Divas Don't Knit Read online

  ‘That’s down to Nick. He just kept buying more bits for it and then he’d spend hours laying out some complicated pattern, and yell at them if they touched it. I was seriously thinking of buying him a stationmaster hat for his birthday.’

  They both smile, and the memory of him lying on the floor laying out train track makes me feel slightly wobbly, which I think Lulu notices.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve come to help, so is there anything you want doing?’

  Ellen gives her a pleading look.

  ‘Anything that doesn’t involve moving your head too much, and can we have coffee first, please, or I think I might pass out. All this sea air really does you in, doesn’t it?’

  Lulu takes her sunglasses off.

  ‘That’s better, I feel more awake now. Shall I put the kettle on? It’s upstairs, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and the milk’s in the fridge, and don’t worry about the door, it’s broken, so if it falls off just slot it back on the hinge thing.’

  ‘Okey-dokey.’ She goes upstairs, humming.

  ‘Christ, she’s a bit chirpy, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s just young, Ellen. We were like that once.’

  ‘Thanks very much, that’s very encouraging. And why have you got a fridge with a detachable door?’

  ‘Because it still works and it’s only for milk for the shop so it’s not worth getting a new one.’

  ‘You’re not going to turn into one of those mad women who collect bits of string, are you?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘God, that’s a fabulous colour.’

  She picks up a ball of one of the new winter yarns in sage green with flecks of black.

  ‘Yes, madam, and it knits up beautifully. You could have a scarf, or a shrug, in next to no time.’

  ‘Not if I was doing the knitting I couldn’t, darling, and anyway I’m not that convinced by shrugs, not unless you’re sixteen and some old bastard asks you what you’re planning to do with your life.’

  ‘What about a scarf then?’

  ‘Actually I was thinking about a jumper, for Harry. The symbolism appeals to me. Me sitting knitting for my man. Very post-feminist, don’t you think? Although the chances of us still being together by the time I’ve finished it are pretty slim.’

  ‘You seemed great last night.’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s all hunky-dory at the moment; he’s off on a job next weekend, ten days in Moscow, some drunken Russian oil mafia special, but he’s already booked dinner with me for the night he gets back. If he doesn’t end up with a one-way ticket on the Trans-Siberian Express, that is.’

  ‘Well that sounds like progress; advance bookings.’

  She nods.

  ‘Christ, every time I move my head I feel like I’m going to fall over. Do you think I could manage a jumper then?’

  ‘Maybe a scarf might be better to start with, and you could knit him a pair of gloves too, or maybe mittens – the fingers on gloves can be tricky, but mittens are easy, and they’d help keep the cold out in Moscow.’

  ‘Brilliant. Will you help me get started?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And we can put them on one of those strings you put gloves on. I used to have them when I was at school, inside my school coat.’

  ‘So did I, but Vin always used to pull one end so I ended up with a glove under my armpit.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I know. He did it most mornings, while we were waiting for the bus.’

  ‘Another bonus of being an only child, darling: nobody pulling the string on your gloves.’

  Lulu comes down with the coffee and we start looking through the folders of patterns, but Ellen won’t look at anything where the models look retarded, or have funny hair, which discounts pretty much all of them until we finally find an Aran pattern with a family who appear to be standing halfway up a mountain, and by the looks of things they’ve just had a big fight. Probably about the kids being forced to wear jumpers with bobbles up the front.

  ‘Is that plait thing tricky?’

  ‘The cable? Yes, it can be – you need an extra needle – but we can miss that bit out and do a plain version, with some rib. The mittens look easy though.’

  ‘Actually, I’m rethinking the mitten thing. I think a scarf might be enough of a challenge to start with.’

  ‘Well if you’re just doing a scarf we don’t need a pattern. I’ll start you off and you can keep going until you get bored.’

  ‘It’ll be a bloody short scarf then.’

  Lulu’s looking through the Rowan books.

  ‘Some of these are beautiful. I think I’ll do this tank top.’

  ‘Have you done Fair Isle knitting before?’

