little piles and do another quick spot of net adjusting, until I hear them starting to recite their favourite rude words, presumably as a practice run for when they’re older and can unleash them on an unsuspecting public. Apart from the ubiquitous Willy and Bum, Bugger features pretty heavily in their list, which is probably down to me while I was painting the hall. Mrs Davis comes out from next door with a bucket of chrysanthemums and gives me a little wave. Christ, she’ll be thinking we’re having a family Tourette’s moment; but she doesn’t seem to notice, and then I remember she’s got four grown-up sons and a staggering number of grandchildren, so she’s probably fairly familiar with the word Bugger.

  ‘I’ll be off, then, Elsie. I’ll see you tomorrow around one.’

  She’s standing behind the counter, pretending to sort through the patterns.

  ‘It’s no trouble to come in earlier, you know.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, you have a nice lie-in for a change.’

  ‘I don’t hold with stopping in bed, I don’t think it’s healthy. I like to be up, getting on with my jobs, and what with Martin being home now there’s always plenty to do; I don’t know what he does with his shirts, I really don’t. They take a lot of starching to get them right; people don’t seem to bother nowadays, but I like to do them properly. But Saturdays can get very busy though, so you just call me if you need any help.’

  I’m not quite sure why she thinks I might need back-up. I’ve even been practising opening the till when she’s not looking, and I’m really counting on a nice session in the shop without her breathing down my neck and tutting, so I can finish moving things around. Which is probably why she’s so keen to come in.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thanks.’

  The beach is very hot and crowded when we arrive, and we have the usual s
unscreen tussle, with Archie having a mini-meltdown when some goes in his mouth, before they’re off with their buckets and I’m left trying to find the plastic top which has somehow managed to vanish again; it’s vital I find it so I don’t end up filling my handbag with another layer of sun cream like I did last week. I’ve just found the bloody thing when Jack comes back with a bucketful of shells.

  ‘Look, Mum, my bucket’s nearly full and I’ve got some really good ones. Do you want to see?’

  He tips them, along with half a bucketful of wet sand, all over my legs, which I suppose will save me exfoliating if I try the fake tan thing again; although the last time I tried Nick said I looked like I had a vitamin deficiency or was recovering from terrible burns.

  ‘Well done, sweetheart, they’re lovely.’

  ‘Are we going home for lunch?’

  ‘I thought we could get some rolls from the baker’s and have a picnic’

  I’m hoping to give Vin and Lulu a few hours’ peace, especially after their rude awakening earlier.

  ‘Can we have chips then?’

  ‘Maybe later, when it’s lunchtime, we’ll see.’

  He runs off bellowing Archie, Archie quick, she says we can have chips, and mothers with far more nutritious lunches in mind turn and give me disapproving looks. Damn. I’m starting to recognise a few of them, and was hoping I might get to talk to some of them before we’re all standing in the playground at school doing the vague smiling thing you do when you don’t know anybody’s name but want to look friendly. They’ll all know me as Chip Mum now, and I was hoping for something slightly more upbeat.

  I never really managed to crack the school gates routine in London. It was all very cliquey and I never got beyond the cheerful nodding stage; probably because I’m crap at making new friends, unlike Ellen who’d be our best chance of a gold if it ever becomes an Olympic sport, which it definitely should be because it’s a lot more useful than bloody pole vaulting or cycling round in circles wearing weird helmets. I didn’t fit in with any of the groups in our old playground; the working mums were the nicest, but they were always racing to get to work, so we never got beyond the occasional birthday party tea. And the nannies and au pairs who used to meet in the café in the park and do impressions of their employers didn’t like mums joining them. So that left the posh mums, who were frighteningly glossy, but brittle-looking, chatting into tiny mobile phones and driving massive jeeps with lots of tinted glass, really badly, causing mini traffic jams wherever they went, and I simply didn’t have the right sort of clothes for them: not enough Boden, and far too much Tesco.