  ‘I don’t think so. My mum taught me to knit, but I haven’t done any for years.’

  Ellen sighs. ‘I wish my mother had taught me stuff like that, instead of concentrating on advanced sulking. What’s Fair Isle knitting, anyway? It sounds rather sweet.’

  ‘It’s when you knit with lots of different colours and carry the wool along the back. It’s fairly easy if you don’t get the wool tangled, but you have to make sure you keep it loose enough or it pulls everything out of shape.’

  We look at the pattern Lulu’s chosen, which is a fairly simple shape, in lots of fabulous colours.

  ‘This will be fine, or you could do a plainer version, with fewer colours. That way instead of six balls of the main colour and four of the contrast colours you’d be okay with eight.’

  ‘Are you sure? Isn’t that a lot less wool?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s why they design patterns with so many different colours: so you have to buy a ball of each, even if it’s only for a couple of rows.’

  ‘Well if you’re sure, that’d be great, and it’ll save me a fair bit too, won’t it?’

  ‘About nine quid, yes. If you were paying for it, which you’re not.’

  ‘Oh, but we want to pay. Don’t we, Ellen?’

  She nods. ‘Christ, I’ve done it again. Has anyone got any more Panadol? I think I need a booster dose.’

  I show Ellen the Aran-weight wool and she chooses a flecked grey and black, and Lulu goes for a pretty felted tweed in a lovely plum colour, with a ball of slate grey and one of violet for her contrast colours. I check the labels on the plum to make sure they’re from the same dye lot, and tell her she should be fine with five because she’s knitting the smallest size, but I’ll keep a ball aside for her, just in case.

  ‘Do you do that, for normal people?’

  Ellen laughs.

  ‘Speak for yourself, darling.’

  ‘No, I mean do you keep wool for all your customers?’

  ‘Yes. All the shops used to do it years ago, when people couldn’t afford to get all their wool in one go; most of them make you buy the whole lot now, and then let you return any balls you haven’t used. But Gran carried on with the putting-it-by thing, and I think it’s nicer. And you don’t get loads of wool being returned all squashed. Elsie tends to weigh it, though. She’s convinced people sometimes use a bit and then pretend they haven’t, but I’m trying to get her to stop, so I’ve hidden the scales.’

  ‘Do people really do that?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but that doesn’t stop Elsie doing her Crimewatch routine. They had some woman a few years ago who went through a phase of knitting up a ball and then deciding she didn’t like it and unpicking it, and then bringing it back for a refund. Gran said you could see it had gone all coggly, but they both knew her, and she was starting on HRT so they just gave her a refund and put it in the bargain bin.’

  Ellen puts her cup down.

  ‘They all sound like nutters to me.’

  ‘Some of them are, but most of them are lovely. Although what I really need are much younger ones who buy all the expensive stuff.’

  ‘How much do you make on one ball of wool, if you don’t mind me asking? Don’t say, if you’d rather not.’

  Lulu’s gone a bit pink.

 
‘Of course I don’t mind, and it varies, but it’s about half, usually, including VAT. The pattern books don’t have VAT, but the loose patterns do.’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, darling, even if Lulu has. Tell me in money.’

  ‘On a seven-quid ball of wool, I make about three quid.’

  ‘And what about the VAT? Who does all that?’

  ‘Mr Prewitt. He’s been doing the books for years, so we just note down the sales in the cashbook and he does the rest. He’s very deaf, so you have to shout, but he’s really sweet.’

  ‘Well, it all sounds very complicated. Have you decided about the group idea yet?’

  ‘The Stitch and Bitch thing? Yes, I’m definitely going to give it a go.’

  Lulu’s busy casting on.

  ‘What’s Stitch and Bitch?’

  ‘Like a reading group, only with knitting. I’m thinking of starting one in the shop.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve been thinking, darling, you could do special cocktails. I’ll teach you how to make pink zombies so you can really liven things up; it’ll be like one of those Ann Summers parties, only without the batteries.’

  ‘I was thinking more like a book group to be honest, Ellen.’

  ‘Well be careful, because mine’s gone weird ever since Miranda joined. She’s doing a PhD or something pointy like that, and she keeps lecturing us about symbolism, and then they all start showing off and I’m left sitting there hoping nobody talks about the middle bit because I skipped it. Do you know, she even asked me to leave a few weeks ago, because she said I was too disruptive.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I outflanked her of course.’

  Lulu looks impressed.

  ‘How did you do that then?’

  ‘I got them all invited to an awards lunch full of celebs, as my special guests. They all loved it, except Miranda, who couldn’t make it that day. Shame.’

  I almost feel sorry for Miranda, because it’s a very bad idea to tangle with Ellen. She’s one of the most generous people in the world when she’s on your side, but she also holds a grudge longer than anyone I’ve ever known, and settles scores, big time, sometimes years later. People think they’ve got away with it, and she suddenly creeps up behind them and gets them in the back of the neck. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Usually.

  ‘And that fucker Steve Simpson was there, looking like he’d been on the sunbed again, which is quite brave, given how much plastic surgery he’s had. They’ll probably go in one day and find most of him has melted.’

  Steve used to co-anchor with Ellen, and when they were on a shift together they were known as the Anchor and the Wanker.

  ‘He seems quite nice when you see him on the telly.’

  Lulu’s really terribly sweet.

  ‘Well he bloody isn’t. He used to elbow me out of the way and spread his stuff everywhere, and he never knew what was going on, which really pissed me off. People think we just turn up and read what’s put in front of us, but we don’t, we do at least an hour or two before each shift, catching up on what’s going on, reading background notes, sometimes more if it’s a big day. But I saw him off eventually. I managed to talk for nearly nine minutes when that siege in Russia broke, with just a crap map and a couple of photos, and trust me, nine minutes is a fucking long time live, with everyone running around trying to get the satellite link back up and find out where the fuck the town is, and he just sat there, being totally useless. It was brilliant. They moved him after that; he’s our business correspondent now. And he’s fucking useless at that, too.’

  I cast on Ellen’s scarf for her, and we sit chatting while we knit, which is exactly how I want the group to be, only maybe with slightly less swearing: relaxed and friendly, and just the kind of thing you’d fancy after a long day at work, or at home with the kids.

  ‘Wasn’t Mr Pallfrey sweet last night, when we were playing football? Although that goal was definitely a foul.’

  I think Lulu’s still rather aggrieved about scoring an own goal, with a little help from Trevor.

  Ellen laughs.

  ‘It’s nice to know you’ve got such mad neighbours to keep you busy down here, darling.’

  ‘He’s not mad, it’s just Trevor’s a bit too lively for him. Anyone fancy another coffee?’

  ‘Yes please. And a brandy if you’ve got any; I’m still feeling a bit fragile.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m a bit low on brandy at the moment.’

  ‘How low?’

  ‘Very. We don’t get much call for it, funnily enough, not with this being a wool shop.’

  ‘There you are, then, that’s a perfect job for Trevor the Wonder Dog; he’s the size of a fucking St Bernard. He can trot around doling out restorative shots. You’d make a fortune, and it would knacker him out.’

  ‘I’ll mention it to Mr Pallfrey.’

  While I’m upstairs waiting for the kettle to boil I realise Ellen’s right; I’ve had more neighbourly moments down here in a few weeks than I had in all the years we lived in London. I think I only spoke to the people next door once, when the water main burst in the high street and our water was turned off. They weren’t very friendly, and both drove matching silver Audis and got very annoyed when I parked my car in what they liked to think of as their second space, even though it was right outside our house. Apart from them and Mrs Parrish I never got past the occasional wave with any of the other people in the street. In fact I think I was rather lonely, which isn’t something I’m going to have to worry about down here, since I couldn’t be lonely if I tried, what with Trevor popping round, and Gran, and Elsie keeping me on my toes in the shop.

  Ellen’s managed to drop a couple of stitches by the time I get back downstairs, so I sort them out for her, and then we sit trying to work out what to put on the Stitch and Bitch postcard for the window. I’ve got some pale-pink postcards from the art gallery, and lots of shiny silver stars, and I’ll do one for the newsagents and the library noticeboard as well.

  ‘What day are you going for?’

  I hand Ellen the card, since she’s doing the writing with her posh fountain pen.

  ‘Thursday. Gran doesn’t have anything that night, so she can look after the boys.’

  We try out different lines, and discard most of Ellen’s because they sound slightly rude, before we finally settle on:

  Absolute Beginners

  Want to learn to knit?

  Join our Stitch and Bitch Group

  Here every Thursday, 7-9pm

  I’ve just finished sticking the card in the window when Elsie arrives, with a tall man with very short hair, who looks like he’s just got out of the army; he’s pale and looks a bit shell-shocked, but that may be because Elsie’s gone into pursed-lips mode again.

  ‘I see you’re going ahead with your group then; I still don’t like the name – our ladies are very polite, you know, and I don’t think that sort of thing will appeal to them. I hope you won’t be too disappointed when nobody turns up. Anyway, I’ve brought my Martin along to look at upstairs for you. He’s ever so good at carpentry, always has been, and it’s turning into quite a nice little sideline for him, as well as his computers job. Isn’t it, Martin?’

  She gives him a slight nudge.

  ‘You remember Jo? You used to play together in the summer when she came down to stay with her gran, with her brother Vincent.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do, Mum. You look completely different from the last time I saw you, Jo, much bigger – I mean taller, more grown-up.’

  He’s gone red.

  ‘I suppose it must have been at least twenty years ago?’

  ‘Yes, that sounds about right.’

  There’s an awkward silence while he looks at his feet.

  ‘So you’re after some shelves?’

  ‘Yes. I want to turn upstairs into a workroom, with more shop space. I got a quote from the man who did Gran’s roof, but it was way more th
an I can afford. I thought I might just go to Ikea and get something cheap.’

  He flinches at the mention of Ikea. ‘I’m sure we can do better than that. What sort of wood were you thinking of?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For the shelves.’

  ‘Something cheap that I can paint white I suppose. Chipboard?’

  He flinches again.

  ‘I’ve got some lovely oak in the shed – it’s been drying for years so it’s ready now. Or there’s pine if you prefer. I could stain it, or wax it. I prefer wax, myself. It respects the wood more.’

  I’d forgotten he and Jeffrey collect wood in the big shed in their garden. It used to be Jeffrey’s workshop, but I suppose it’s Martin’s workshop too now.

  ‘That sounds lovely, but won’t it be really expensive?’

  ‘No. Dad got it for free when the builders were gutting somewhere. He always keeps an eye out for good timber, and I do the same, so we’re running out of space. I saw some lovely floorboards in a skip the other week but we haven’t got the room. It’s a terrible shame what people throw out; with just a bit of work they’d have been beautiful.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, that sounds great. I’d pay you for your time, of course.’

  Elsie looks pleased. ‘I’m sure you’ll find his rates are very reasonable.’

  He gives her a pained look.

  ‘It’s more of a hobby, really. I wouldn’t want to charge you – if you could just cover the cost of anything I need to buy, that’ll be fine.’

  Elsie tuts.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Martin. I’ve told you, there’s no point in selling yourself short all the time, letting people walk all over you, like someone we won’t mention. I’ll take you up and show you the room while I put the kettle on, I’m gasping for a cup of tea. Would anyone else like one? Miss Malone?’

  Ellen’s doing her Britain’s Favourite Broadcaster smile.

  ‘No, thank you, Elsie, we’ve just had one. What a fabulous cardigan.’

  ‘It was quite a lot of work, but I’ve had lots of comments.’

  ‘I’m sure you have.’

  I think I notice a flicker of a smile on Martin’s face, but he covers it up very well as they go upstairs.

  ‘Quick, let’s run away before she comes back.’